The Map of Chaos (25 page)

But in order to have her, I must arrange for a cylinder to land on Horsell Common on August 1, and for a Martian to emerge from it, just like in your novel, George. And I don't know how! I have tried everything, but as I told you, my imagination has its limits. I need yours, George. Help me, please. If I pull it off, that woman will be my wife. And if that happens, I promise I shall no longer be your enemy, for Gilliam Murray will be finally laid to rest. Please, I beg you, I implore you, assist this lovesick soul.

Yours,

G. M.

Unbelievable! How could Murray have the effrontery to ask him to help reproduce the Martian invasion from his own novel? Did he honestly believe there was the remotest possibility that he would agree? That was too much to expect, even for one as presumptuous as Murray. He went to throw the letter away, but before doing so decided to show it to Jane, assuming she would be overcome by the same anger as he and that the two of them could fulminate to their hearts' delight against Murray's pride and ingenuousness, over a glass of wine, perhaps, as the sun set lazily behind the trees. But no. Jane had considered Murray's idea one of the most romantic gestures anyone could make and had even encouraged Wells to help him. People change, Bertie, she had said. You are a very inflexible person, but the rest of humanity is more malleable. And it is obvious Murray has changed. For the sake of love! Wells burst into a cynical laugh. For the sake of love! Murray couldn't have chosen a better argument with which to convince Jane of that dubious conversion from Hyde to Jekyll. If Wells deigned to reply, it would merely be to inform him that nothing could expunge the loathing he felt for Murray, much less that outpouring of sentimental drivel. But he had no desire to embroil himself once more in a contest that brought him only bad memories, and so in the end Wells had decided it was best not to reply at all, convinced that indifference would be the greatest insult he could inflict upon Murray.

Indifference . . . Perhaps that should have been his posture three years earlier when that upstart had asked for his opinion about the little novel he had written. As some readers will recall, at that time Murray had not yet become the famous Master of Time but was an aspiring novelist with more delusions of grandeur than genuine talent, who sought the approval of the man he considered one of England's greatest authors. And the fact is that Wells could have talked his way out of it with a few pronouncements as affable as they were vague. But instead he had opted for overrated honesty, not just because he didn't think that ill-tempered ogre deserved any efforts at dissimulation, but because Murray's whole being was clamoring for a dose of humility, which he himself had given Wells the wherewithal to administer. Who could resist such an invitation? Clearly not Wells, who with unnecessary brutality had told the poor aspiring author what he thought of his novel, curious to see his reaction, and had thus unwittingly thrown down a challenge that would ensnare the two men in an absurd duel for years to come. Murray's attempt at a novel was a naïve futuristic love story set in the year 2000, where automatons had taken over the Earth and only a small group of humans led by the brave Captain Shackleton had the courage to defy them. The plot was preposterous and Wells had no trouble finishing off his merciless dissection of it by arguing that the future it described was totally improbable, and the work therefore a futile, forgettable pile of nonsense. Imagination was a gift that should always be at the service of truth. Any fool could imagine impossible things, but only a true genius could imagine the infinite possibilities that reality offered, and clearly Murray wasn't one of them. After that dressing-down, Murray had vowed to himself as he left Wells's house that he would show the author how wrong he was, and a few months later Murray's Time Travel had opened to the public, offering the inhabitants of the nineteenth century a chance to visit the future, which, to Wells's astonishment, was exactly as Murray had imagined it in his novel. And for two years afterward, Wells had been subjected to that humiliation, receiving regular invitations from an increasingly wealthy, powerful, and (if there was any truth in the rumors circulating in the stevedores' taverns) dangerous Murray, to embark on one of his expeditions to the
improbable
future. Until one day the Master of Time decided to stage his own death, and at last Wells was able to breathe easily and try to pretend that the whole thing had been a bad dream.

But then, when he had almost succeeded, Murray's ridiculous letter had arrived in his mailbox. And although he hadn't replied to it, he hadn't thrown it away either. It was too beautiful. He would occasionally slip it out from between the pages of the book where he kept it hidden and relish the bit where Murray acknowledged his superiority. Although Wells had never doubted that truth, he nevertheless delighted in the fact that Murray had finally accepted it. The last time he had read the letter was that very morning, the last day Murray had in which to fulfill his beloved's wish. As Wells put the kettle on, he imagined Murray's frustration when he realized that, despite all his money, he had failed to reproduce a Martian invasion and that some things were beyond even
his
reach. And that thought both reassured and pleased Wells, for imagination was a sublime gift that raised man above the level of animals, opened the doors to awareness, to the evolution and advancement of the human race, and consequently should be protected from crass impersonators, talentless upstarts, entrepreneurs, and above all lovers exposing themselves to public ridicule.

