The Mammoth Book of New Jules Verne Adventures (38 page)

But that is not the main point. Far from it. As is so often the case, we have to dig through the silences in the story to get to the heart of the matter. After all, that which is written, which is left to posterity, is only a general consensus. That which is left unsaid, intentionally, because we fear that it will fly in the face of common sense, deserves the full attention of enlightened minds.

Initially, I was overwhelmed by the frantic pace of the race, the haste with which we left London for France. I played the role of the zealous servant, inasmuch as possible. Fogg appeared satisfied. For my part, I was glad that his finickiness required me to remain close by, since that facilitated my true mission which was, as I remind you, to seize the moment when my “master” would deploy a portion of his inexhaustible energy to contact another world.

As for my employers, no one doubted that Fogg was a talented medium, since he had taken up the gauntlet cast down at the Reform Club. Now, and I am returning to this matter because the time is propitious, it appears that this august gathering was known in occult circles for the quality of its members, a quality that owed nothing to birth, nothing to fortune, as in the case of most gentlemen’s clubs — with the noteworthy exception of one other club, also located in Pall Mall, which I will touch on soon. No, as you see, what brought the members of the Reform Club together, apart from their allegiance to the Crown, was their passion for the Journey. A passion which all could appease, depending on the purity of their gift. These gentlemen met to turn the tables and communicate with foreign spirits, in the intimacy of their downy nest. We obtained this information from a servant who, although he officiated with the required discretion inside the Club, led a life of debauchery outside it. His turpitudes had led him into the arms of highly unscrupulous trollops, and it was a matter of no consequence for the
Section
to exert a little pressure on the libertine flunky by threatening to reveal the details of his escapades to his wife.

Now you understand how this whole matter started, the first in a long series, yet the only one that was kept secret. The state of agitation that reigned at the Reform Club in the days following Fogg’s appearance was sufficient to alert the
Statistics Section.
Something was about to happen that would involve the most powerful metapsychic society of the day and a perfect stranger — no matter what M. Verne says! My adoptive land could not refrain from reacting; she sent me to London so that I could pierce through Fogg’s mystery. Here is what I discovered . . .

The first incident occurred in the train that we took to cross through France and Italy, on our way to Brindisi. At one point, Fogg left our compartment, claiming that he needed to ‘stretch his legs’ and charging me to rest since, he added, before too long I would have no time for idling.

I nodded and allowed him to walk down the corridor of the car. Then, once I was sure that he would not detect me, I slipped out behind him. I saw him calmly walk through the doors to the next car. I was on the verge of abandoning my tail, so that I would not lose my cover so early on, when Fogg started behaving in a most unusual manner. I saw him as he stopped in the middle of the corridor, took out his pocket watch, and watched the hands turn for three long minutes, as if nothing else could possibly be more important. Then, he suddenly put his watch back into his pocket and disappeared into the closest compartment, so quickly that I doubt anyone other than myself saw him.

The velvet drapes were drawn, preventing me from observing. I approached the compartment on tiptoe and placed my ear against the wooden wall. In vain. The clacketyclack of the train wheels bumping along the track and the huffing and puffing of the nearby locomotive masked the echoes of any potential conversations. Disappointed, I returned to our compartment. Fogg reappeared there less than ten minutes later. He looked radiant and found it difficult to hide this.

I allowed a few minutes to pass before I stood up and declared, “If you please, I too would like to stretch my legs a bit.”

“Go ahead. It will be several hours before we reach Brindisi, unfortunately.”

He smiled as he made this last remark. I nodded and left the compartment. I immediately headed for the car where Fogg had had his mysterious rendezvous. The door of the compartment was still closed and the curtains were drawn. I caught the eye of a railway employee and said, “I have to take a message to Mr Dugenou. Is this his compartment?”

Obligingly, the fellow, who sported a bushy goatee and eyebrows, consulted his log. After a quick glance, he shook his head.

“You’re mistaken. There’s no Mr Dugenou on my list. And, in any case, this compartment is unoccupied.”

“It wasn’t reserved?”

