Laughter spread throughout the group as they all cut each other off trying to explain the story from each of their perspectives. All seemed to think they had been seriously victimised but were taking it light heartedly. The whole experience was so strange and sudden that they hadn’t been able to react with anything but humor.
“On the subject of getting arrested, my story is quite strange and I didn’t even do anything wrong.” started Shakespeare. After the short delay of translation, Diogenes cut him off.
“Nor had I!” he yelled in Ancient Greek.
“You were naked! The laws here aren’t the laws in Athens. You were making people uncomfortable.” laughed Achilles, who was lucky enough not to be delayed by translation.
“It is this society’s artificiality that should be outlawed! The human form is no crime!” yelled Diogenes merrily, sticking his tongue out.
“Male bodies are disgusting, though,” interjected Simone, and was immediately fought off by Patroclus, Achilles and Diogenes. After translations and explanations, every other man present and some of the women as well, but with various levels of confidence.
One of the quietest was Siegfried Sassoon who was really not used to being openly gay. Clinging to his main source of comfort (Wilfred Owen), he trembled ever so slightly but managed a feeble objection. Equally scared, Owen was fairly silent and only reacted with a subtle glare. The two returned to their blank sheet. Reaching for the pen together, their hands brushed each other.
Like children caught by their peers, both pulled away. Even though most of the group hadn’t noticed and continued on their signs, Marsha did.
“Hi! Have we met? I’m Marsha.” she said, holding out a hand to shake and smiling warmly.
Siegfried looked over her, made a non committal shoulder gesture and shook her hand.
“Siegfried Sassoon. Pleasure to meet you.”
“And who's this?” asked Marsha, pointing at Wilfred Owen.
“This is Wilfred Owen, arguably - I would argue - the most brilliant poet of the Great War.”
“He flatters me,” Owen muttered, burying his chin in his collar to hide the blush that flooded his cheeks.
Marsha smiled knowingly at the two of them.
“And what is he to you?” she asked, holding back a giggle.
The two looked at each other.
“A friend” said Siegfried.
“Good friend,” added Owen.
“Very good friend.”
“Truly, a very good friend.”
“Nothing more.”
“No. Nothing more.”
“Nothing at all.”
Marsha laughed. “Say ‘nothing’ one more time and I might disappear.”
“Excuse me?” Sassoon interjected. “I am not entirely sure what you mean by that but I assure you that you are severely mistaken in your judgements. I cannot - I cannot begin to express - ”
“Aw, cool your jets, old boy. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“This - this…” Sassoon spluttered.
Marsha ignored him. “I’ve just got a sort of feeling that we’ve all been brought here for a reason, and it’s not so we can all pretend to be… polite, and... heterosexual.”
Sassoon was at a loss for words.
“Are you heterosexual?” she asked, semi-rhetorically.
Owen, who was slightly less shocked, was thinking extremely hard about what the correct answer might be.
“Are you a police officer?” he asked.
“Honey, if you knew anything about me you would not be asking me that. Have you ever been in prison? No? Just me, then?”
“Are… are you a criminal?”
“Ha! The worst kind. A cross-dresser and a homosexual. Mother of gays everywhere.”
Sassoon took a step back.
“Don’t,” Owen whispered from behind him. “I don’t know if this is a dream, or… or a trap, or whatever else, but what good is it to turn away? We’re doomed, Siegfried.”
Siegfried was silent.
“What if this is real?”
Nothing.
Owen reached out and grabbed Sassoon’s hand.
Sassoon went pale, then blushed crimson.
“Thought as much,” muttered Marsha, smiling a sly, contented smile.
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As the officer and his entourage were travelling towards the bar, some of its inhabitants were getting acquainted. They had chosen an extremely lucky time as the group of fairly modern female writers and the ancient Greek women were all present, and had just become aware of the others’ presence.
Sappho and Arete were chatting with beer and observing the coming and goings in the bar. Simone de Beauvoir overheard this and, as would be expected, was rather surprise at hearing this tongue being used conversationally.
“Virginia,” she whispered, leaning close. “Are those two speaking ancient Greek, do you think?”
“Oh, I couldn’t say. I know only a few words.”
“Of course, I remember. You were never offered the institutional schooling, your education was your father’s library... very inspiring.”
“I must say it is a little unnerving that you know such things without me telling you,” giggled Virginia. “I am like an artifact to you.”
“You are Providence, my lady,” smiled Simone, with an exaggerated tip of her head. “You are a miracle. Now, I am certain that those two are speaking Greek - we must go find out who they are. After you, I absolutely refuse to take anything for granted.”
Grabbing Virginia by the hand, Simone led her over to the bar.
“Excuse me. My name is Simone de Beauvoir. Who might you be?” asked Simone, in rusty classicist’s Greek.
Sappho and Arete were extremely surprised at hearing someone speaking their language. The only people they had heard speaking their tongue were Oscar and the three greek men: Achilles, Patroculus and Diogenes.
“Delighted to meet you,” replied Sappho. “My name is Sappho, of Lesbos, and this is the lovely Arete of Cyrene. Your knowledge of our language seems a rare thing in these parts. But you are not Greek. Are you a local?”
Simone was speechless, agape. She shook her head.
“What is it, Simone?” Virginia whispered, noticing her disarray. “Who is she?”
“Sappho,” breathed Simone. And suddenly a wide smile spread like sunlight across her face; she laughed in disbelief. “Sappho of Lesbos.”
Virginia’s eyes widened, and she turned to Sappho in amazement.
“And who are you?” the Greek poetess asked, a smile tugging at her lips.
Virginia looked at her blankly.
“Her name is Virginia,” filled in Simone. “She speaks no Greek.”
Sappho nodded. “And where are you two from?”
Simone, at a loss for a way to describe the concept of France in ancient Greek, paused for a moment. “Gaul,” she said at last. “And…” she glanced at Virginia. “And a nearby island.”
“Oh! You are from an island as well!” Sappho laughed. “We must stay together. To be born on an island is always to risk solitude, don’t you think? Oh - my apologies - I had forgotten you didn’t speak Greek - ” she turned to Simone - “you could translate?”
Simone nodded, and translated what she had understood. Virginia smiled warmly. “Tell her I love her poetry, will you?”
Simone translated, and Sappho smiled. “What year are you from? How far through the years has my work survived?”
Simone did some quick mental arithmetic. “About 2400 years of 365 days, and probably longer.”
Virginia looked at Simone questioningly. Simone quickly translated. “I'm sure her- your- reputation has gone even further than us. I believe some of the women here are from an era after my own, we could investigate.” she suggested.
Virginia looked over the crowd and caught Marsha P. Johnson’s gaze, beckoning her over. Marsha approached curiously.
“Hello Virginia. It still feels really weird talking to you, you died four years before I was born.” she said.
“Well this will seem even more peculiar,” started Virginia excitedly, “Meet Sappho of Lesbos.”
The three women smiled as Marsha’s jaw dropped in amazement. “Really? You mean? Seriously?” Marsha saw Simone translating and understood how they were communicating. “Well a classical education does help… Can you say hi, and that I… love her work.”
Simone took a little bit more time to explain the situation, “This is Marsha P Johnson. She is far more of a commoner than I am, and younger, but still knows all about you. She fought for,” Simone stalled. Never in her extremely formal education had she learnt how to say gay, homosexual or lesbian. “for the rights of men who love men and women who love women and…” she also didn't have a word for transgender. “Women with men's bodies and men with women's bodies.”
Sappho looked at them in confusion. “How so? How has she fought?”
Simone translated this into English; she and Marsha exchanged a glance.
“Should we tell her about it?” Marsha asked in a whisper. “Stonewall?”
Simone nodded. “I’ll do my best.” She then started with the most accurate retelling that her vocabulary would allow. “An enforcer of law came into a… wine house and arrested her because she would not reveal her genitalia, which I don’t believe correspond to her manner of dressing. She fought back.”
Sappho stared at Simone, then at Marsha, in shock and horror. “An official asked to see... that? And she got arrested when she refused? How terrible has the world become… Please tell me it is not that bad in other lands.”
Simone shook her head, “Other countries would have put her to death.”
