Andrew Weiner is a British-born journalist and short story writer, long resident in Canada. His work has appeared in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine, Night Cry, Amazing Stories, and The Twilight Zone (two stories from which were adapted for the TV series Tales from the Darkside). Distant Signals, a collection of his magazine stories, was published in 1989 by Porcepic Books.
The body was lying beside the couch on the off-white broadloom, face upwards, arms sprawled at an awkward angle, eyes open and staring blankly. The body was casually dressed: slacks, sweater, sports jacket.
“What have we got?” Walker asked the uniformed officers.
“Dennis Stone,” said one of the officers. “Financial controller for an oil company. Didn’t show up for work this morning, didn’t call in, missed a bunch of appointments. Not like him at all. Didn’t answer his phone. They got worried, so they called us. The super let us in. And here we are.”
“Here we are,” Walker agreed.
He glanced around the living room. It was sparsely furnished: leather couch, chrome and glass coffee table, standing brass lamp, white vertical blinds on the high wide windows that looked down on Lake Ontario twenty floors below. The walls were decorated with framed maps, possibly antique. Lonely guy modern, he thought.
“He lived alone?”
The second officer nodded. “Daughter in Calgary, according to his office. No other close family.”
Both the uniformed officers had dark hair and neatly trimmed moustaches. Both were about the same height and build. Looking at them gave Walker an uncomfortable sensation that he was seeing double.
He looked down again at the body. There was a damp patch around it on the carpet, not dark enough to be blood. He stooped to touch it. It felt damp. So did the man’s clothes.
“Was the window open when you came in?” he asked.
The first officer shook his head. “Windows don’t open. Central air.”
“He’s wet,” Walker said. “Why is he wet?”
“Maybe he got caught in the rain.”
“It hasn’t rained all week.”
“Maybe he fell in the lake.”
“Then came home and died before he could change his clothes? I guess it’s a theory.”
He wandered through into the bathroom. Everything was in its proper place. Towels on the rods, soap in the dish, tub and shower stall clean and dry.
The bedroom was equally orderly. Bed made, clothes hung up in the closet. More maps were displayed on the walls.
Walker returned to the living room and stared down at the body.
“Could be his heart,” he said. “Or something like that. But somehow I don’t think it is.”
“What else could it be?” one of the officers asked.
“I don’t know. I really don’t know.”
Walker pushed aside the medical examiner’s report in disgust. He leaned back in his chair.
“Terrific,” he said.
“What’s terrific?” asked Lomax, his partner, from across the room. “Report on Dennis Stone. The guy in the lakeshore condo.”
“And?”
“He drowned.”
“I thought you found him in the living room.”
“We did.”
“Someone drowned him in the bathtub?”
Walker shook his head. “In the lake. He drowned in the lake. They can track it from the pollutants. Died late Saturday evening, as near as they can place it.”
“So it’s murder?”
“We don’t know that. All we know is that he drowned in the lake, and that someone brought him back to his apartment.”
“Strange.”
“It is, isn’t it? Why drown someone in the lake and then drag him back to his own apartment? Then again, maybe it wasn’t murder. There were no marks on the body, no signs of struggle. It could have been an accident. Suicide, even. But whatever it was, you come back to the same question: Who moved him back? And why?”
“What do we know about this guy?” Lomax asked.
“Not a lot. Public accountant, age fifty-one. Old Toronto family. Lived alone. No close friends. No family to speak of: parents dead, wife long gone, daughter in Calgary, older brother in Florida. Reasonably well off, but nothing spectacular.”
“Signs of forced entry?”
“No signs. And nothing missing, far as we can tell.”
“Neighbours?”
Walker sighed. “Saw nothing, heard nothing. You’d think that someone would have seen them carting him up. Must have been real late at night.”
“You know these buildings,” Lomax said. “People live in them because they don’t want to know their neighbours. They’re just not interested. You could carry a corpse up in the elevator in broad daylight and no one would blink.”
“Building security should have noticed. But they didn’t. Asleep at the monitors, probably.”
“Tape backup?”
