From the Desks of Chambers & Fogg

I’ve done it. After much deliberation and experimentation, I have determined what my act at the Chicago’s Fair will be. While I know the exhibition is still two years away, it feels important to be as prepared as possible, especially with such a unique and intricate illusion.

I’m calling it “The Hands of Thor”. Through the careful placement of mirrors and expert use of electrical energy, it will appear as if I hold the power of lightning in my palm. I will use it to break a glass and set a lightbulb ablaze. I have completed the preliminary diagrams that I’m certain will provide me with the desired result and I now move to the testing phase.

The one factor that complicates the whole business is fellow conjurer John Fogg. He and I set a wager a year or so ago on the final location of the Fair and I, as I knew I would would, won. But the terms of the bet—which I foolishly set forth myself—mean that Mr. Fogg is to become my apprentice for the Fair’s performance. How I will convince him to behave himself and not spoil the trick, I have no earthly notion.

With the incredible benefit of hindsight, it is difficult to understand why I set those terms in the first place. I have to think it was the terrible delirium tremens I had at the time and Mr. Fogg’s singular ability to bait me. I have not worked with an assistant a day in my career and I certainly had no intention to ever start. If I were to take someone on, I cannot think of anyone less suited to the job than John Fogg. His work is bombastic and imprecise, and we could not be farther apart when it comes to our philosophies on the magical arts. The possibility of disaster should we work together feels unacceptably high.

Then again, perhaps he’s forgotten about the matter entirely. I have neither seen nor spoken to him since April of last year, when I wrote him after Chicago was announced as the Columbian Exposition’s destination. He appeared up for the challenge of being my apprentice in our correspondence then, but no firm plans were set. On reflection, I have to wonder if he so enthusiastically agreed simply on the basis of stubborn pride. While I had always expected him to be a poor loser, perhaps he didn’t want to be seen as such.

I suppose only time will tell.

[from the personal diary of C. X. Chambers]

I am finally ready. They said I can leave the hospital now. There is no reason for me to stay. I can speak. I can walk. My hair has grown back. It may even end up covering the scar completely. My writing is getting better, though I am still slow. The words do not always come easily. 

The memories are coming easier now. I finally remember the truth behind what the doctors call a miracle.

It was a miracle. But not the one they think. I survived because of him.

He made me immortal. 

He saved my life. And he wasn’t even there. He saved my life fifty years ago and saves it every day still. 

Any ordine ordinary man in my circumstance would have died instantly. Any ordinary man would not have woken up after nearly two years in a coma. Any ordinary man would not have recovered the use of his faculties in the way I have. 

It has not been easy. Recovery is slow much of the time, with bursts of great progress. Only to become slow again. I get frustrated. 

It is my memory that frustrates me most of all. I still cannot recall his name. Or maybe I do. Sometimes I think I do, but then I think I must be confused. Is it his name or mine?

I remember his face. The glitter he has in his eye when he performs. Performs what, I cannot entirely recall. I just know he looks magnifa magnificent doing it. 

I remember the particular curve of his mouth when he laughs at me. A favorite freckle right below his eye. The color of his hair. The sound of his voice.

Other, more baffling things come to mind as well. The smell of gunpowder. Bright lights. Bruises on his arms and the worry that he’s been reckless with something…some experiment? Some daredevil feat? I just know my heart pounds when I think of him. I don’t know where he is. I hardly know who he is. But I worry. 

What a fool I am. Why should I worry? If I know one thing for certain, it is that he gave me my life. I don’t know how, but I know it to be true. And surely that means he does not need me to worry over him. Perhaps he is an angel of some kind. Looking over me for God only knows what reason.

I could use heavenly guidance now. I’m being aloud allowed to leave, but I don’t know where to go. At least I appear to speak some Italian. It will make things easier once I leave the care of the British Army. I may speak the language, but I don’t think I live here. And the name I gave them has not yielded any answers. I have suspected for a few months now that it may not have been the right one. And now that I am healthy, they have nothing left to give me.

They are letting me take the books. I’m glad. They help.

I wish I had my old diaries. I know I wrote in one often. I wonder what became of them.

[from the personal diary of C.X. Chambers]

One year. It’s been one year.

That doesn’t feel real to write. It can’t possibly be true. How can it be one year since Charles was killed, when he died just yesterday? When he died last Tuesday and four weeks before that and two months ago and every day since that terrible notice arrived.