Sappho looked like she was going to add something, but at that point the officer burst into the room and it silenced.
“Right, is everyone looking at me? Can you all hear me? I’m looking for anyone hear who thinks they’re in the wrong decade or century. Anyone who feels out of place in this time?”
At this point, Alan Turing, Siegfried Sassoon, Wilfred Owen, Frida Kahlo, Rosa Luxemburg, Virginia Woolf, Simone De Beauvoir, Sappho, Arete and Kristina, as well as Erin and Tina, stepped forward, accompanied by a loose assembly of gangly nineteen-year-olds in classic rock tees too much black eyeliner. Erin and Tina looked at the group and laughed.
“He means people who were born in the wrong decade, you sure that applies to you?” asked Erin.
The teens nodded blandly; Erin shrugged and turned back to Kristina.
“Is this everyone? The ones who don’t speak English - Greeks? Some of you? I think? Is that all under control?” He caught a nod from Simone. “Great. Now, listen, I don’t know how much you’ve already figured out, but there’s some stuff I need to tell you all. I’m gonna need you to cooperate. I’ve arrested four of you already, and that’s enough for me, thank you very much. Is there - are you - is someone translating for whoever needs it?” A second nod from Simone. “Perfect. So. You’ve all just sort of… well, turned up, and it’s all very unexpected, and nobody’s really sure what to do with you. That’s pretty much clear to you all?”
A nod from the assortment of punk-rock teens had Erin laughing as the officer went on.
“You’re probably all pretty disorientated, why don’t we step outside so I can talk about integration. I’ve contacted a job club, and they’ve been very helpful and gotten a large number of offers. I’ll show you everything, and get you registered in the government once we’ve gotten to my office.”
The pile of young adults looked at each other unsure, but tagged along anyway. Most could do with a hand finding a job anyway. Erin glanced back at them, but they still seemed to think they were in the right place, so she shrugged and left them to it.
When the last members of the group had trailed into the police station, the officer sighed, sat down at his desk, and dug out a pile of paperwork.
“Now, I checked this with the mayor and she says the system uses your birthday to identify you and to give you an age so I suggest that you fill it in with the real day and month of your birth, then take your age away from this year - 2017 - and write that down. Other than that, stick to the truth. We’re not sure how this is going to work, but it’s worth a try, right?”
A murmur - “Two thousand-... did you hear that?” - went through the room, but most of the group set to work without much question, too overwhelmed by their new surroundings to question the decision. The modern teens stood around awkwardly, wondering what was going on, but too intrigued to leave just yet.
The officer turned to them after handing out papers to everyone in the room.
“Are you - you all speak English, right? - did you change your clothes since you got here? Where’s all that makeup from? I thought you were all, like, eighteenth-century intellectuals or whatever.”
“What?” asked one of them. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Can you tell me when you were born?”
“I didn’t do anything! You’ve got the wrong guy, officer!”
“Don’t worry,” the officer laughed. “I’m not trying to arrest you. The thing is, for the last couple days, we’ve had a bit of an issue at that bar back there. Some freaky sci-fi time-travel thing -” he stopped, and sighed - “I know I sound like I’m batshit insane, but I swear to God, yesterday I had to arrest William bloody Shakespeare, so I figured I had to do something before it all got way, way out of hand. I guess that’s new information to you?”
The teens nodded.
“We could, like, help, though,” one of them added.
“Can we meet Shakespeare?”
“Are those people in, like, togas - are they, like, actual Greeks?”
“Greece is a country, Harold,” came the sarcastic reply.
“You know what I mean.”
The officer interrupted them. “Hey, I just thought of something. Do any of you have extra beds at home? None of these people have any real money on them, and they’ll need papers before we can find them serious jobs. We can’t afford to keep them all at the motel forever.”
There were a few volunteers. Some knew people who might be able to help. The officer went on: “I’m going to need to check in with you in a couple of days to see how it’s going. How about Saturday? Show up here whenever?”
Erin broke in. “I don’t think we’ll be able to make it for Saturday. Pride is all day long, and I’ve got a space saved for the float I’ve been working on.”
“Oh my god,” cut in Tina. “Oh… my god. Pride. Erin, these people have never been to pride.”
Erin’s eyes lit up. “This is going to be incredible.”
“How’s the float going? Is there still time for some changes? I just had the coolest idea,” Tina gushed. “It’s gonna be the best parade you’ve ever seen.”
“Oh,” Erin laughed, eyes wide with excitement. “Oh, absolutely. I might need some help, but...” she turned to look at Kristina. “I don’t think we’re really lacking volunteers, if you know what I mean. My house at eight tomorrow? We’ll need all the time we have.”
The idea of the project was explained to the roomful of historical figures, along with a quick overview of the concept of pride and a gesture-filled description of a parade float. It didn’t take much to convince them to participate.
Nicholas and Catherine were ushered into the police office, their hands cuffed behind their backs. They were then placed into cells, one in front of Diogenes and one to the right side of him, to keep the royals as far from each other as possible. They still managed to scream at each other, as it was a rather small jail.
“Be quiet while I sort this out. We have to see if the victim presses charges, and I need order.” explained the officer, mildly exasperated. “Just… behave.”
The officer then proceeded to the small room, the same room as the one the previous interview had happened, to talk to the phone woman. “Okay, for a start, I’m going to need your name and your account of the happenings, and whether you wish to prosecute. I’m also going to need whoever wants to’s eye witness account for the Nicholas case.” He thought about this for a second and added, “you can all write in English, right?”
“I do believe so.” Felix Yusupov responded. His speech was accented and affected, but comprehensible: exactly what a person might expect from a nineteenth-century Russian aristocrat - that is, if one had expected to encounter a nineteenth-century Russian aristocrat.
The officer nodded.
The student whose phone had been stolen started writing: Tina Stevenson, A strange woman claiming to be Catherine the great took my phone and resisted arrest, a gentleman claiming to be Tsar Nicholas II then also attempted to take my phone from the officer and both of them had violent conduct. I have no wish to prosecute.
Reading over the last sentence of this, the officer was extremely relieved. They would not have to get the courts involved. Still, it was a good idea to hold them until they could be certain of correct behaviour.
Then, he wanted to make sure that the others were aware enough of their situation not to be a danger. “Okay, who here comes from the 21st century?” Tina and Erin raised their hands. The other of Erin’s hand was holding Kristina’s.
“Alright, and uhh… are you taking care of her?” he said, gesturing towards their joint hands. The both of them smiled, and Erin nodded. “Yea, why not?”
The problem now was finding lodgings for the two men. The motel would surely accept them, but the officer doubted they would want to be separate from the Tsar. They seemed extremely fond of him. “And you two gentlemen, what do you wish to do?” The two men looked at each other, wondering what to say.
Felix was the first to respond. “We will not move from here without our Tsar, thank you very much.” Dmitry was silent, but stood behind Felix in an ‘I agree’ kind of a way.
The officer thought this over and nodded. “I thought as much. I’ll get you a couple of chairs if you like. You can sit in front of the cell.” The officer was half joking, but the two noblemen nodded seriously.
“Very well. We will stand guard.”
The officer went off, chuckling to himself.
The next object of interest was Catherine. The first step was to calm her down enough to communicate the actual situation. It was hard enough with the others, and the officer had the impression Catherine would not cooperate. He went over to the cell area, carrying two chairs and accompanied by his guard of Russian Aristocrats, a Swedish King, and various lesbians.
The two officers and their Tsar were quick to settle down into hushed Russian whispers. However, Catherine was - as expected - far less compliant. The instant the six of them came into view, she began belting out insults in whatever languages she could muster. Luckily, the officer didn’t understand almost all of it, because if he had he may have found it harder to ignore.
Kristina, on the other hand, understood all the French and German ones and could guess most of the rest. She also had the rather unique perspective of a similar disorientation - of feeling cut away from homeland and home… time. Her royal vantage point was helpful as well. She was used to being respected and so had a better understanding of Catherine’s pain at this whole process.