“No tapes.”
“So what have we got?”
“A drowned accountant. Who collected maps.”
“Maps?”
“Old ones. All over his apartment. Also, there was this.” He handed over a plastic evidence bag with a business card inside. “We found this in his jacket.”
Lomax squinted at the card.
WORLDS MAP STORE
Hans Holst, Proprietor
Fine Maps of All Territories
There was an address on Church Street, and a telephone number.
“You call him?” Lomax asked.
“Yeah, but the number was out of service. And there was no new listing. Gone out of business, I guess.”
“I never saw a map store on Church Street. And that used to be part of my beat.”
“These stores,” Walker said. “Always opening and closing, you can’t keep track of them. But maybe I’ll run down and take a look anyway.”
“Why?” Lomax asked. “I mean, what could a map store have to do with his death?”
“I don’t know. I thought maybe if I could find this Holst, he could explain this.”
He opened a larger evidence bag and took out the map, the infuriating map. “Careful with this one,” he said, as he passed it to Lomax. “It’s still a little damp.”
“You found it on the body?”
“Underneath it, actually.”
“You think it’s important?”
“I don’t know what I think.”
Lomax stared at the map. “Looks like an ordinary Toronto street map to me.”
“But it isn’t.”
“Isn’t what?”
“Isn’t ordinary. Isn’t Toronto either. Not any Toronto you or I know.”
“Well, here’s Yonge Street,” Lomax said. “And King and Queen and Dundas . . .”
“Take a look at Bloor.”
Lomax squinted at the map. Parts of it were unreadable, where the water had soaked through. But much of it was clearly legible. “It’s called MacKenzie,” he said. “Is that a typo?”
“Take a look at Bayview.”
Lomax puzzled over the map. “I can’t find it.”
“Because it isn’t there. And that’s not the only street that’s gone missing. The whole thing is like that. Some of the streets are the same, but some have different names, and some don’t seem to exist at all.”
“Must be an antique,” Lomax said. “A map of how the city used to be. You said he collected old maps.”
“But it isn’t old. The lab dates it at no more than a couple of years.”
“A reproduction, then.”
Lomax jabbed his finger at the blurry title on the bottom of the map.
City of Yo
The rest was unreadable.
“See,” he said. “City of York. Isn’t that what they used to call Toronto?”
“The old British settlers did, yeah. And some called it Little York. Which was partly why they changed the name.”
“Well, there you are,” Lomax said. “A reproduction.”
Walker shook his head. “They changed the name back in the 1830s. York was a real small town then. On this map, there’s development way north of Eglinton. That would have been farmland back then.”
“Right,” Lomax agreed. “Except it doesn’t seem to be called Eglinton. It’s called . . .” He strained to read the blurred print.
“Queen Victoria Way.”
“Must be a joke map. Some sort of gag.”
“Must be,” Walker agreed.
He drove around the block twice and saw no sign of a map store at the address on the card. He parked on the next street and walked around the block. He found the store immediately, squeezed in between two pawnshops.
The store was small and gloomy and remarkably cluttered. Maps were everywhere, covering available centimetre of the walls, stacked up in racks, piled haphazardly on tables.
“Can I help you?” asked the man behind the counter. He was short, plump, greying. He had a cherubic face and thick eyeglasses and a faint European accent.
“Mr. Holst?” Walker asked.
“Yes.”
“I’ve been trying to reach you. There seems to be some problem with your phone.”
“Phones are often a problem. What can I do for you?”
Walker showed his identification.
“I’m investigating the death of man called Dennis Stone. He was a map collector. I believe he may have been one of your customers.”
Holst shrugged. “I don’t recall the name. I doubt he was a regular customer.”
“He was carrying your business card.”
“Many people have my card.”
Walker showed him a photograph of the dead man. Holst studied it. “Yes,” he said, finally. “I do believe I have seen this man. He came into my store only last Saturday afternoon, as a matter of fact. And now you say that he’s dead? But that’s shocking.”
“Yes it is,” Walker agreed. “It is shocking.”