It can’t have been a year because the loss is as fresh as if I had been told moments ago.

Though, thinking of that day now—when I learned that he’d died and that I was listed as his next of kin in the same terrible moment…it hasn’t been a year, has it? It was January twenty-third that the telegram came. I lived in ignorance for thirteen days. There was a period of nearly two weeks in which the deed had been done, the shell had been dropped, and yet I knew nothing. He was still alive then. For thirteen days he was alive in my mind. Sometimes I wish it could have stayed that way, that they’d never alerted me and that the war had never ended, and I could exist in a perpetual state of hope he would return. What a rotten, selfish thought.

But have I not earned the right to be selfish? The universe has been unaccountably cruel to me, ensuring that his letter only arrived after—

It should have been a gift, that letter. I should have been able to hold onto it, to fill my head with the glimmering possibility of how we would greet each other in victory.

But instead I received a confession from a dead man. I don’t even have a body to bury, just a stray dog tag pulled from the wreckage in Belgium, and yet I have his final words. Words that should have signified the start of something, not the end.

What an awful trick he pulled on me. Watch The Great Chambers disappear. Glance over here at the promise of a spectacle, his affections laid bare, and by the time you look back over, he’ll have vanished. Except I experienced the illusion in reverse and misdirection is neither thrilling nor effective when you can see the strings of fate that are being used to hang a man.

I’m writing a lot of nonsense. I’ve been doing little else, this past year. Perhaps I need to go away, stop pretending like I’m any use to anyone. Perhaps I should go away for a long while.

After her husband died, I gave Mrs. Bowman—Virginia, I should say, we’re friends enough now—a sizable amount of money. Enough to take a year off. I wish I could say it was a purely generous gesture, but even at the time, I was so terrified of losing him and I couldn’t bear to look at her. She put on a brave face, far braver than I would have managed, but seeing her every day at her desk, continuing to do what began to feel like the utterly pointless work of our profession, while her one true love laid dead in a battlefield somewhere…it was too much of a reminder of what he was risking, being over there.

In any case, whatever the motivation, I was able to do her the kindness of giving her a year to grieve. No work, no concerns, just…time. To be honest, I could have probably given her several more years, but—and, again, I am ashamed of this—when she came back and found me as the broken man I am, I took solace in the horrific partnership we now share. She understands what I’ve been through, more than anyone in my life, and was plenty aware of my…varied affairs, to put it one way, to blink an eye at my becoming a widower to another man.

Though, no, that isn’t quite right. That implies there was once a time in which I could claim the privilege of being something more to Charles than a bosom friend. Would that make all of this better or worse? Would his absence be easier to bear if I could recall those close and happy times in the way that Virginia reminisces about her honeymoon? She was—is—understandably overwrought with her loss, but whenever she speaks of Roger, it is with such fondness. She loves him so deeply, remembers him with such warmth, and meanwhile I am sometimes so furious with Charles that I can’t even see straight.

But I miss him. That’s the worst part. I’m so goddamn angry, I’m bitter, I’m buried underneath the oppressive sadness of grief, but mostly I just miss him.

I miss his laugh, which I’d gotten good at pulling out of him. I miss the way he was so particular about things, how he almost never let me win an argument, even if I could tell he knew I was right and was simply debating me for the sport of it. I miss how gentle his voice could be.

I miss his hands. Strong and littered with scars, all the more beautiful for the stories behind them. I don’t have any photos that do them justice. Not that any photograph could do any part of him justice. I suppose I should just be grateful I have a decent collection.

I wish I’d gotten him on film, properly. Not just the test reels he’d tolerate when I bought myself whatever new camera came onto the market.

There’s one in particular I took that captures him in the act of smiling. Not just any smile either, but the special one he has had when he was trying not to smile at me but couldn’t help it. I’d brought my camera to DC and made him stand in front of a cherry blossom tree. He was so bashful at the time, trying to get out of being my subject, but he looks so pleased in the footage. He looks like a film star. Handsome and charming and alive.

Thank goodness I went into the movie business. I can’t imagine I’d have even that if I hadn't. But I do need to be careful with the film. I worry about wearing it out. For as long as I can watch him flicker into motion, brought into shape by light and movement, I can keep him alive.

Good lord, Virginia is right. I’ve become so terribly maudlin of late. Perhaps it really is time for me to pull up stakes and wander the world for a while. God knows I don’t have anything keeping me here. Just a wonderful friend going through her own process of mourning, a beautiful house I can’t stand to be in, and a thriving movie studio that brings me absolutely no pleasure.