She began calming her down in French, “Your majesty, I agree this situation is quite unacceptably disrespectful to you, but you are a danger to the people around you. As mighty as you are, this is not your empire, nor is it your time. If you could tolerate this gentleman’s procedures long enough to be released then we can make arrangements.”
Catherine thought about this for a bit. “Alright, get this over with then. We wish to return to our palace.”
The officer saw this as an opportunity he wasn’t going to wave off. He would tell her the palace was no longer available after questioning. He brought her over to the little interrogation room and started his usual proceedings. “I’m going to need your full name, date of birth and social security number, please.”
Kristina translated this back to Catherine, seasoning her syntax every few words with some formula of deference, if only to keep the peace.
“We are Catherine the Second of Romanov, Empress and Autocrat of all Russia, Moscow, Kiev, Vladimir, Novgorod, Tsaritsa of Kazan and Astrakhan, Tsaritsa of Siberia, Tsaritsa of Chersonese-Tauride, Tsaritsa of Pskov, Grand Duchess of Smolensk, and Duchess of Estonia, Livonia, Karelia, Tver, Yugra, Perm, Vyatka, Bulgaria and others,” Catherine declaimed. The officer gaped, flabbergasted.
“What did she say?”
Kristina grimaced. “That was her imperial title. First name Catherine, last name Romanova - in commoners’ terms.”
“Thanks.” The cop filled in the name on a form he had prepared for the occasion.
Then Kristina turned to Catherine and asked for the next piece of information. “Date of birth?”
“The second of May, Year of Our Lord Seventeen Hundred and Twenty-Nine.”
Kristina smiled, with an air of interest, but didn’t delay the investigation. A monarch from the future, then! She translated the date back to the officer.
“Interesting,” he laughed. “I wonder if the database will accept that.”
“Excuse me? What is a... database?” Kristina squinted, curious.
The officer sighed. “I’ll explain later, okay?”
“O… kay? What is the meaning of oh, kay? I don’t understand.”
“Just… forget it. I need her social security number.”
“Her… I don’t… do forgive me, I am not familiar with the term.”
The cop shook his head. “Of course not. Sorry…” The cop sighed to himself. The only category he could put her in without some sort of formal identification given by a government was ‘undocumented’ but that would set off a series of investigations he didn't feel like dealing with.
“Since the victim isn't pressing charges, then I'm going to have to let you go unless you show me that you aren't fit for the outside world. Can you guarantee me that you will behave reasonably to anyone outside?” As Kristina translated this, Catherine's face grew redder and redder with sheer anger and desire for resistance. She was perfectly aware that any violence would lead to a longer incarceration but she also hated the way she was being spoken to. Having been brought up to feel special and entitled, being told to play nice with the others isn't generally taken very well.
“If you want, I can keep an eye on her.” offered Kristina. This was quickly seconded by Erin. Erin then made a suggestion, the same one as the officer had been thinking of.
“There's a motel down the street from the bar, we could all get rooms. It doesn't have very good single beds so we might need to get doubles.” At this point, Erin grinned at Kristina.
“That's just what I was thinking, it's what I've done with the others. There are over a dozen historical figures in that motel now. I assume you've noticed how many strange people are passing through the bar?”
At this point, Tina chimed in. “Yea. It started kind of normal there was that weird maths dude, then there was Oscar Wilde I mean wow… and then Shakespeare, more wow. He had a couple of others with him-”
Tina stopped at the look of utter exasperation on the cop’s face. “You mean there are more of them? Do you know where they are?”
Tina shook her head and shrugged slightly. The conversation would probably have continued if there hadn't been an exasperated scream from inside the cell area. The officer quickly checked the security camera on his computer, to the amazement of Kristina and the now surprisingly quiet Catherine.
The screen showed Felix and Dmitry cowering a fair distance from the bars -with Dmitry just a step behind Felix- and Tsar Nicholas ferociously kicking the bars.
“Get me out of here!” was repeating loudly in Russian over the speakers. Catherine and Kristina were staring at the entire setup, struck with awe at the seemingly magic device. After a few seconds, it occurred to Catherine that the others did not understand what was being said. The message was fairly obvious but she still translated to Kristina who in turn translated to the modern crowd.
“I should probably do something about him…” sighed the cop. He walked over to the cell area, accompanied by the four women.
“Quiet please, what's going on here?” asked the cop, who had a pretty good idea of what was happening but didn't want to miss the subtleties. Felix stepped forwards to offer an explanation.
“Our beloved Tsar is feeling quite distressed at his incarceration. We would like to know how long it will continue.” Felix glanced awkwardly at the gun hanging from the officer's belt; he knew it wouldn't be wise to try anything.
“The charges are attempted assault of a police officer and attempted theft. Nothing too serious and I would rather not get the government involved with you lot so he'll probably be out in a few hours. I have to settle some things with the motel. And I need to figure out if there are any more strange weirdos lying around.”
The officer had to decide what to do and when. The first step was to rent out two more rooms. Prices were going to become an issue. He could probably get quite a few of the arrivals loans and unemployment benefits but that would take time and paperwork. They were going to have to set themselves up and integrate since there didn't seem to be any obvious way of sending them back. This would mean getting them into the official system. And questions, and paperwork… He really wasn’t looking forward to that.
“I can't do this myself. I'm going to have to get you all papers and official documents and try and help you integrate into the 21st century. It won’t be easy, and it’ll take ages. Unless you know a way to get back…”
The five foreigners to this century thought about it for a bit, but were all stuck. Since there was no obvious solution, Kristina voiced her opinion. “Okay all of this started at the bar, and there might be other people there who know more. We should go back to the bar.”
Since no one had a better alternative, this decision was taken. The Tsar was released but was still being carefully watched by the mini justice league of the officer, Kristina and Erin, and the company of eight set off towards the bar.
It was nearing two in the morning when there was a loud clatter on the roof. Leaving only the time for the bar’s diminishing clientele to look up before the ceiling seemed to swell and burst, and a cluster of bodies fell through, landing with great commotion in a pile on the floor.
As the intruders extricated themselves from the heap, five figures distinguished themselves: three men in dazzling, ceremonial-looking military garb, lavishly bedecked with silk and velveteen; a woman buried up to the neck in duchesse satin, crinoline, pearl jewelry, and ribbons; and another in hunting dress, with black velvet gloves up to her elbows and thick furs draped over her shoulders.
They got up, dusted themselves off, and without a moment’s hesitation began to yell. Several seemed to be speaking Russian, and turned to each other in confusion before returning to the business of their complaining.
Feeling themselves ignored, they first looked around accusingly; then, assuming the problem must be the language barrier, all five, nearly simultaneously, switched to French.
One of the five - Grand Duke Dmitry Pavlovich of Romanov - was halfway through a sentence when, suddenly, his gaze stopped on a familiar face: that of Tsar Nicholas the Second of Russia.
“We were not informed that your Majesty was visiting! What a pleasant surprise!” He exclaimed, in French, before gesturing at the unfamiliar surroundings and switching to Russian again. “This… forgive me, but are we here on your orders, your Majesty?”
“Absolutely not. I am as baffled as the you,” replied Nicholas.
“Dima!” The call of the sickly sweet voice behind him made Dmitry freeze the moment he heard it. He didn’t need to turn around; he knew immediately who it was.
“Felix,” he muttered under his breath. The Tsar was looking over his shoulder - at Count Felix Yusupov himself, he knew - with one eyebrow raised. In skepticism, perhaps, or simply curiosity over the nickname. Dima. How dare you, Dmitry fumed. The risks you make me take, and for what? If the Tsar found out, where would you be? Where would we be?
But now the Count stood beside him and the Tsar had moved on from the topic without a word. He and Felix were discussing their sudden… transportation.
After a spat of conversation, the three decided that they could make nothing of it on their own, and weren’t there others who had come down with them? Perhaps one who spoke Russian, too.
The three of them turned, then, to the women beside them, who were making slightly less noise and trying to make sense the unusual surroundings. “You two! Do you speak French? What’s going on here?” Nicholas broke in, in French, interrupting their conversation.
“Of course I speak French! Who do think I am?” the two exclaimed simultaneously.
“Who are you?”