“I didn’t say that. Only that the passengers weren’t here when the train left.”

I tried my luck. The man looked amenable enough. “You’re certain there’s no Dugenou?”

“Absolutely. The reservation was made in the name of . . .” Once again he glanced at the log. “Ah, here it is, in the name of Smogg. An Englishman, of course.”

I was dumbfounded. The employee tipped his cap at me and walked off. I rejoined Fogg, who was dozing. Smogg!

What nerve! Choosing such a transparent pseudonym was tantamount to provocation. Did he know who I was? Had he set such an obvious trap for me — and, I admit, one into which I had all too readily fallen — in order to remove any shadow of a doubt as to my person?

In any case, Fogg demonstrated no change in his behaviour toward me. As soon as we reached the heel of the Italian boot, we boarded a steamer, the
Mongolia,
heading for Suez and then Bombay.

More than willingly, I will say nothing of that professional nosy-parker who had dogged our heels from Suez. Fix, since that is who I mean, has no role to play in this story, despite the fact that Verne and his cohorts gave him a rather important one.

On the other hand, I will provide details about an episode that was either unknown to the novelist, or hidden by him, much like the compartment reserved by Mr Smogg. The
Mongolia
was steaming across the Arabian Sea with the Indian peninsula in its sights. We had been on board five days and a certain routine’ had taken over our activities. Yet, fewer than twenty-four hours before we were to arrive at Bombay, Fogg started to look nervous. Oh, there was nothing spectacular in the case of this man who controlled his emotions superbly . . . But I did see the pocket watch reappear on several occasions, up to ten times in a single hour, and for no apparent reason. That is until that evening, when Fogg decided that it was time to head off to the captain’s table for dinner. I presumptuously decided to inform him that we had been taking our meals in our cabin and that I was perfectly content with that arrangement.

“It’s a simple matter of courtesy,” he retorted. “This is our last evening on board. The captain has informed me that he would be honoured by our presence.”

I said nothing and we went outside to take some air to stimulate our appetites. Fogg consulted his watch yet again as we strolled along the upper deck of the ship. Suddenly he stopped, pretending to be vexed. And I must admit he was an excellent actor.

“I don’t have my calling cards with me,” he exclaimed. “A most unfortunate omission on my part. This dinner will most likely be an excellent opportunity to exchange cards with the captain’s guests.”

“I’ll go get them,” I offered.

“It’s getting late,” countered Fogg. “You go to the dining room, instead, and tell them that I will be late.”

What an elegant way of getting rid of me! I pretended to continue on my way to the dining room, but I quickly walked around the upper deck and returned to our cabin, just in time to see Fogg closing the door behind him. I pressed my eye to the keyhole, but the key was still in place. I pricked up my ears. This time there was no racket to prevent me from overhearing the conversation. But it was all in vain. The cabin was silent. One long minute passed. Then another. I was starting to believe that Fogg had actually gone back to look for his cards when a muffled detonation made me jump.

There was no question about it. It came from the other side of the door. Fearing the worst, I knocked and then called out, “Mr Fogg? Is everything all right?”

No one answered. So I slipped the thin iron hook, which served in part to justify my pseudonym, from my sleeve and a few seconds later I had unlocked the door. I opened the door and entered, an explanation prepared in case I had to face Fogg’s anger.

A pointless precaution. The cabin was empty.

Impossible, yet true. Fogg had disappeared. The perfect closed door mystery. The cabin had no other exits, not even a ventilation shaft through which a skilful contortionist could wend his way. And Fogg’s circumference prohibited any such fantasies.

I took care to close and lock the door behind me and quickly inspected the few square yards. Everything was in its place as I had arranged it when we took possession of the rooms. I resolved to wait for Fogg to return, hidden in his trunk. I was small enough that this was quite simple. A hole cut in the wicker with my pocket knife gave me a clear view of the small cabin. All that remained was to wait patiently . . .