And I have years and years ahead of me. Endless decades of my perpetual life without him in it. He told me he’d never be lonely as long as I walked this earth and I didn’t say a word. I didn’t tell him that it was the same for me. I didn’t make him promise that he’d never leave me in a world without him.

There is so much I didn’t say. I’ve spent the last year reflecting on all the conversations we never had and I would do anything—would perform any kind of black magic—to speak to him again.

I would trade it if I could. I would trade the immortal nature of my life to live an ordinary one in a world that still houses his soul.

I’ve survived near-death at the hands of my own illusion, war, fire, a sinking ship—so much that should have killed me. At times I’ve even looked forward to discovering what else I am capable of surviving.

But how on earth am I meant to survive this?

[from the personal diary of J.S. Fogg]

John Jack My dearest,

These are words I’ll never send. It’s too dangerous, letting it pass through the hands of the army. I have no idea if they’d truly care—surely they have more important concerns than the affairs of one officer—but I refuse to put you needlessly at risk. And perhaps I could address the letter to someone else, create a disguise for you, but when I say these things to you—really say them—I want you to be certain, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that they are meant for you, and no one else...

John, 

Happy New Year, my friend. I’m not even sure my letters are getting to you - I know you, I know you're writing to me, but it’s been months now without a word. Who knows if this will make it across the Atlantic. But I would be remiss if I didn’t write to you; if I didn’t still try to share this holiday with you in some way. Though you would’t think it a holiday with the mood around here. This war seems never-ending and the winters are the worst. 

I’m afraid, John. I’m not ashamed to admit it. This war has both denigrated my opinion of mankind and elevated it. I’ve seen things I’ll not forget for the rest of my life, which may, in fact, be the rest of time. Centuries could pass and I wouldn’t forget how cruel—how depraved—mankind can be. 

I also won’t ever forget the kindness and camaraderie I’ve experienced. Not only from my fellow brothers in arms, but from the ordinary citizens of besieged lands, who are so terribly brave to endure what they have. There is goodness here, still so much beauty left in humanity, but I fear if this goes on much longer, we may lose it. 

But I don’t write to you to share the horrors of war. Despite my unit’s morale, this is a holiday, at least for me, and it brings me no small amount of warmth to imagine you celebrating somewhere safe. Perhaps with a drink in your hand, toasting with a friend, or looking up at the stars in your lovely garden. Picturing such things has made the cold and miserable weather here somewhat bearable. 

But that isn’t all I imagine. I keep thinking of our last New Year’s spent together and I find myself filled with regret, wishing that night had been so different than it was. After you’ve read this letter, you can tear it, burn it—you can choose to never write to me again—but I ask that you do read it, all the way through. Just this once. 

There are things I want to say to you, things I should have said on that night three years ago. I almost did say them, I tried, in whatever clumsy way I could but fear got the better of me then, the way it had many times before. I began to worry that you were doing me a kindness in not rising to the bait. That you knew exactly what I was angling for and were too good-hearted to lead me into making an ass of myself.

That is only one possible version of events I imagine. I’ve had too much time to think these last few years, John—too much and too little—and sometimes I’m tortured by the idea of that unspoken rejection and other times a powerful belief grips me that you were right there with me, on the same page. Thinking the same things. Wanting the same things. Wishing I could be brave.

Who knows, maybe I give myself too much credit in casting the kind eyes of hindsight on my actions. But, with those eyes, so many things that were previously hazy have become startlingly clear. Perhaps I wasn’t fully aware of what I was doing back in ’41 ’42 (just barely), but I’m aware now. Enough to proclaim what I have long known, in my most secret of hearts, to be true.

I have never adequately expressed the depth and intensity of my regard for you. And I can’t here, not in writing, not in a letter that will pass through who knows how many hands before it reaches you. But I promise you that when I come home, I will tell you. I’ll tell you everything. If you’ll let me, I’ll do much more than that. 

I have no idea how you’ll react. It’s very possible that you will be shocked, that I have been successful in my misdirection. I certainly was with myself, choosing not to see what has been there all along. 

But somehow I don’t think that’s the case. I’ve never been able to pull one over on you, John. And, of course, it would serve my interests better if you weren’t surprised, if you’d seen the truth all this time. That is what I hope for. It’s certainly conceivable that that hope is misplaced—perhaps I’m a fool who believes something requited when it isn’t—but I’d rather be a fool with hope than a cynic without it. 