The more elaborately dressed of the two stepped forward. “Yekaterina Alekseyevna, Empress and Autocrat of All the Russias.” Her voice was ice cold. “What spectacular ignorance on your part. I am ashamed that any subject of mine should fail to recognize - “
“Subject!” Nicholas spat. “I am the subject of none! There is no man more powerful in all Russia!”
“Good thing, then, that I am no man.” Empress Catherine smiled a chilly smile, switching to Russian.
“Who are you? A Bolshevik? God forbid, a parlementarian? What is your business in - “
“Yekaterina Alekseyevna, Empress and Autocrat of All the Russias. Must I continue to repeat myself? Where are my servants? Who is responsible - ”
“I demand that you explain yourself!” Nicholas was furious. “I’ll have you know that I will have you executed for false claims to the throne.”
“Treason!” Catherine shouted. “My men! Treason! Have him arrested!” She turned away from the weakly rambling Tsar Nicholas and grabbed the first unsuspecting customer she laid her eyes on by the sleeve. She repeated her orders then, several times - first in Russian, then French, “Qu’on l’arrête!”, and German, “Verhafte ihn!”
When the man only stared at her blankly, Catherine turned away again in disgust. “Doesn’t anyone here speak Russian? Besides this madman,” she grimaced, glancing at Nicholas with utmost contempt. “Well some of you must speak French. Arrest this man!” she screamed, for the whole bar to hear.
At this point, the other woman, a Swede named Kristina, broke in, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Why exactly should this man be arrested? I am not familiar with either of you.”
“How many times must I repeat myself? I am Yekaterina Alekseyevna, Empress and Autocrat of All the Russias. I am feared throughout the the Empire and the world, and I will be respected.”
King Kristina of Sweden - for that was her title - only nodded along with an absent-minded grin. Little did she know, her own reign predated Catherine’s by more than a century. “You will excuse me, but I’m a little baffled. I’ve never heard of you, and given what your claims are I most certainly would have. Either there is a grave misunderstanding here, or you are quite mad.” Kristina smiled wryly. “I’m sure Emperor Mikhail the First will understand the situation at once, if I were simply to send him a missive? Perhaps have you tried for treason?” Her tone was mocking.
All of this was too much for Catherine, who broke out in fury and bellowed in French, “Seize her! Seize them all!” When nobody reacted, she went on: “Someone tell me immediately where I am and who engineered all this so I may have them executed at once!”
At this point, a woman in her early twenties, most likely a student at a nearby university, coughed nervously and raised her hand to catch Catherine’s attention. When the empress finally calmed down enough to listen, she began to speak, in rather rusty, accented French.
“Excuse me, Madame, but I think that you are maybe, uh…” she paused for a minute to look down at her phone, Googling some vocabulary, “a little inebriated, and… you should stop drinking and maybe go to your, ah, house or hotel.”
Catherine stared at her in utter disbelief. How dare anyone, especially someone of this intruder’s stature - dressed so shabbily, no marks of nobility, no… well, anything - dare to address her so?
“I cannot possibly believe i have to say this again. I am Yeka-”
“You are mad!” Broke in Nicholas II. “Yekaterina II is dead!”
“Nonsense!”
“Has been for two centuries now.” replied the woman with the phone, nodding tiredly.
For once, Catherine was silent. Suddenly, Kristina understood: this strange creature must be some aggrieved madwoman who, in a state of intoxication and with far too much money to her name, had taken to imitating an ancient monarch she’d read about in some obscure history book. Perhaps even in a legend. How tragic.
It was then that Nicholas decided to cut in. “I must admit I am no scholar, but I am quite certain... the great Empress has only been dead a hundred years, at most.”
“I can assure you I am not dead!” screamed Catherine, distraught.
“Look right here. Died, November 17, 1796,” sighed the young woman, holding up her phone. Catherine the Great’s Wikipedia page lit up the faces of the monarchs standing before her.
Kristina gaped. Catherine’s face was stormy with anger. “What is that unholy thing you possess? Must I remind you that divination is beyond illegal? Give it to me,” she barked. “You witch! Hand it over! Give it - ” Catherine snatched the cell phone out of the girl’s hand.
“Excuse me…” the girl made a feeble attempt to grab it back, but Catherine shook her off with a savage wave of her hand.
“Excuse me! Could someone - she just… she just stole my phone,” she mumbled. Someone nearby took out their phone to call the police.
When the cop’s walkie-talkie buzzed in his pocket, he was on his way to the precinct.
“Hey. You still dealing with the bathrobe gang?”
“Just on my way back. They’re at the motel down the street.”
“I have some bad news for you.”
The cop’s face fell. He knew what was coming. “Please tell me there aren't more…”
“Five of them, apparently, but only one is causing trouble. She stole someone's phone, and now she’s screaming about witchcraft. She says she's Catherine the Great, you know, the Russian Empress? And she has no idea what a phone is. I need you to go pick her up, return the phone and… you know. Just... deal with it, okay?”
Within minutes, he was back in the bar. It wasn’t hard to find the disturbance. A few very muscular butch women - Kristina of Sweden darting in among them - were busy wrestling the phone out of Catherine’s hands. Nicholas and his meagre entourage were a ways off, whispering conspiratorially to each other - given the circumstances it seemed best to stick with familiar faces. The other customers were clustered around them, eager to help but unsure as to what should be done.
“Right, stop fighting her. I’ll deal with this.” sighed the police officer. The women let go of Catherine, who dusted herself off then straightened out. Standing to her full height and striking the most regal, powerful and absolutely arrogant post she could muster, she addressed the cop, very patronisingly, in French.
“Hello, young man. I am rather surprised to find myself where I am now. I demand that I be returned to the Hermitage immediately.”
The officer, who spoke only barely enough French to pass his high school language course, was getting used to feeling baffled. He stared at Catherine for a minute, before looking around. “Can I get a translator, please?” He asked in English. “English? Anyone?”
Tsar Nicholas and the young woman whose phone had been taken stepped forward at the same time. After a brief exchange, it became obvious that Tsar Nicholas was the more competent translator.
The officer sighed deeply. This was definitely not going to be easy, and he didn't think he had room for all five of them in his car, he couldn’t leave the royals here and his translator was somehow the last Tsar of Russia. The officer briefly wondered if Nicholas knew he was going to be the last of his dynasty, but of course he didn’t. The most important thing right now was Catherine, as she still had the civilian’s phone. He needed to explain to her what was going on, and very much doubted that Nicholas would approve of his way of handling the situation. Royalty usually wants everything run their way and Nicholas would not be happy with returning the phone to the civilian.
After a few minutes, he decided just to run with the protocol and see where that got him. “Ma’am, please hand over the phone and wait quietly for your arrest.” This was of course said in English, but he glanced over at Nicholas curiously, hoping for a translation. Nicholas translated efficiently and fluently, with the only fault the omission of “Ma’am” and “please”, but this was surely no mistake. Catherine, of course, was not compliant, and was determined to keep the phone. She had tuned out what anyone was saying and was slowly reading her own Wikipedia page.
Since she was not moving, the officer found it easy enough to surprise and handcuff her. As expected, she was absolutely furious and started lashing out viciously. Luckily, the officer had prepared for this and responded quickly. He shot a blank in the air and made use of the general confusion to put Catherine to the floor and grab the phone from her.
“You are under arrest for theft. You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one shall be provided for you.” Nicholas stared at the police officer in disbelief. Surely since Catherine thought herself Russian then He, the Tsar, should be deciding her fate.
“Excuse me, I think I'll do that bit. This is my subject “ said Nicholas. As an add on, he went to take the phone from the police officer, who pointed his gun at George. “If you try and interfere with the legal proceedings, I will be forced to arrest you as well. Don't make this harder for me. You know she isn’t yours. Surely you can tell something is wrong.”
It took Nicholas a few seconds to recover from the shock. He was an ally and an honoured guest in this country and it’s lowers had no right to treat him as such. “Mutiny! Revolution! Seize him! He's a madman listen to what he's saying.” announced Nicholas. Realising that something violent might happen, the gang of butch women quickly swooped behind Nicholas and, two on each arm, and positioned him in front of the officer, on the floor, next to Catherine, in a position that made it easy enough for the officer to handcuff the King.