It wasn’t long. I barely had time to feel the first cramps in my calves when a flash of lightning lit up the interior of the cabin, as if someone had launched a distress flare. Once again, I heard the distant detonation. I blinked, my vision blurred by a thousand phosphorescent specks. Fogg’s voice came to me, distorted by a metallic echo, as if he were speaking from the other end of a lead pipe. Despite this, I was able to make out his words.

“Until we meet again, dear brother!”

When I looked again, he was there, standing in front of the small writing table that was affixed to the back wall, adjusting the knot in his tie. He looked exhausted, yet delighted. He started to whistle a tune that was unfamiliar to me (and for good cause, since it had been composed in a place to which I could never travel), while straightening his attire.

I knew immediately that I had just witnessed a brilliant demonstration, in all meanings of the word, of travel between worlds. What concerned me above all was what I had heard. Who had Fogg been speaking with? Who was this ‘brother’ whom he had promised to meet again?

I had no time for further questions. Once he had freshened up, Fogg went out. I squeezed out of my hiding place, inserted my hook into the lock once again (which was locked from the outside this time), stepped outside, closed the door behind me, and took to my heels in an effort to beat Fogg to the captain’s table.

Fortunately for me, the Englishman was in no great hurry. I bolted into the dining room, barely out of breath, greeted the guests, who had already been seated, apologized to the captain for my master’s tardiness and sat down just as Fogg entered, radiant and nonchalant.

The dinner was delightful and Fogg was a most charming guest.

The next day, we landed in India.

Once again, I will skip over the circumstances that lead to the rescue of the beautiful widow of the Rajah of Bundelkund. M. Verne provided sufficient details in his account. Aouda Jejeebhoy was a magnificent woman and that is all that matters. If Fogg fell under the spell of her charms and then enjoyed a mutually beneficial relationship with her, of which I have absolutely no doubt, the affair was conducted in the most complete secrecy — at least in my opinion — in a world where this type of relationship between a white man of high social standing and a woman of colour, even though she was a princess, did not infringe on good manners. As for Aouda, I only know what I saw and what M. Verne reported, which was not much at all.

Together, we boarded the
Rangoon
and headed for Hong Kong from Calcutta. Fogg reserved a second cabin for Aouda, and I found a company employee who assured me that he had made no other reservations. With a few well distributed banknotes, I had confirmed that there was no Mr Smogg on board. I was convinced that he would not attempt anything during the crossing. Yet, when Fogg informed me, as we approached Singapore for a brief stopover there, that he was taking the princess for a ride in the country, I knew that he considered that an ideal opportunity to act in all quietude since a Frenchman would never be so boorish as to interfere with a blossoming romance.

A Frenchman wouldn’t, but I would. After all, my blood contains various exotic influences ... But, enough said about that. Let us return to what concerns us. Therefore, Fogg managed to give me the slip for long enough for a carriage ride through Singapore. I let him take a small lead and then followed. I found it amusing that I was not alone since that policeman, Fix, had had the same idea.

It was just that Fix was not sufficiently interested to follow the couple into all of the sites they visited, much like newlyweds on their honeymoon who are curious about everything. Most fortunately, I did not share that imbecile’s scruples. In the old city of Singapore, in the heart of the Chinese community, there is a temple with elegant, gilded curves, in imitation of ancestral and continental models. I cannot swear to this, but I think Fogg checked his watch. Then he ordered his carriage to stop at the entrance to the building and invited Aouda to follow him. I followed in their footsteps, behind Fix, and was in turn intoxicated by the rich fragrance of the incense — and something else, more bitter, sharper, that I suspected had something to do with the poppies that grew a few leagues from the island, in China.

My suspicions were confirmed when I discovered, in an area where altars dedicated to the gods were usually found, a row of stalls, separated by paper screens. In each small space, a silhouette slumped languorously, pipe in mouth, possibly dreaming, eyelids fluttering under the effect of the opium.

Never for a single second did I imagine that Fogg had brought Aouda to such a place to partake of the pleasures of the drug. I was only half surprised when I saw him convince the pretty princess to take a puff on a pipe, which immediately put her to sleep. Then, abandoning her to the supervision of a young Chinese man with a shaved head, he strode through the pearl curtain at the back of the room.