And God, I have hope. 

There’s more I would say, but I’m perilously close to reaching the end of this page. We move out tomorrow—I’ll write again when we’re settled. 

‘Till such time we meet again, I am, as ever,

Your fool,

Charlie

[a letter received by J. S. Fogg]

Dear Charles, 

The time that has elapsed since your last letter would have me concerned if every other friend I knew with someone over there wasn’t in the same boat. I suppose it’s difficult to move that much mail across the world, but I do hope to hear from you soon. 

There are, in fact, many more people in my life who I can relate to on this particular point than I expected. Mrs. Bowman—née Spencer; she and her beau got married just before he shipped off, I can’t remember if I mentioned that—often speaks of her frustrations at not hearing from her husband. And it feels silly to admit, but I half feel the same. Not that I’m some sort of war wife sitting at home, but in that I have been used to a particular cadence of communication with you. Yes, we’ve gone many years without speaking, but that hasn’t been the case for decades. Ever since we both got telephones in our homes, we’ve spoken at least once a week and I’m sorry to say that I’m having a difficult time recalling the particular pitch of your voice. 

I hope you’ve made some friends over there. If memory serves—which it often doesn’t on this particular subject—that camaraderie was one of the few bright spots in the war. Though I can’t say I’ve kept in touch with many of those fellows. Then again, not many of them came home. How did we get here again, Charles? How have we not learned? When I think of those men I served with, I picture the old men they must be now. Except that wouldn’t be the truth. Many of them would be in their fifties, hardly senior citizens. And yet it feels as if surely it must have been long, long ago that the world nearly fought itself to ruin. 

I hope things aren’t as bad over there this go around. Though I suspect they’re worse. I wish I had some idea of where you were beyond just “the Western Front”. I know that, even if you cared to tell me, it would be redacted before it ever reached me, but having traveled the continent so much myself, it would be some comfort to picture you in familiar places. Then again, I’m sure those landscapes look much different now. 

But on to happier subjects—if it makes it through the various checkpoints this package will no doubt go through before it reaches you, you should have a carton of Sweet Caporals in your hands. I have no idea if you’re able to get them where you are but my guess would be that any pleasure is in short supply. I hope this provides some degree of relief, even for a moment.  I keep thinking of being on my patio and you

Smoke them, trade them, share them with your men. Whatever you do, I hope you think of me do it safely.

Until I see you again, I am,

Your friend, John

[a letter received by C.X. Chambers]

My first new year’s day without John in who knows how many years and I mourn his absence more than I would have suspected possible. I’ve grown accustomed to celebrating the turn of the calendar with him. More than accustomed. I have, in fact, come to treasure it. Yes, perhaps we agreed to meet on this day every thirteen years, not annually, but we haven’t followed that for some time. We don’t need pretense to enjoy each other’s company. 

Was I a fool to come here? John would probably say so. I know he knows I’m not being honest in my letters. There are horrors I would not describe to anyone, let alone a beloved friend. He should not have to carry that burden, especially when he explicitly chose not to get involved himself. A wise choice, I’ve started to think. 

But the horrors would persist if I were not here. Isn’t it better to do what I can? Or is it all futile? Sometimes I look around at my fellow soldiers, see the deadness in their gazes, or cast my eyes over a changed landscape that I suspect will always smell of blood and suffering, and wonder if humanity deserves to survive. Surely a species that can perform these acts against itself is fundamentally rotten at its core. 

And then someone will share a rare bit of chocolate, or a town will shower us with relieved gratitude as we march through, or the thought of John’s smile will dart across my mind and I regain my grip on reality. Mankind has such goodness to it, alongside the bad. Though I certainly don’t know how to better balance the two. I know ending this war will be a start. 

And I know I can never again contribute to the creation of weapons, even if they are used in a cause that feels necessary. Before I left DC, I’d started to hear chatter about some new endeavor—all very hush-hush, but the names bandied about were certainly impressive. A project that, in my youth, I’m sure I would’ve tried to get onto myself, just for the learning experience. But now I worry about what on earth those men are coming up with behind closed doors. 