“You are under arrest for disorderly conduct, violence towards a police officer and attempted theft. You have the-” The officer tried to end his usual mini speech but was cut off by Nicholas. “Do not ever attempt to tell me what I can and cannot do! Unhand me at once!” He bellowed. With a very decisive lurch, he tried to get up. Unfortunately for him, it becomes harder to balance when your hands are cuffed and he was quickly returned to the floor.
Seeing the state the officer had put their Tsar in, Felix rushed to his assistance. Dmitry, however, grabbed his wrist and held him back. “It might be best to remain free, at least for the moment. We can follow him, ask to escort him.” said Dmitry.
Felix nodded. “As you like. Caution doesn’t usually agree with me, but I will admit I’m a little disoriented.”
Dmitry almost smiled. If only Felix were always so thoughtful. “Excuse me,” he tapped the officer’s shoulder. “Excuse me. I am Grand Duke Dmitry Pavlovich of Romanov. This man,” he gestured to the handcuffed figure of Nicholas on the floor, “is my cousin.”
The officer looked at him blankly. Dmitry had been speaking French.
The two called for a translator at the same time. Nicholas was too busy grumbling to pay attention. The young woman from earlier, whose phone had now been returned to her and who was now standing by the bar with a bottle of beer, was brought over.
“Which is… ah, what is the problem, sir?” she asked Dmitry hesitantly.
“Count Yusupov and I would like to accompany my cousin the Tsar to… well, wherever this man plans to take him,” the Grand Duke replied.
The girl translated to the officer. “No problem,” he laughed. “We have a right party over at the station already. A couple more can’t hurt.”
“You can come,” the young woman translated back to Dmitry, who nodded curtly.
“By the way,” the officer added, “you’ll come with us, won’t you? None of us can get by very well in French, and we might need an unbiased account. For filing, you know. Nothing serious.”
“Oh. Well, yeah, sure. I guess so.”
“Sorry to keep you up, but… well. It’s not just any old thing, is it?”
“I guess not.”
The party got up to leave and determined they would not be able to transport Catherine and Nicholas with only the officer… well… dragging. Kristina had also noticed this issue and rushed over to help. Since it would be extremely indecent for the count and the grand duke to forcefully remove the Tsar, they both went to help with Catherine. Kristina and one of her new friends each took one of Nicholas’s arms and the company of six, as well as their two prisoners, made their way towards the vehicle and loaded the two Russian rulers into the back. The officer got in the driver’s seat, the translator in the passenger seat and the two butch women, Kristina and her new acquaintance - her name was Erin, she found out - in tow.
Upon their arrival at the police station, the group that hadn’t been arrested were sent to wait in a small room. Diogenes was put in the station’s only locked cell along with Shakespeare, while the officer went to find him some clothes. He came back with a dusty police uniform.
Diogenes, who had been sitting silently in a corner of the cell, barely looked up when the officer returned. When he passed the uniform over and turned his back to give Diogenes some privacy, the philosopher began to denounce the futility of such societal shackles at the top of his lungs - in virulent Greek, of course.
At the culmination of his argument, he threw the uniform clear across the room. It hit the wall with a thud and landed in a pile on the floor. The officer sighed, turning back to see a still-naked Diogenes staring at the bundle of clothing with a look of visceral disgust on his face.
“Sir, we’re going to have to insist you put it on. Sir? Oh yeah, you don’t speak English, do you?” The officer sighed. He started to mime what he meant. Point at Diogenes, put on invisible underwear, point at Diogenes.
The cop looked at Shakespeare, who had been put in the same cell for lack of options, and was watching from a chair.
“Do you know this guy?” He asked, pointing at Diogenes.
“Know? Him?”
“Have you met him before?”
“Only upon my arrival .”
“You tried speaking to him?”
“Yea, that I did - but, as they say, for mine own part, it was Greek to me.”
“Greek, is it? You speak any?”
“I am no classicist. I speak only small Latin, and less Greek.”
“You think you could get him to put some pants on?” When Shakespeare furrowed his eyebrows, the officer gestured at the pile on the floor. “You know. Clotheth himselfeth.”
Shakespeare approached the renowned Cynic, trying to rearrange his meagre vocabulary into a coherent sentence. Finding that he couldn’t remember even the word for “clothing”, he settled for a simple introduction.
“Greetings. My name is William Shakespeare. I… I write… drama.”
“Greetings, William Shakespeare, the dramatist. I am Diogenes of Athens. I am a Cynic and a philosopher.”
“Diogenes of Athens!” Shakespeare struggled for words. “I know you!... You… you are dead!”
Diogenes first gaped in astonishment, then began to laugh uncontrollably.
Noting the ineffectiveness of Shakespeare’s attempts, the officer turned on his walkie-talkie.
“We need some backup,” he chuckled. “The Greek one won’t put his clothes on.”
“Be there in a second. Watch him while I get the translator.” The officer on the other end jogged over to the waiting room. “Excuse me, which of you was interpreting for our Greek guests earlier? We could use your services again, if that’s alright with you.” Reluctantly, Oscar obliged, and followed the officer into the cell.
“If you could tell him he needs to put his clothes on, that’d be great.”
Oscar sighed. “Diogenes, in your own interests, I suggest you put the clothes on. We don’t know where we are or what they can do to us. Besides,” explained Oscar, “we must be diplomatic. Society has always been a long, wonderful series of compromises.”
“But… they’re ugly.... and itch… and the material feels strange...” whimpered Diogenes. “There is a limit to what I will compromise, kind sir. It’s not as if society has any inherent value anyway. I can do without it.”
Switching to English, Oscar translated Diogenes’ complaint back to the two policemen. Both smiled awkwardly. Trying to stay stern, one of the officers turned to the philosopher, and, with a tone of pity more than anything, tried to reexplain. “You have to wear them. It’s the law, and if you don’t I will add charges and you will end up locked up for months.”
Finally, through a combination of Oscar’s eloquence and the officers’ threats, they managed to convince the man to put some clothes on.
Once they got the suit on him - for he had needed some physical prompting - the two cops brought him to the office for the usual procedures. Thinking over the usual questions, the officer realised this wasn’t going to be as simple as he had hoped.
“Right…” the officer sighed, “we better get this started. We can’t force you to say anything till an attorney is present. You have the right to one telephone call, if you do not contact an attorney then one will be provided for you.”
Oscar translated, or tried to. He struggled to describe the concept of a telephone to the ancient Athenian. “You have the right to communicate to one person... with a modern machine, which allows you to speak across very long distances. You don’t even have to shout.”
“Very well then. I wish to speak to Socrates.”
“Ah.” Oscar hesitated, then translated the request to the officers. “I’m afraid… I don’t think that will be possible.”
It became evident Diogenes was not going to use his phone call and that he would need a lawyer provided to him. Preferably one who spoke Greek.
“Alright, sir. We will get you a lawyer and, unless you have anything else to say, then I’m going to return you to your cell.” explained the police officer. Oscar, as usual, translated. Without a word, Diogenes allowed himself to be returned to his cell.
“It really is getting weird in here tonight. I’ve got some other guy in here claiming to be bloody Shakespeare.” said the officer, as a joke. But, hearing that, Oscar, Wystan and Walt stared at each other in amazement, all three understanding immediately the implications of such a statement.
“Shakespeare? Did you find him in the same place as the rest of us?” asked Walt.
“No… at a motel a few blocks from there. Why? You think it’s really him?” asked the officer, apprehensive. Might explain a few things… he thought to himself.
“Well, evidently we can only assume. Since my companions and I seemed to have been brought onto this plane, it’s entirely possible that Mr. Shakespeare has been as well. Would you be so kind as to let us talk to him, sir?”
“I don’t see why not.” The officer nodded, grabbed his keys and walked the lot of them - Wystan and the Victorians first, then the Greeks, following behind out of confusion.
When they arrived, Shakespeare and Diogenes were sitting at the small table in the cell, seemingly engaged in deep conversation.
“Evening good sir,” began Auden, interrupting them.
