The Merchant of Peace: My Afternoon with Alfred Nobel
History is often written in ink, but sometimes, if you look closely enough, you can see the tear stains.
I found myself thinking about this yesterday during a vivid daydream. Imagine stepping not into a sleek sci-fi portal, but onto a sun-drenched terrace in San Remo, Italy. The year is 1896. The air smells of salt water, cypress trees, and the faint, acrid tang of blasting caps.
Sitting there, hunched over a heavy oak table, was a man who looked older than his sixty-three years. He had a beard trimmed in the style of the era and eyes that held a profound, haunting sadness.
It was Alfred Bernhard Nobel.
In my story, I didn't approach him as a fan or a critic. I simply sat across from him. He didn't seem surprised. In the haze of the Mediterranean heat, perhaps a visitor from the future seemed like just another side effect of his chronic migraines.
"You look like you carry the weight of the world, Mr. Nobel," I said, breaking the silence.
He sighed, putting down his pen. "The world is heavy, my friend. Especially when you have helped build the tools to blow it apart."
He picked up a newspaper clipping lying on the table. It was a French obituary, mistakenly published years too early after the death of his brother, Ludvig. The headline screamed: Le marchand de la mort est mort ("The merchant of death is dead").
"This is how they see me," Alfred whispered, his voice trembling. "I invented dynamite to make mining safer, to clear rock for trains, to build the infrastructure of the future. But they only see the wars. They see the explosions. They believe I became rich by finding ways to kill more people faster than ever before."
It was a pivotal moment in history. I knew what he was writing on that parchment in front of him. It was his last will and testament.
"What if," I started, leaning forward, "what if I told you that in my time—over a century from now—your name isn't spoken with fear?"
Alfred looked up, skepticism furrowing his brow. "Impossible. Explosives are loud. They echo through history."
"They do," I agreed. "But ideas echo louder."
I told him about the future. I didn't mention the wars that were yet to come—he looked sad enough already. Instead, I told him about a golden medal with his profile on it.
"In my time, Alfred, if you say the name 'Nobel,' people don't think of nitroglycerin. They think of the cure for a disease. They think of a poem that captures the human soul. They think of a diplomat negotiating a ceasefire in a war-torn country. They think of the greatest minds in physics and chemistry unlocking the secrets of the universe."
He stared at me, his hand hovering over his will. "My name?"
"Your name," I smiled. "Because of what you are writing right now. You are about to take the fortune made from 'destruction' and turn it into the world's greatest engine for creation. You are going to reward those who confer the greatest benefit to humankind."
A slow, hesitant smile touched his lips. It wasn't a smile of vanity, but of redemption.
"The greatest benefit to humankind," he repeated softly, testing the weight of the words. He dipped his pen into the inkwell. The scratching sound it made against the paper wasn't harsh anymore; it sounded like a promise.
We sat there for a long time as the sun dipped below the Italian horizon. We talked about chemistry, poetry (he loved Shelley and Byron), and the paradox of being human—how we are capable of both terrible violence and transcendent beauty.
When I 'woke up' back in 2025, the coffee on my desk had gone cold. But the lesson remained warm.
Alfred Nobel teaches us that our legacy isn't written in stone—or dynamite—until the very end. We cannot always control how our creations are used, or how the world perceives us in the moment. But we can choose how we respond. We can choose to pivot.
Alfred Nobel didn't want to be the Merchant of Death. So, with one piece of paper, he decided to become the Patron of Peace.
And if he can change his narrative, maybe there’s hope for the rest of us, too.