“I’m not really sure how I can be of help. I’d never met the man before. All I can tell you is that he was a serious collector, and a fairly knowledgeable one.”
“Did he buy anything from you?”
“He was interested in a number of items, but reached no final decision. I rather expected him to return. He was especially drawn to this one, but found the price rather steep.”
Holst indicated a map on the wall behind him. It was an old map of the world, brightly coloured, the continents eccentrically drawn, the oceans dotted with mermaids and seahorses and other whimsical creatures.
“Nice,” Walker said.
“Yes it is. Quite historic, too, late seventeenth century. And for a collector of Canadiana like Mr. Stone, truly fascinating. Look.” Holst pointed at North America. “Canada, you see, has no west coast here, nor any northern limits. At the time these territories were still unmapped, unknown, undiscovered. A map like this would itself stimulate further exploration. That was part of the whole exploratory impulse, you see: To fill out the maps. To chart the unknown.”
“How much would a map like this cost?”
“This one is fifteen thousand dollars.”
Walker’s eyebrows arched up in surprise.
“A small price for the serious collector,” Holst said.
“Because of the investment value, you mean?”
“There are good prospects for appreciation, if you buy carefully. But that would be a secondary consideration. For the true collector, the main motivation is history. Getting in touch with our past. And understanding our present, our place in the broader scheme of things.”
“Still,” Walker joked, “it seems a lot to pay for a map that isn’t even accurate.”
“But what map is accurate? Is the world flat? A map is always a fabrication, a distortion of physical space. And it will always be distorted further by the world view of its creator. This map, for example—” Holst pointed to another map on the wall. “The British Empire, circa 1950. Observe the great swathes of territory still shaded in imperial red. Rather poignant, actually. But what meaning could such a map have had at the time for a native of, say, the British Gold Coast? For that matter, where is the British Gold Coast now? It exists only on these old maps. In a sense, it never really existed in the first place, except on maps. And in some people’s minds.”
“Interesting,” Walker said, his eyes visibly glazing over.
“Forgive me,” the old man said. “You started me on one of my favourite subjects. Was there something else you wanted to ask me?”
“Yes,” Walker said. “Yes, there was.” He pulled the map from his pocket. “We found this map in Stone’s possession. I’d like to know what you make of it.”
Holst studied the map. “Toronto, but not Toronto. Not historical, not contemporary. Possibly an imaginary map, of the kind that might accompany a work of fantasy, such as a map of Tolkien’s Middle Earth. Some collectors are interested in these maps. Then again, it could be just a prank.”
“A fictitious map?”
“All maps are fictitious. The difference is one of degree. Have you read Alfred Korzybski?”
Walker shook his head.
“Interesting man. General semantics, and so on. It was Korzybski who said, ‘The map is not the territory.’ But he was wrong, you see. For most of us, the map is the territory. We perceive only that part of the territory defined for us by our maps, both physical and mental.”
“I see,” Walker said.
“I don’t think you do,” the old man said. “But perhaps you will.”
“This map—have you ever seen it before?”
“Never. I’m sorry. Is it important? Is it what you might call a clue?”
“Yes,” Walker said. “It’s what you might call a clue.”
He’s lying, Walker thought as he left the store. His every instinct told him that Holst had seen the map before, and that almost certainly he had sold it to Dennis Stone.
Possibly he could prove that, if he could get a warrant to seize the sales records, and if the transaction had been recorded. But that would only tell him what he knew already, that the old man was lying.
Why was he lying?
Deep in thought, Walker walked back to his car.
His car was gone.
Surely not towed, he thought. Not with a police ID clearly visible. Stolen, then.
Christ, he thought. The nerve.
He would never live this down back at headquarters.
He crossed the street to the pay phone and called his office. The dial tone sounded a little odd, but he didn’t pay it much attention. There was a screeching noise, followed by a recorded announcement: The number you have called is not in service. Please consult the directory listings and try your number again.
Irritated, he hung up and called again. The number you have called . . .
He called the operator and asked her to dial the number. Same result. The operator suggested that he try directory inquiries.