In any case, this is all very dreary to be thinking about on the first day of a fresh year. Then again, I am in a very dreary place. At least I still have the memory of John, standing in the moonlight on his back patio, smoking my cigarette as the palm trees softly rustled in the breeze. If I close my eyes and cast my mind back, I can almost smell the way the smoke mixed with his cologne. I would have bottled it if I could. 

[from the personal diary of C.X. Chambers]

MOVE YOUR TRIP UP. COME TO LOS ANGELES IMMEDIATELY. WORLD MAY BE ENDING. 

WE WON’T BE ABLE TO STAY OUT OF IT NOW.

[a telegram received by C.X. Chambers]

There are certain days I wake up and feel my age. Lately, I've been having many of these mornings. 

All this constant news of war. Today is supposed to be a day of remembrance for a hard-worn armistice and instead it feels as if we’ve slid back twenty years. Even uninvolved as I am, it still wearies the soul. And then I will experience a bright burst of happiness—a fine meal, the smell of woodsmoke in the first winter chill, a phone call with John—and it will be as if my mind is as young as my body appears. 

But that moment will end and reality will creep in and it can be damned difficult to balance the two. How is a man supposed to find happiness amidst all this destruction? And yet how is he supposed to live without happiness?

Is existence always to be this simultaneously tedious and anxiety inducing? Eternal war, never-ending misery, and yet still bright and clear snippets of love for your fellow man and this good earth? I don’t like to think of myself as inherently wiser than most simply because I’ve been alive as long as I have, and yet I do think there’s something to be said for the wisdom that comes with being witness to man’s foibles and inability to learn from them over and over again. 

But I should not wallow like this, I know. It serves no one. Perhaps I should go pick up the telephone and give John a ring. It always is damned restorative. 

[from the personal diary of C.X. Chambers]

Dear Charles, 

What an absolutely rotten world we live in. When this year began, I never would have anticipated that, nearing the end of it, half of Europe would be at war. Perhaps I should have. Perhaps I was being naive in assuming we’d learned our lesson. At the very least, I hope our country has learned its lesson and will act more swiftly than we did twenty years ago. Though I won’t be holding my breath. 

Not that I want to go to war. It would be my preference that we never feel the need to deploy our military ever again. But then I remember all we lost—all the death and destruction—and I drive myself to madness thinking of what could have been if we’d thrown our might into the fray at an earlier stage. And this already feels much the same, though this time, it’s as if there’s a palpable anger, a sense of revenge. This cannot lead anywhere but into hell. 

What are we to do, Charles? I’m not sure I can bear to experience the toils of war again, but I’m equally uncertain that I can simply stand by and watch. You contributed off the battlefield back then, and contributed quite a lot. I would like to think I could support the cause in some similar way, but I’ve never had the knack for science in the way that you do. For chrissakes, I’m a movie producer. 

Then again, I know just how much the ghoulish results of your own work plagued you and do so even now. I know we’ve never discussed it, not deeply, but war truly does make men commit horrible acts. Or perhaps that is merely an excuse and it is only the weakest men who succumb to the vagaries of violence against his fellow man. Perhaps I am a weak man. 

What if we said “dash it" to the whole business? What if we packed up a few bags, just the necessities, hopped on a boat and pushed off into the Pacific? We could find a little island somewhere I’m sure, one that has never seen the depravities of humankind. We could build a better life there, you and I. After all, we hardly require what an ordinary human needs. Have you ever seen how long you can go without food, Charles? There was one week during the war when rations were particularly low. I gave mine to a younger man who had never left his small town before going to the front and whose eyes were permanently wide. And I discovered we can go quite a while without even feeling the pangs of hunger. 

We could do it, I think. Run away, separate ourselves from society in a way that reflects just how separate we already are. Maybe we can’t die of hunger in the trench, but there are other, awful ways to die. And, despite it all—all my years and adventures—I’m not ready yet. I’d rather find a sunny spot and drive each other crazy for years to come. Wouldn’t that be better? If we could just run away? What do we need except for each oth—

[an unfinished and unsent letter from J.S. Fogg to C.X. Chambers]

JACK. DID YOU HEAR WELLES BROADCAST? MADE ME LONG FOR THE DAYS OF ILLUSION. CXC

1938 OCTOBER 31  AM  9 36

C. HEARD AND ADORED. TRICKS THROUGH RADIO IS GENIUS. CAUSED QUITE A STIR. J

1938 OCTOBER 31  AM  10 10

REACTION MUCH EXAGGERATED. ILLUSION CAN STILL DELIGHT EVEN IF KNOWN AS TRICK

1938 OCTOBER 31  AM  10 42

BROADCAST BELIEVABLE THOUGH. MEN FROM MARS. WE’VE HAD STRANGER

1938 OCTOBER 31  AM  11 10

ARE YOU CALLING ME A MARTIAN?