It was then that Clayton knocked on his door to inform him that a Martian cylinder had appeared on Horsell Common. And, cursing Murray for being unable to admit defeat, Wells climbed aboard the inspector's carriage. What else could he have done? After all, if a Martian cylinder identical to the one he had described in his novel had landed on Horsell Common, it was only logical that Scotland Yard would require him to go there. What Wells found less logical was that the inspector seemed to believe this might be a genuine Martian invasion, possibly orchestrated by the author himself through his novel. Wells was obliged to show the inspector Murray's letter to persuade him that the whole thing was a hoax cooked up by the ex–Master of Time, who was given to this sort of prank. But, to Wells's surprise, the inspector had tucked the letter away in his jacket pocket. He confessed that whilst this opened up a whole new perspective on the matter, it was nevertheless the job of Scotland Yard's Special Branch to leave no stone unturned, and he could not rule out the possibility that Wells himself had written the letter and was hindering the investigation by pointing the finger at a dead man. Wells had been rendered speechless by such a wild assertion, and the two men had spent the remainder of the journey in strained silence.

“It is absurd of you to think that I might be in league with Martians simply because I wrote a novel announcing their arrival!” he had protested at last, unable to contain his rage.

“As absurd as someone re-creating a Martian invasion to win a lady's heart” had been the inspector's disdainful reply.

You see, Wells now thought to himself, glancing away from Murray's stupid steaming hat and grinning smugly at the inspector: apparently someone had orchestrated all this
precisely
to steal the love of a lady. Clayton clearly owed him an apology, and yet he seemed unwilling to do so.

“So the Master of Time is alive and kicking . . . ,” he said simply. Wells had grown weary of telling him that repeatedly on the way there.

The author rolled his eyes and raised his hands, as though expecting a pair of doves to land on them. No, Gilliam Murray hadn't died. The brute who had stepped out of the hot-air balloon was certainly he—although Wells had to admit with all the weight he had lost, and that red beard obscuring his face, not to mention his ridiculous outfit, few would have recognized him. But those sly animal eyes capable of concealing anything, like a magician's hat, had not changed. And Wells noticed the old animosity he felt for Murray stirring inside him. There he was, making a mockery of him again, turning his latest novel into a vulgar fairground attraction, this time to further his romantic interests. And there was Wells, dragged out of his house halfway through his cup of tea, his shoes caked in mud, forced to witness Murray's pantomime in the midst of a deafening crowd—drawn as always by the magnetism of that man who snared everything in his path—and, furthermore, to defend himself against charges of espionage and treason on a planetary level. Would he never be rid of Murray? Would their lives be forever joined until one of them died, untangling the infuriating knot?

“Interesting, most interesting,” he heard Clayton reflect aloud, his eyes glued to the spectacle. “This resurrection is very timely, as I happen to have a few unanswered questions I'd like to put to Mr. Murray concerning his business, questions that are no doubt still pertinent. A great many questions, in fact.”

Wells looked in astonishment at Clayton, whose lips had twisted into a malevolent smile as he doubtless anticipated the moment when the Master of Time would finally be at his mercy, sitting in the interrogation room, forced to answer all his questions.

“I congratulate you on your good fortune, Inspector Clayton,” Wells remarked disdainfully. “And since the absence of any Martians clears me of all suspicion, I beg you to excuse me, but I have far more important things to do than stand around waiting for the dénouement of this ridiculous melodrama.”