“Why, good evening.” Shakespeare stood up from his chair. “Mr. William Shakespeare. And you are?”
“Mr. William Shakespeare? The William Shakespeare? Playwright, poet and all round literary genius?”
“Well, well! I am certainly the William Shakespeare, playwright and poet, but I wouldn’t go as far as to say I am a genius. While I am flattered, such things are for history to tell.”
“In fact, sir,” Walt smiled, “it just so happens that history has told.”
“Pardon me?”
“We come to you from the nineteenth…” Walt hesitated, shooting a look at Wystan - “and twentieth centuries, anno domini, respectively.”
“Hundreds of years from what you would consider the present day,” Wystan added, nodding. “I will leave it to Oscar to laud your accomplishments.
On cue, Oscar stepped forward, bowing gallantly. “You are a marvel to behold, your words are simply the pinnacle of eloquence and you perfectly portray major issues of modern society in a long lasting fashion making them still applicable. Your works are taught across the empire!” exclaimed Oscar.
Shakespeare laughed. “Well, you certainly aren’t lacking in it - eloquence, I mean.”
The conversation continued and the officer gradually realised that things were more complicated than they seemed.
“Well, I suppose you have given us sufficient evidence that you are, in fact, William Shakespeare, a resident of…”
“Sixteenth-century England,” Oscar filled in.
“What he said. Anyway. Given the circumstances, I don’t think the state police force has the legal right to hold you any longer…” The officer paused. “But I don’t know what to do with all of you. You’ll get into trouble if I let you loose again. Could I ask you to stick around while I get someone to figure out what’s happening? I’ll get you rooms in the motel up the street… and I’ll just ask that you pop back in here tomorrow morning, so we can sort this out when we’re all a little less exhausted, if that’s alright.”
The eight of them walked down from the station back to the motel, the officer put four rooms on his card. Wilde, Whitman and Auden had refused to comply unless they were all allowed to share a room, leading to the laborious lifting of a single bed up from the basement into a two-person room; two rooms with double bunks for the four Greeks present; and a single room for Shakespeare. All eight of them were now in the same building as Siegfried and Wilfred, as well as all the “modern” women who had accompanied them there - all of whom had formed little couples and gotten double beds to share.
It was pandemonium, it was cacophony. It was confusion all around. Those at the center of the crowd - though the crowd itself could not have been larger than ten or fifteen strong - found themselves lost and tossed about by the surges of the mass. Everyone was talking. Yells and queries bounced off the walls unanswered, in what sounded like every language under the sun. Heads and bodies turned every which way, thumping against the doors of bathroom stalls and tripping over each other in the tangles of entropy.
Stunned, some had only begun to turn to each other, looking for a familiar face. But in a corner, what had been a whisper had now escalated to shrieks and giggles. Two women - one in a plain white dress and the other with exotic flowers in her hair - were in the middle of an animated discussion.
The more colourfully bedecked had introduced herself first - after a futile attempt in Spanish, which garnered only a reply in confused German, the two found common ground in their knowledge of Russian.
The plainer-dressed lady smiled. “Frida. What a beautiful name that is.”
“My given name was Magdalena Carmen Frida Kahlo y Calderón, if it pleases you to know.”
“God, how bourgeois.”
Both laughed.
“And you?”
“Rosa. Rosa Luxemburg.”
“I suppose your parents were revolutionaries.” Frida grinned.
Rosa looked skeptical. “I wouldn’t say so. Though my father had a penchant for liberalism.”
“But the name? They must have realized?” Kahlo looked surprised.
“I’m sorry? The name?”
“Rosa Luxemburg! Hero of the proletarian cause, martyr of socialism! Among the greatest theorists, philosophers, economists - ”
Rosa looked away awkwardly. “Well, I suppose I do have admirers.”
Frida grew pale, eyes widening. “Rosa?”
“Yes?”
“When were you born?”
Rosa giggled uncomfortably. “Erm, the fifth of March, 1871. Why?”
“And what year is it now?”
“1919. Are you alright?”
“Holy Mother of God.”
“I’m sorry… I don’t understand… ”
“Rosa, I don’t know what has happened,” began Frida, “but this… this is the year 1950.”
“I don’t…”
“Something has gone terribly wrong.” Frida was solemn.
There was a moment of silence.
Then - Rosa reached out, grabbed Frida’s hand.
“The Civil War,” she gasped. “Is it over?”
“The… oh, that’s right. The Russian Civil War. Is that what you mean?”
“Has it ended?” Rosa’s eyes were wide.
“Yes, yes. The Reds triumphed. In 1922, if I remember correctly.”
“Goodness, this is an odd conversation to be having.” Rosa was glowing with excitement. “And Lenin leads the Party?”
Frida grimaced. “Not any longer. He died in 1924.”
“So soon!”
“Unfortunately. His successor is Stalin - do you remember him? Iosif Dzhugashvili? The outlaw from Pravda.”
“Yes, of course.”
“He has been horribly cruel. Torture even to read about. But he won the war.”
“The war?”
Kahlo’s eyes were ablaze. “God, this is going to be fun.”
Meanwhile, a slight woman in a black suit squirmed her way out of the squalor. Standing by the door, she clapped her hands, cleared her throat.
“Excuse me! Excuse me! My name is Virginia - ”
She was ignored. Spotting the enamel ledge where the sinks were placed, she tried to clamber up, reaching for an air of authority, something that would would attract attention... suddenly she wavered, the heels of her shoes slipping on the smooth surface. She gasped, flung an arm out in an attempt to stay balanced, but it was no use. She was about to scream and fall when a hand caught her from behind, helping her up.
From her new vantage point, Virginia looked down at her unnamed savior. “Thank you,” she breathed, relieved and astonished.
“You are very welcome.” This guardian angel had a marked French accent. She gestured to the crowd. “Go on, ze floor is yours! Friends, Romans, Countrymen...”
Virginia giggled, then did as suggested.
“Everyone, please!” she began. “Please listen! We need to organize ourselves!”
“Revolution!” someone else yelled. There were a few laughs.
“Does anyone know where we are?” Virginia went on.
“A bathroom.”
“Not the cleanest.”
“God knows how we got here.”
“We can’t all have been blind drunk.”
“Were we drugged?”
“She has a point.”
“Kidnappers?”
“I’m sorry, but - ”
Virginia struggled to orient herself amid the sea of voices. The scene was one of the most exotic she had ever witnessed. The crowd of women stood before her, in a display of the most wild variety. Some wore lavish dresses, others jackets and trousers. One in the corner boasted the most extravagantly colourful attire Virginia had ever seen; another, closer to the front, sat in a wheelchair that looked like something out of a science fiction magazine. In the crowd, dialects and accents of all sorts fought a fierce battle to the death.
Virginia had never even imagined such a range of cultures or personalities in such a small space - and she was quite the cosmopolitan, for her time.
“Does everyone here speak English?” she asked loudly, before realizing the futility of such a question. She reformulated: “Will everyone who speaks English step forward, please!”
Most shuffled forward. A few remained standing where they were, looking baffled. Beside Virginia, the lady who had broken her fall so soon before shot her a resigned grin. “I suppose I do. Rustily at best…”
“Alright. We may have to leave the rest of you for the moment… ” Virginia scanned the ranks of those who had stood still. “I do apologize. As for all of you,” she went on, gesturing to the women who had stepped forward, “could any of you - and if you could avoid drowning each other out, we must be civil - could any of you tell me who you are, and perhaps where it is we’ve all found ourselves, if any of you have any idea?”
“I… Miss Cather. Miss Willa Cather,” piped up a young lady in a brown dress. “I don’t know where we are. Or how I got here, either.”
Another joined in, the woman whose wheelchair Virginia had noticed earlier: “Well, my name is Anne-Marie Alonzo... as for the rest, I can’t say.”
“Seems like some sort of public bathroom.” somebody broke in from the other end of the room. “Oh, and - Ethel Waters. That’s me.”
“Marsha, Marsha P. Johnson. Does look like a bathroom,” another woman agreed, peering into one of the stalls. “There’s a door over there, too. Wonder if there’s somebody outside who could tell us where we are?”