1938 OCTOBER 31  AM  11 53

IF YOU ARE I AM

1938 OCTOBER 31  AM  12 10

AT LEAST I AM IN GOOD COMPANY

[a series of telegrams exchanged by C. X. Chambers and J. S. Fogg]

Well, it is official—nothing was salvageable from the fire. The films are hardly the most important concern of the whole ordeal, not when a young boy is still recovering from severe burns (and how I do hope he recovers swiftly), but I do mourn the loss of some of my older, earlier attempts at filmmaking. Not to mention, all the other films that were stored there. In his letter, or at least the letter his office sent, Kent said that they hoped to recover silver from the remnants, so that’s something. 

I imagine Fox is seething—another black stain on his already tarnished legacy. I’m sure this would have still happened under his, or anyone else’s, regime, but I’m sure he’s furious all the same. I would write to him with my condolences, but I’m not even certain of where he’s living these days. 

In any case, it hardly needs to be stated that I will be making my own arrangements for storage from now on. Which means I need to figure out some kind of solution for the eastern seaboard. Or maybe the Los Angeles warehouse will suffice. A problem for another day. 

Though perhaps I am the true problem—after all, this isn’t the first time that a fire has destroyed something precious of mine. A fact of which Charles was very quick to remind me. It was the damnedest thing—he called me at home the moment he heard the news and asked if I was alright. He called me, on my telephone in my home in California, to ensure that I was safe from a fire in New Jersey. I suppose a man doesn’t think straight when confronted with the fear of losing a friend. Why I would have been at a film storage site on a random Friday in July, I can’t fathom, but then again Charles didn’t seem particularly clear-headed when I answered. 

I must say, I was touched by his concern, even as I found it a bit baffling. He’s been very distracted as of late and we haven’t been communicating at our usual cadence. The state of affairs in Washington sounds particularly tangled at the moment, but I can’t help but wonder if his relative reticence has more to do with the recent nuptials of one Miss Eudora Hale. Or, I should say, Mrs. Eudora Phelps as she is now and will forever be known. 

Despite his protestations, I have always suspected that Charles carries a torch for the young woman, one kept in his care and his care alone because of some misguided notion of being too old to marry someone of her age. I have always understood his concern of outliving a spouse, but Miss Hale Mrs. Phelps has always been a bright woman of great intellect and, I think, could have been entrusted with the truth and left to make her own decisions. 

Whatever his feelings on the matter, it is too late for Charles to do anything about it now. And I can’t say I’m sorry for it, even if I feel a pang of sympathy for my brother in immortality. I like Eudora very much, having met her several times through the years, but despite her mind and beauty, I never thought she and Charles were the right fit. This Phelps fellow seems far more appropriate. I just hope that Charles sees that someday. 

[from the personal diary of J.S. Fogg]

Dear John, 

You’re right. I do now regret not joining you in Los Angeles four years ago for the games. I was under the misapprehension that, having seen them all those years ago in Paris, I wouldn’t be missing much. But I think we would have had a marvelous time watching the spectacle together and I apologize for depriving us of that experience. Though I did very much enjoy your letters at the time.

That said, to your other question: yes, I do plan on listening. In any other circumstance, I would be unequivocally thrilled that the Olympics are being broadcast so widely, but I share your concern over these games. The sentiment in D.C. has been divided—the administration, officially, has always stayed out of it, intent on the Olympic Committee maintaining their independence, but there are many of us who hold serious reservations about the wisdom of participating. There are others still who feel we must go and beat the Germans in as many competitions as possible to really show the Chancellor what-for. 

All a moot point now, of course, as we are, in fact, participating. I suppose we may get clarity on what the right choice was once the games have closed, but I fear it may be far more complicated than that. There are many days where I open the paper or talk to diplomats here and have to work to convince myself that the sky isn’t falling. The world is harsh and, at times, appears to be getting harsher, but we’ve weathered so much, surely we can weather whatever lies ahead. 

