The Map of Time

I once read a craft theory book (doesn’t that sound riveting?) that discussed the shape of stories –square, spiral, and, of course, circular. The Map of Time by Felix Palma is definitely circular. The storylines and plots run circles around one another, over one another, and beside one another, which is a great metaphor for the time travel premise of the novel. But like anything that runs around in circles, the whole thing soon becomes tired and dizzy, and feels a little lost.

The tone of the novel feels a little trite throughout and never quite works for me. It is more gimmicky than offensive, however, with one exception - when discussing the brutal Jack the Ripper murders.

I realize the Ripper murders have been raised to the level of myth and have been romanticized in several other novels and movies, but I have never seen them handled with the flippancy they receive here. These crimes are not myth – they happened, as surviving evidence all too gruesomely proves, and I can see no comedy in them at all. Women being mutilated, flayed, and disfigured are not subjects to treat lightly, whether truth or fiction.

Palma also trivializes the life of Ripper’s victims to the point of idiocy. The entire introductory section feels too much like blaming the victims all over again, and should have been handled better. While the heartless viewpoint of the elite towards prostitutes in Victorian society is amply explored, there is virtually no mention of the horrid conditions that drove most women to become prostitutes in the first place. The few observations Palma does make regarding their plight are glossed over so quickly, and again delivered with an inappropriate amount of humor, they seem little more than sarcastic jokes.

The love affair between spoiled rich boy, Andrew Harrington, and prostitute/Ripper victim Marie Kelly is so ludicrous as to be offensive. I never once believed in the relationship – which is the catalyst for the entire novel – because I never believed that Andrew truly loved Marie. The only lovable characteristics he mentions about her are her beautiful breasts, soft skin, and sexual prowess. Andrew read as too self-centered and too stupid, quite frankly, to really appreciate Marie Kelly’s situation on a meaningful level. Any moment that may have been poignant rang indelibly false because of the lack of compassion and verisimilitude regarding the women of Whitechapel in general. Perhaps this was Palma’s point – that no matter the professions of the dominator to the contrary, they would never really be able to understand the dominated. I don’t know. If so, it didn’t work.

This apparent misogyny would have bothered me in any tale, but it was doubly annoying in a novel that, at times, read like a dry history lesson. Palma provided page after page of expedition concerning H.G. Wells (who, as the writer of The Time Machine becomes the unwitting protagonist of the novel), British history, and science fiction itself. If so much page-time was available to expound on these subjects in near reverential tones, then why slight the tortured victims of Jack the Ripper?

Having said that, the most compelling subplot involves Claire Haggerty, a woman who admirably bucks every Victorian convention. The love story between her and Captain Shackleton (really a poor East End barrow boy named Tom, whose story, btw, is presented in a very, very sympathetic light – again, why did the ladies get such short shrift?!) is wonderfully portrayed. The simple fact that Claire believes she has fallen in love with a man from the year 2000 does what the Ripper sections do not – illustrates the impossible situation women of the era found themselves in with regards to self-creation and expression. Claire is the star of the novel, with both heroes, Tom and Wells, falling for her. Through her refusal to be cowed by social conventions, she lifts a rogue to gentleman status, prompts a mini-sexual revolution in Wells’s marriage, and redeems shallow, coddled women everywhere. The Map of Time would have likely been far more satisfying if it had stuck to this storyline exclusively, rather than making it just one thread in a very jumbled web.

Having said all that, this is an English translation of a Spanish novel, so something as nebulous as tone may have been lost in translation. If so, it’s a pity, because The Map of Time does some things rather well.

For instance, Palma also brilliantly explores the nearly infinite possibilities created by time travel, those concerning its affects on the past and future; its relation to fate and free will; the argument of whether time is fixed and linear or flexible and static. Herein also lie the problem. Palma attempts to explore each possibility, and though this is admirable, it gets tiresome after a while. Here’s where the story feels disjointed, like it is forever blooming and blooming, shooting off new petals like fireworks, but never really answering any of the questions it asks. For me, this is ok in small doses, but after about the 8th or 9th plot twist, I was sort of done. Again, all of this could have been achieved by fleshing out just one of the subplots, rather than trying to work them all in.

Still, Palma does a terrific job of tying everything together into a neat knot without being so neat that it feels overcooked. The ending was one of the better things about the novel, and I don’t mean that in a snarky way.

Set in Victorian era England and involving several very cool historical figures, this novel should have been one to make me curl my toes in ecstasy. Alas, it was not. I guess I’m not much of a time traveler, because I ultimately felt like the victim of too many tricks, turns, and trips. Or maybe I just didn’t get it, or am giving it too much weight and thought. At any rate, for me, this was a disappointing read.