“Should I go out and have a look?” Anne-Marie began making her way to the door, jointly with a woman who introduced herself as Gwendolyn Brooks.
“Wait!” Virginia frowned. “Let’s not be too quick about this. Where did you all come from? Do you know how you got here?”
“I was just walking down the street. And then all of a sudden, I wasn’t.”
“Waiting for a train… ”
“I opened the back door and here I was.”
Virginia sighed. “Seems we’re all in the same fix, then. As for myself, I only stepped for a moment into the hall, and all of a sudden…” she waved a hand at her surroundings. There was a pause, as each woman fell into deep contemplation of her own situation.
The kind, accented woman beside Virginia finally broke the silence. “Shall we not introduce ourselves? We may be here, ah, a long time. I am Simone - Simone de Beauvoir, if you prefer, but Simone alone is perfect.”
“De Beauvoir,” whispered a starstruck Virginia. Blue blood, she thought.
“Pardon?” Simone smiled up at her. Virginia crouched awkwardly so the two were nearly eye to eye, then positioned herself so as to be able to sit down on the enamel ledge.
“Are you - you will excuse me - are you from France, madam?” she asked.
“Madam! Ha! Yes, I am Parisian heart and soul, but make no mistake! I am a mademoiselle, and forever I will be.”
“Oh, please do forgive me,” Virginia apologized, reddening. Then she raised an eyebrow. “You say forever… a vow of maidenhood? You don’t strike me as the type.”
“Marriage is impossible for me,” shrugged Simone; Virginia smiled at that. “Et vous? Do you speak French? I have forgotten your name, how terrible,” the Frenchwoman went on.
“Oh dear, it’s no issue. I’m afraid my French may not be the most impressive, but I’ll have a go at it. As for my name - Virginia Woolf.” she extended a hand. “Enchantée.”
“Like the writer,” smiled de Beauvoir, switching to French. “How lovely. Come to think of it, you look like her as well.”
“I don’t believe I know of any other writer by my name…” Woolf hesitated. “Perhaps you are mistaken… unless you would care to enlighten me?”
“Ah, the Virginia Woolf? You do not know her? What a woman! You have not heard of her? Are you quite certain? Oh, you know… Orlando, Mrs. Dalloway… I don’t care much for The Waves, but I’m very, very fond of her book on Elizabeth Barrett Browning.”
“Excuse me - ” Virginia cut in, close to laughing. “Those are my books. I am that writer.”
“Virginia Woolf is dead,” frowned Simone, though with a certain measure of self-doubt.
“I certainly hope not,” giggled Virginia, now thoroughly baffled. “Who told you such a thing? I am alive, I am sitting here, wherever I am...”
“It is the year nineteen sixty-seven…” Simone hesitated.
“It is not.”
“I am sure it is. It must be.”
Virginia furrowed her eyebrows. “And I am sure it is only nineteen forty - ”
“Is it possible?” Simone interrupted her with a gasp.
“Is what possible?”
“One of us - or perhaps both of us - has… has separated from the timeline of our existence.”
“Oh. Oh, my goodness.”
“The question is - ”
“How?” wondered Virginia wide-eyed. “And why us?”
“The question is, where… when are we?”
Both gaped. For all their questions, they hadn’t an answer between them.
Meanwhile, the room had reverted to its former chaos. In the corner, Frida was still busy with the task of recounting the last half-decade’s history to her newfound comrade.
Trotsky - Lenin’s confidant? You know of him - he was exiled - ”
“Good god, why?”
“Stalin became paranoid. Some - myself included - believe has forsaken the socialist cause.”
“And to think I had so much hope.” Rosa sighed.
“But Russia is not finished! Stalin will die eventually, we all know that. Besides, the struggle is being carried out elsewhere! International Socialism is upon us!” Kahlo became agitated. “It has expanded to China! A nationwide revolution only last year! And Syria, and Southeast Asia - already Vietnam and Indonesia have declared themselves partisans to the cause! And South America, of course…”
“South America!” gasped Rosa.
Frida grinned. “Oh, yes! In Argentina and Bolivia, the governments themselves are involved! Here in Mexico, it is only a revolutionary movement, but it is vast.”
“Mexico?”
“Oh. Did you not leave Berlin?”
“Not recently. There have been conflicts. I haven’t had a moment’s peace.”
“And until a moment ago I was certain I had not left Coyoacán… where are we?”
The two heard a sound from the front of the room, and looked up. Virginia had begun to manoeuvre herself upright again. For a moment she wavered, and there again was Simone, reaching out to support her, an anxious look crossing her face. For a moment they touched, their fingers brushed lightly - and Virginia surprised herself with a blush. Something about that woman got to her.
She straightened and rapped the heel of her shoe on the enamel of the sink, silencing the crowd - at least to an extent.
“Among those of you who do speak English,” she began, “could any of you tell me, by any chance, what year this is?”
Discord rang out. Virginia nodded, in hesitant understanding.
“Do you know what this means?” she whispered, in French, looking back at Simone.
“The phenomenology of time… the fundamental mode of transcendence… I have a friend who writes about such things.”
“What year is this?”
“I… I’m afraid I can’t say. How bizarre this all is...” Simone giggled, then gestured to the door. “Shall we have a look outside?”
“Why not?” Virginia turned again to the crowd: “We have been… transported away from our time… or times. I’m sure you have all figured out something along those lines? Simone and I propose, on a bit of a whim, that we go out through that door… if the plan agrees with everyone - ” she paused. “Let’s all go out together. Try to keep an eye on somebody you can recognize. Don’t lose the group. Alright?”
There was a murmur of assent. Those nearest the exit - the adventurous Anne-Marie Alonzo, and her new companion Gwendolyn Brooks - pushed open the door and stepped, cautious but intrigued, out of the bar bathroom.
Then Simone reached out a hand, to assist Virginia back to firm ground. Still holding hands - neither quite willing to let go of the other - they followed the crowd out into the brilliant, dazzling lights and sounds of a brave new world.
After the events of the previous night, the group of women, having found their way to the hotel, put their heads together and decided that the best course of action would be to go back to the bar, and try and work out how and why they had all ended up here. Independently, Oscar and Wystan - as well as Alan Turing, accompanied by a worried-looking Christopher - had decided the same.
When they arrived, they noticed half a dozen men dressed in togas, talking loudly in a foreign language and gesturing wildly. These Greeks didn't understand a word of what the people in the bar were saying.
“What under the heavens is this place? What happened to the play? I was getting rather engaged by the third hour of conversation. I really do wonder who the man behind the mask was.” Commented one.
“Do any of you know where we are? Is it some mighty act of Zeus? And the way these people are talking is simply outstanding, like nothing I have ever heard before.”
They walked up to the barman, who they had identified as the host of whatever event they had mistakenly barged into.
“Excuse me good sir, do you happen to know where we are?” asked the Greek who had just spoken, being the most talkative of the group. The barman responded in a language the Greeks had never heard and had no understanding of: English. When the group responded with confusion, the barman raised an eyebrow and exclaimed: “What garbage do you think you’re speaking in? Talk English!”
Of course, this was meaningless to the Greeks. They understood he was confused and annoyed, and guessed that there was a similar language issue. Suddenly, a man in ridiculous attire, long flowing coat tails over far too many layers of satin walked up to them.
“Excuse me, I don’t believe this man speaks Greek,” explained Oscar Wilde, in Greek. He turned to the man whose hand he was holding. “I don’t suppose anyone in this reputable establishment has any knowledge of Greek? Pity. I suppose I shall be forced to interpret alone.”
A man wearing slightly fewer layers but still far better dressed than the rest of the bar walked up to them. “People haven’t spoken ancient Greek for centuries, where, ah, when are you from?”
“I am Oscar Wilde, I believe I’m from the very end of the 19th century.”
The man stared at Oscar in absolute amazement. “My goodness, I admire you so much. I’m Alan. Alan Turing. Can you ask the pile of Greeks who they are? Maybe they’re famous, like you.”
The Greeks were very confused.
Oscar turned to them. He started, finally in a language that the Greeks could understand, “Good evening, my dear fellows. Would you be kind enough to inform me where and when you were in the time frame prior to your arrival in this establishment.”