To speak of happier subjects, I was so pleased to see just how well your newest picture is doing. I myself went to the theater the day it opened and had a grand old time. You’re really  building yourself quite a studio, John, and full of many talented performers it seems. Do you find you enjoy working with so many different actors? Only, you were a solitary performer yourself for so long. Though perhaps it is different when you’re not the one on stage. 

But I have to ask John—why aren’t you? Not on stage in this case, but why aren’t you up there, on the screen? I know that film acting is probably considered quite different from what you—what we—used to do, but Lord knows you’ve got the face and charisma for it. Is it considered bad practice for a producer to be in his own films? Or is it concern over your face becoming too known? I’m sure if you regrew your beard that would be less of an issue, though I suppose that isn’t the fashion as much these days. 

For whatever it’s worth, this old friend of yours would enjoy seeing you up on the silver screen. But, until that time, I’ll certainly continue enjoy seeing your name. 

CXC

[a letter received by J. S. Fogg]

Los Angeles is a remarkable city, and one that continues to surprise me. New York is always on the cutting edge and the Exhibition in Chicago certainly had its marvels but every time I come back to the City of Angels after traveling, I feel I am stepping into the future. Everyone here seems to be living in the age of tomorrow, and I will confess to having trouble keeping up from time to time. 

Just the other night, I was at dinner with a jovial group of acquaintances and the conversation turned to the subject of science. And one gentleman (I’m embarrassed to admit I’ve now forgotten his last name, his first being easy to remember given it is my own) began to speak of “rocket science”. Apparently, there are people who not only believe it possible, but are actively working on building a path to the stars. Imagine! A rocket going into the heavens, away from this world, entirely away. 

I suppose I shouldn’t be too shocked by the concept. After all, I grew up taking a horse and carriage everywhere, and now I own and drive myself in an automobile. Why, I even met a fellow the other month who has actually flown in an airplane. For leisure! This commercial flight business is really kicking up these days. I know it is probably only a matter of time until I make the cross-country journey through the air, but at the moment it feels hard to fathom. 

And all these, things that I would’ve witnessed in the course of one mortal life. What wonders will I see in the life I’ve been given?

I should write to Charles and ask him about this so-called rocket science. It seems so much like fiction to me, but perhaps its more feasible than I think. I know chemistry is an entirely different beast from whatever kind of engineering this is, but he may have insight. Then again, he was never one for frivolity and he may consider the mere idea of rocket ships to be such. 

Still, it’s probably worth a letter. Unbelievably, I think it’s been a two full weeks since we last exchanged letters—the telephone really is a remarkable invention and I do so love to hear his voice, but I’m still not quite accustomed to that form of communication as a primary mode of staying in touch. Perhaps that will change as the years and technology march on but, for now, I far prefer the written word.  

[from the personal diary of J.S. Fogg]

JOHN—

THE SONG IS THE SHIP WILL CARRY ME HOME ENTIRE VERSES ARE COMING BACK TO ME WILL CALL YOU ON THE TELEPHONE WHEN I ARRIVE HOME WHICH MAY BE BEFORE YOU RECEIVE THIS BUT I HAD TO ENSURE I DIDN’T FORGET THE NAME LEST I CONTINUE TO BE VEXED BY THE SENSATION OF NEAR REMEMBRANCE

1934 MAY 4   AM 12   09

JOHN—

SONG BEGINS THE SHIP THAT CARRIES ME HOME TO LOVE AND SWEET INNISFALL DO NOT LET ME FORGET THE WINE IS STILL MUDDLING MY MIND

1934 MAY 4   AM 12   10

JOHN—

PERHAPS IT HAS BEEN RECORDED IN THE LAST FEW DECADES WE SHOULD TRY TO HUNT IT DOWN

1934 MAY 4   AM 12   12

JOHN—

YOU SHOULD NOT HAVE LET ME DRINK SO MUCH

1934 MAY 4   AM 12   13

JOHN—

IF YOU RECEIVE THESE BEFORE I CALL DO NOT GO TO BED UNTIL I DO YOU MUST HEAR THE WORDS SO THAT IT DOESN’T ESCAPE US AGAIN

[a series of telegrams received by J. S. Fogg]

Well, that was a smashing success. Such a success, I’m still feeling woozy this evening, though it’s been nearly an entire day since I last imbibed. Immortality does not protect one from the dreaded morning head. 

And all this malaise and head-pounding caused by just beer and wine! It seemed appropriate to limit the party’s libations to those less potent alcohols given that is what the President has decreed legal to sell, but I suppose I’ve become accustomed enough to bathtub gin that the sweeter stuff went straight to my blood.