Clayton nodded absentmindedly, hypnotized by the spectacle, yet Wells did not stir either. It was difficult for them to take their eyes off the sight unfolding before them. The crowd had begun to separate until a human corridor opened between Murray and the charming young lady with the parasol, doubtless the one for whom Murray had organized the whole charade. And as Wells looked at her more closely, he had to admit that, if anything, Murray's description of her in his letter did not do her justice. The girl was astonishingly beautiful: she possessed the delicate lightness of a soap bubble, her skin seemed to be coated in gold, and her eyes, despite being wide-open with astonishment, expressed that perfect blend of charm and high-spiritedness capable of turning any man's head. For a few seemingly eternal moments, Wells watched her remain motionless, nervously twirling her parasol, while at the other end of the corridor formed by the hushed crowd, Murray's bow tie was also rotating. It was the only part of him that was moving, for the man appeared frozen, arms flung open, the hat he had just removed clasped in one hand, a broad grin on his face, waiting, like a suspended jellyfish, for Emma to breathe life into him with a loving eye. But that wouldn't happen, Wells thought to himself, convinced the girl would turn on her heel and go back the way she had come, leaving Murray with his steaming hat and his rotating bow tie in the midst of the admiring crowd. What else could she do? Murray had failed to reproduce the invasion, no matter how hard he tried to make up for it with this gaudy display. And Emma Harlow seemed too intelligent to let herself be bamboozled by all that. But then, to Wells's astonishment, a smile began to flutter on the girl's lips, and although at first she tried to resist, she finally gave a charming giggle. A sigh of delight instantly spread through the crowd. Deflated, Wells watched the girl walk toward Murray amid the applause of the public, and he decided that he had seen enough.

He moved away from the throng, visibly annoyed, and went in search of a carriage that would take him back to Worcester Park, to the novel he was currently working on, and to that cup of tea abandoned on the kitchen table. To that ordinary, everyday life of his, so distant from the romantic nonsense Murray was accustomed to indulging in. Wells shook his head. He wished the couple all the luck in the world, he thought with disdain. The girl would certainly need it if she ended up married to that fellow. She couldn't be very intelligent, after all, if she believed a sense of humor was a sound enough basis for a relationship, he told himself as a voice in his head asked him how long it was since he had last made Jane laugh like that.

In any event, the couple's happiness would be short-lived, because the intrepid Inspector Clayton was intent on reopening the investigation into Murray's Time Travel. Finally someone was going to do what he himself had so long been hoping for. He gave a weary sigh, eager to get home as soon as possible and tell Jane everything that had happened so she could work her magic, bring her commonsense irony to bear on the matter, play down its importance, and invite him to view things in perspective, enabling him finally to store it somewhere in his head where it wouldn't importune him.

Wells looked toward the hill where the carriages were parked, trying to work out how far he had to walk, when all of a sudden a distant figure caught his attention. His crooked posture suggested an elderly gentleman, and although he was too far away for Wells to see his face, he had the impression that the stranger was observing him with equal interest. Suddenly, an intense feeling of unease overwhelmed him, and he had to stop and double over, as though he were about to be sick. His stomach was churning, and his heart felt heavy with grief. He hadn't experienced that feeling for so long . . . why now? All at once, the sensation vanished as suddenly as it had appeared, leaving behind only a vague, lingering melancholy, and no answers. When he looked up toward the hill again, he saw that the figure of the old man had also disappeared.

W
HEN
W
ELLS ARRIVED HOME, IRRITATED
and exhausted, Jane had just returned from London, where she had been lunching with the Garfields. He immediately launched into an account of the shameful spectacle he had been forced to witness on Horsell Common, describing to Jane each of the surprises that had emerged from the cylinder, in a tone of voice that made it obvious how farcical he had found the whole thing. And yet, as he spoke, Jane's face began to light up more and more, until, to his astonishment, he realized that Murray's amorous gesture thrilled his wife the way few things ever had. She opined that it was the most romantic thing a man could do for a woman, and this unreserved approval, rather than fueling his jealousy, depressed Wells, because it implied that his small acts of love were trifling in comparison. He hadn't stepped out of a hot-air balloon in order to win her heart. No, he hadn't. But what merit or effort did that entail, besides the logistics? Wells had won Jane's heart on their long walks to Charing Cross station, when he had charmed her with words, simply with who he was, without the need to employ fakirs and acrobats or wear a steaming hat. He had chosen the more arduous route, using only his amusing, enveloping oratory. In other words, he hadn't resorted to trickery. But Jane clearly didn't see it that way. In her eyes, not only had Murray organized that whole extravaganza down to the very last detail, but he had risked public ridicule to win that woman's heart. Would Wells have been capable of doing as much for her? Of course not, so he should start ridding himself of those old resentments, because he was building up so much hatred he scarcely had anyplace left for happiness, or even the simplest pleasures in life.