“I work there,” he told her, furious. “You think I don’t know the number?” He slammed down the phone.
Phones are often a problem, he thought.
He felt, then, the first dim flickers of panic.
He strode back to Church Street, looking for a cab. There were no cabs in sight. He passed the map store. There was a “closed” sign on the door and the lights were out.
He decided to call a cab. There was a bar on the next block, he remembered, one of those glitzy singles bars. He could use the phone there.
He came to the door of the bar and faltered. The place had changed. There was a solid brick facade instead of the big glass windows with the coloured neon tubes. There were two doors: one was marked “Men,” the other “Ladies and Escorts.”
A tavern. An old-style Toronto tavern.
It was almost as if the bar had reverted back to some earlier form. Except that there had never been a tavern here, not as long as he could remember.
He looked wildly up and down the street. Was this Church Street or not? Had there really been a bar here? How could he have made a mistake like that? And why couldn’t he get through to the office?
He saw a cab approaching, although it took him a few moments to recognize it. It was one of those big old-fashioned British-style taxis, with the driver in a separate compartment in the front. The sign said “For Hire.” Walker flagged it down.
“I didn’t know there were any of these things around,” he told the driver. The driver stared at him blankly.
“Where to?” he asked.
“Police headquarters.”
The driver clicked down the flag and did a U-turn. He headed south, towards the lake, in the opposite direction to police headquarters.
“Hey,” Walker said. “Where are you going?”
“Police headquarters.”
“Police headquarters is the other way.”
The driver made a hair-raising turn at Front Street.
“Police headquarters,” he said, “is right here.”
The driver pulled up opposite the old St. Lawrence Market, at the curb in front of where the new market building should have been. Should have been, but wasn’t. In its place was a low-rise, red brick building, clearly designated “Police Headquarters.”
There was a flag flying on the pole in front of the building. Not the Canadian flag, the Maple Leaf, but the old British Union Jack.
Walker closed his eyes, opened them again. Nothing changed.
“Pound fifty,” the cabbie said.
“Pound?”
“Pound fifty,” the cabbie said again.
Walker found the unfamiliar currency in his wallet. He passed over two of the notes.
“Keep the change,” he said.
Instead of entering the police building, Walker crossed the street and sat down on a bench in front of the old market. He pulled the map out of his pocket.
The map, he thought, is the territory.
Somehow he was not surprised to find police headquarters located on Front Street on Dennis Stone’s map.
He continued to study the map. As he remembered, there had been something odd about the waterfront.
He got up and walked south, past the old market to the next cross street, Esplanade.
Once, long ago, Esplanade had been the southerly boundary of his own Toronto. It was where the waterfront had begun. Later had come the landfill for the railway lands, leaving the old waterfront high and dry.
In this city, though, that had not happened. This city ended at Esplanade. Where the south side of the street should have been was the lake. No parking lots, no buildings, no railway lines. And looking west, no lakeshore condominium developments, no soaring modern office buildings, no CN Tower, no SkyDome. Just water.
Where am I? he wondered. Where the hell am I?
He stared helplessly up and down the street. He saw a newspaper box. It was blue, like the boxes that held the Toronto Star. But when he got closer he saw that this box was labelled Upper Canada Gazette.
He put a coin in and took out a newspaper. The date on the front page was right. Everything else was wrong.
The lead story was about a debate in parliament. Not the Canadian parliament or the Ontario provincial parliament, but the parliament of Upper Canada.
The governing party appeared to be the Conservatives. The Labour party formed the opposition. There was also a small group of Liberals.
The prime minister of Upper Canada had proposed a customs union with the Republic of Quebec. The Labour party were fiercely opposed.
In other news, the U.S. senator for Alberta had announced his candidacy for the Republican presidential nomination.
The queen was visiting the Maritime dominions. She would be in York the following week to open the new Royal Opera House.
London, England was paralyzed by a transit strike. Leeds had leaped to the top of the English football league. There had been heavy snowstorms in the north of England . . . There seemed to be an inordinate amount of news about Britain.