“We were at a play, in the city center. It’s the second year of the 74th Olympiad. Day of the sun.”
‘’Very interesting.” squeaked Oscar, unable to contain his excitement for much longer. “Would you mind my asking - what are your names?”
“Euripides, myself.”
“Euripides!” Oscar bowed lavishly. “In person! What rêverie.”
Another member of the group scoffed. “And I? Aristophanes, son of Philippus, of the deme Kydathenaion.”
Oscar gasped.
A man, dressed in full military attire, came forth, “You think are worthy of any recognition, knave? I am Achilles, hero of Greece.”
“There isn’t a braver soldier under the sky,” agreed a man emerging beside him. Squinting, Oscar recognized the statuesque pose of the legendary Patroclus. He stared at them in absolute bafflement, before dropping melodramatically to the floor: “How prodigious!”
Another member of the group approached, smiling wryly.
“I am Arete of Cyrene, and I find all these men suffocating. Though I do like it here.”
“Agreed.” Another woman stepped forward. “I am Sappho, lover of Arete. Among other things,” she smiled.
“You will have to excuse me, but - “ Oscar hesitated. “-You are a woman?”
“As is she.”
“Interesting, this establishment seems to have an acquired taste for picking up famous homosexuals, yet I have heard of all these men in great detail. I have heard of Sappho but very little and I know nothing of you, Arete.”
Arete was not surprised. She simply have Sappho a knowing look and they laughed together.
“It's a man's world after all, we weren't expecting recognition.”
If this had been said in English, one of the modern members of that bar would most surely have intervened; however, this was not the case.
Sappho took Arete’s hand and whispered, passionately and intimately, “Why don't we go and find somewhere less crowded.” They walked away, leaving the group of men to talk.
“This place is really quite astounding. It must be the work of the gods,” declared Sappho to her partner.
“It is an absolute marvel, yes. However, rather confusing. Very few people seem to speak Greek. They must all come from another land. And that Wilde fellow seems to think everyone here is a homosexual. Looking around he may be quite right. I wonder if we will be able to communicate with the server at this strange tavern. He doesn't seem to speak Greek either” replied Arete.
They both walked up to the barman. Hopeful, they pointed at the nearest person, Olympe de Gouges, and her drink, then looked at the bar man quizzically.
“So you want one of that? That will be 7 pounds please.” he said, almost mechanically.
“Pardon?” politely asked Sappho, in Greek. The barman held out a hand and then pointed into his palm. He then made 7 by holding up fingers.
“He wants payment. It’s on me.” says Arete, also in Greek. She hands him 7 small coins, tetartemorions.
At this point Oscar, who had been surveilling the situation from a distance, pranced in to observe the coin. “Oh my goodness is that real? Would you be so kind as to let me behold this ancient masterpiece with my own eyes.” exclaims Oscar, in Greek.
Sappho looks at him in confusion. Arete just shows him the coin. Oscar laughs childishly, at the entire situation. “Oh, they actually think they can pay with this. That’s sweet.” he says, out loud but to no one in particular.
“Hey mate, do you think you can tell them to pay in proper money?” asked the barman, trying to keep cool but with the anger coming through nonetheless.
“Why, I don’t believe they have any. You see, a gathering of ancient Greeks seems to have arrived in this bar. It’s really quite peculiar.”
The barman looks at Oscar, then at Arete and Sappho, then at Euripides, Aristophanes, Achilles, and Patroclus, who had formed a row behind the previous 3.
As he is trying to come up with a reply, a man strides in, wearing absolutely nothing. A barrel rolls in behind him.
Everyone screams. Someone nearest to him rushes with a jacket and wraps it around him.
“WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING!” yells Diogenes, desperately trying to remove the shackles of society, also known as the jacket. He finally struggles free from the jacket, exposes himself entirely then screams, “Behold a man entirely free from society! And behold this other man, as Plato would say. Is Plato here? Bellowed Diogenes, holding up a featherless chicken.
“Would you be so kind as to please put the jacket back on?” said Oscar, the only person to both speak Greek and not be used to that much nudity. Diogenes stared at Oscar.
“Society is a burden. We should deny all it’s rules, clothing is just a way to constrict us. I don’t think you appreci-” started Diogenes, still in Greek as he would.
“Okay can someone please tell me what this weirdo is yelling about, what language it is and will someone either get him to put something on or call the police?” said a woman in the background, already taking out her cellphone.
Oscar was rather flustered by the entire situation, of course Diogenes couldn’t understand what was going on… “Good sir, I require your entire attention. You are not in Athens anymore these people are not from your culture in any way. If you do not cover yourself immediately, the local authorities will incarcerate you. This is not a time for an argument of ideology. This is a time to obey society, or you will be harmed.” Oscar tried to convey the severity of the situation, as Diogenes gradually got more and more annoyed at the entire bar.
The woman with the cellphone had dialed and was talking quietly trying to stay hidden. She thought Diogenes must have been some sort of mental patient and may be prone to violence. A small gang had formed, the man with the jacket, the barman and a few others. They cornered Diogenes and forcefully covered him. Finally, the philosopher decided to quieten down, but only after an eternity of flailing like a dying fish.
As Diogenes waited quietly to see what would happen next, the Greeks stared at him apprehensively. He had seemed weird enough in their own time: some had met him, some had simply heard of him. Now, in this strange environment, he seemed even more out of place, yet quite familiar - he at least spoke their language and knew their culture. Aristophanes decidedly walked up to him, and the other Greek men trailed behind him like lost dogs. Oscar, Sappho and Arete stayed behind.
“Hello, we met in Athens a few years ago. Do you remember? I am Aristophanes. I don’t think we’re in Athens anymore, the advancements seem to be far past our culture. I believe that some sort of law enforcement may come and take you away. I think this kind gentlemen could translate for us, he seems familiar with both our language and whatever these speak.” Aristophanes gestured towards Oscar.
Diogenes looks towards Oscar. Almost pitifully, like a beaten puppy, he whimpers, “Why are they making me wear this. I don’t like wearing this. How can you accept that they force you to present a certain way. The human body is an absolute beauty and should be presented for all to see and it’s not fair” Diogenes fumbles at the knot in the coat, making the man with the jacket hold on even tighter. No matter how gay you are, you don’t want to see everyone’s penis.
In the midst of the tug of war for the jacket, the police arrived. A rather large officer, with a stain of chocolate on his suit and a pleasant smile on his face entered the premises.
“What seems to be the disturbance?” he asked. Oscar translated to the group.
“This gentleman,” started the barman, “entered my bar with that,” he pointed at the chicken, “and absolutely no clothing. When he refused to dress, we covered him and called you. He doesn’t seem to speak English but that man,” he points at Wilde, “seems to be able to translate”
The police officer turns to Oscar. An eyebrow raised, his voice clearly having gone from friendly to serious, he asks for a full explanation of the events from “the naked gentleman”’s point of view.
“He is Diogenes of Athens and has rejected the shackles of society. Here, those shackles are the clothes he is forced to bear.” replied Oscar, calmly.
“Yea? Well let’s see how he likes the real shackles of society.” sneered the cop, reaching for the handcuffs on his belt. “Sir, you are under arrest for disorderly conduct. You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney then one will be provided for you.” the officer rattled off mechanically. He had clearly made that same speech hundreds of times. Diogenes stared at Oscar as he struggled to translate at the same time as listen to what the officer was saying.
When Diogenes finally got the message, he sat on the floor in a basic attempt at resistance. The officer strutted up to Diogenes, hoisted him up and places the cuffs around his wrists. Seeing this, the other Greek men started in uproar; the officer decided it was best to take them along too. With a sigh of responsibility, Oscar joined them for the translations that were sure to follow. Unable to bear the idea of losing Oscar, Walt and Wystan got up simultaneously to join him.
The officer looked at the group that had just gathered.
“Right… Okay so I need to take that one” he points at Diogenes, “in the car. I will drive very slowly and you walk behind me. Okay?” Thanks to Oscar’s gradually improving skills of simultaneous translation, everyone understood the plan.