The pain of today was well-earned and well worth it - nearly fifteen years we’ve languished under this oppressive prohibition and now, finally, we can see the light at the end of the tunnel. Why, the first state ratified the amendment just the other day! I expect that California will be swift to follow. It isn’t as though myself nor anyone I know has actually stopped the consumption of liquor since the eighteenth was put in place, but it’s the principle of the thing. It will be a relief to no longer be breaking the law (in this at least; my identity continues to be a fraud). Not that I have such great respect for the law—at least, not all of them—but it does add undue stress to one’s life to break so many so brazenly so often. 

Even Charles was in excellent spirits at the news (pun very much intended). When I had first proposed a celebration in honor of the President’s announcement last month, he was immediately all aboard. Despite the fact that I encouraged him to partake in the burgeoning commercial flight business (as I have yet to do so), he refused to go up in the air, too afraid of falling right out of it.  But he made quick work of his train journey from Washington, D.C. and has been staying with me for the last week. I can’t recall when we last spent such frivolous time together and it has been extremely rejuvenating. Perhaps it is seeing each other in the Los Angeles sunshine, but I daresay we both appear lighter and younger than we have in decades. 

He’s become more of a social butterfly since I last saw him—perhaps all that politicking in D.C. has been good for him. Every one of my guests found him terribly fascinating (as he is) and were deeply curious once they discovered we’ve known each other for the bulk of our lives. I suppose I have some kind of mystique amongst my cohort here in LA and they were all eager to take advantage of Charles’ presence by peppering him with questions about what I was like as a younger man. Questions he was more than happy to answer, even if he had to bend the truth here and there. Seems that Charles’ penchant for teasing me outweighs any guilt he feels at lying to people. 

It is a burden I’m willing to carry. With every story he told of my antics, his smile would widen, his laugh would grow more robust, and a glittering spark would make its way into his eyes. I think there’s probably all manner of ridiculous things I would do to be responsible for that.

[from the personal diary of J.S. Fogg]

My fortunes continue to improve in the most ordinary ways. Though the tides of time have not swept the market back out to clearer waters, I find myself fretting less about it on this particular week. 

The cherry blossoms are beginning to bloom and they become no less glorious the more years I witness their resurgence. I had the pleasure of accompanying Miss Eudora Hale and her aunt on a walk to enjoy their splendors and found the whole outing invigorating. Fresh air and ambulating is always a balm for the body and soul, but it was the conversation I found most renewing. 

I made Miss Hale’s acquaintance some months ago and have, in all honesty, avoided much contact since, despite finding our first meeting quite diverting. It is only recently that I have been reminded that it isn’t the eighties anymore, and I’m allowed enjoy the company of a young woman without the suffocating expectation of a proposal. I, of course, must still be careful as to not lead her to the wrong conclusions in regards to her understanding of my affections, but I expect she views me more as an elder brother than anything else. 

It has been many years since I formed a friendship beyond one of circumstance or convenience. So long, in fact, that I hadn’t known to miss the unique pleasures of having the opportunity to learn someone’s mind. Miss Hale is bright and charming, with a wit sharp enough to cut even the sturdiest of men. Though we met at a gathering of scientists—the occupation of her father—she is more interested in the arts. She has many opinions to share in regards to sculpture and paintings, and is incredibly well-read for someone so young. But her real love is live performance. 

She was delighted to hear that I had known a man who worked in the theater once (a man of my own creation—a blend of Fogg’s experiences and my own) and has very generously indulged me as I walk down memory lane. It’s wonderful to see her eyes grow wide as I describe the illusionist arts of the last century (explained to me by this dear, old friend who has since passed, of course) and the burst of new theater I experienced while living in New York. 

Regaling Miss Hale with stories from my life—especially a part of it that feels so very long ago—has been a vital reminder that I have, in fact, lived a very interesting one. It is easy to get stuck in the doldrums of my never-ending existence, and while wallowing in the past is certainly not a cure-all for that feeling, a visit every now and then is bolstering for the spirit, I think. My life has shifted so dramatically since the World’s Fair, both for the better and the worse, and I daresay it will shift again and again and again. 

It is heartening to think that, though the cherry blossoms will be gone in a few short weeks, they’ll return again next year. Living things are most remarkable in their state of change. 

[from the personal diary of C. X. Chambers]