Canada broke up, he thought. No. More likely it never got to be unified. In this world, Upper Canada never became the province of Ontario. It just stayed Upper Canada, an independent dominion, one of a number of weak and squabbling dominions under the British thumb. And the United States grabbed the west.
Result: underdevelopment. No national railways, no railway lands. No condo buildings or glitzy singles bars either.
As he walked slowly back up Church Street, the differences became clearer. His own Toronto was part renovated and part modern, increasingly ethnic, moderately dynamic. But this city was grey, grimy, rundown. It was like some British provincial town: Belfast, maybe, or Manchester. The people on the streets were shabbily dressed, almost uniformly Anglo-Saxon.
Little York, he thought.
He found himself, again, at the Worlds Map Store. It was still closed. He rang the bell.
Holst opened the door. He, at least, looked exactly the same.
“What’s happening to me?” Walker asked, with no preliminaries. Holst stood aside to let him in.
“Why don’t you tell me what you think is happening?”
“I think somehow you pushed me through into . . . I don’t know, some other world. Some different world. The same way you pushed Dennis Stone.”
Holst smiled. “I am not a magician,” he said. “At most, a tour guide. I pushed no one. You found your own way through. So did the unfortunate Mr. Stone.”
“You know how Stone died?”
“He drowned, did he not? In the living room of his condominium. I read about it the paper.”
“The Upper Canada Gazette?’
“The Star, Mr. Walker.”
“He bought the map here.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Yes.”
“And then?”
“I can only speculate. But I believe that he must have gone home and studied the map, and studied it more. And at some point he began to believe it. And in doing so he broke through, so to speak, to the other side.”
“Except that his condominium doesn’t exist in this world,” Walker said. “Only water. He broke through and he drowned in the lake.”
Holst nodded. “A terrible twist of fate.”
“But he came back. To his own living room. His own city.”
“All things return eventually to their proper place.”
“But not in their proper form. Your map killed him.”
Holst nodded sadly. “I should never have sold it to him, never even let him see it. I was teasing him with it, I suppose. He seemed so dull, so straitlaced, so unimaginative. I never dreamed that he would actually find his way through. And of course I had no idea where he lived. It never even occurred to me to ask, the possibility of something like this happening seemed so remote . . .”
“Which is real? Which world is real?”
“Both. Neither. You are asking the wrong question. You mean, which is more real? And to that I would have to say, to whom? And at what point in time? We are dealing with layers, Mr. Walker, different layers of the same onion, as it were, the one underlying the other.”
He pointed towards the street.
“The old York lives on, you know,” he said. “Even in your own Toronto. In terms of both the physical and psychological infrastructure. It’s always been there, lurking just below the surface. The old loyalist ways. The allegiance to queen and flag and country. The dourness, the small-mindedness, the provincialism, the abiding hatred of the new and the foreign. It’s all there. You don’t really need a map to see it. For someone like Dennis Stone, it was always present. In a sense, he had always lived in that other city. It was recognizing it that killed him.”
“And for you?” Walker asked. “Which is more real for you?”
“Many worlds are real for me. Depending on how the mood takes me.”
Walker shook his head. “If I thought that anyone would believe a word of this, I would take you down to headquarters to make a statement. But I don’t even believe it myself.”
He turned towards the door.
“You still have to find your way back,” Holst reminded him.
“That’s right. I do.”
“You’ll need a map.”
Walker found his car where he had parked it. He tossed the map that Holst had given him—an ordinary Toronto street map—into the glove compartment. Then he drove around the block.
As he had somehow expected, the map store had disappeared. There was nothing in between the two pawnshops. Nor would be ever find it again, even on foot.
The Stone case was finally filed away as a probable homicide, unsolved.
Walker kept the map that the old man had given him on his desk. From time to time be would pick it up and stare at it intently.
“Did the Don Valley Parkway always join up with Highway 404?” he would ask his partner, Loomis.
“Always.”
“And did Heath Street always dead-end at the ravine?”
“Of course,” Loomis would say. “Of course it did.”