The Map of Chaos (29 page)

When the couple finally left for London, Wells reluctantly admitted to himself that Murray's enthusiasm had caused a tiny crack to appear in the façade of his hostility. But there was no reason for alarm: it was such a small chink it would take years to open up, and Wells had no intention of letting that happen. And yet, he soon discovered that what he thought or ceased to think had little bearing on his own life, for as they stood in front of the hibiscus bush the two women had already conspired to arrange another rendezvous for the following week, this time at Ascot, where the cream of English society would come together. Wells received the news with equanimity and during the intervening week made no objections, as he knew that arguing with Jane about it would be a waste of breath. He had already shown his reluctance to forge a friendship with the couple, for what he considered the most sensible of reasons, and the fact that his wife insisted on arranging those
unnatural
gatherings made it clear how little his opinion mattered to her.

On the afternoon they were to meet, Wells arrived at Ascot with his lips set in an expression of dignified defeat. Murray, who wore an elegant grey frock coat with matching waistcoat, was in high spirits as he welcomed them and guided them to his box, thanking them effusively all the while for having come. On the way, they were forced to pass through a sea of people, who glided from one side to the other like languorous ballet dancers, gauging each of their gestures to appear as dignified as possible. All the other gentlemen were dressed like Murray, in immaculate grey frock coats, with white flowers in their buttonholes. The tips of their mustaches were waxed, and around their necks hung the obligatory binoculars. For their part, the ladies showed off their beautiful gowns, many with long trains it was difficult not to step on, strings of pearls, lace parasols, and huge, preposterous hats. Emma was waiting for them in the box. She had on a tight-fitting white dress with a black stripe down each side that enveloped her curvaceous figure from neck to toe. In keeping with the Ascot custom, Emma, too, wore a flamboyant hat with a large black-and-white-striped ribbon, a spray of white gauze, and two bright red blooms, which, like an oyster, seemed to enfold the beautiful pearl of her head. When Wells saw how warmly the two women greeted each other, and how Murray reveled in their company, he thought it best once and for all to cast off the role of resentful sarcastic fellow he had insisted on playing and to enjoy that splendid afternoon at the races along with everyone else. If he went on swimming against the tide, he told himself, he would only end up drowning. And so he pretended to blend in with those wealthy, stylish creatures, and he and Murray soon found themselves making fun of the mannered gestures of the gentlemen in the neighboring boxes and looking for comparisons among the ladies' impossible headwear.

“That one is shaped like a bell,” said Murray.

“And that one resembles a shark's fin,” Wells parried.

“And the one over there a toadstool.”

“And that of her friend a bird's nest,” Wells said, and then, before Murray had a chance to point out another, he quickly cut in, flaunting his superior inventiveness: “And the one that girl is wearing looks like a bowl of fruit.”

Murray looked at the woman Wells was referring to and nodded silently, grinning to himself.

“Well, can you come up with a better comparison?”

“Oh, no, George, as always you have hit the nail right on the head. I was only smiling because I know that girl. And I assure you she is capable of far more fanciful acts than sporting such a hat.” Wells looked at the young woman, intrigued. “Her name is Claire Haggerty, and the gentleman beside her is her husband, the son of a rich shipping magnate called Fairbank. We met them at a party last week. She didn't recognize me, of course, but I could never forget her.”

“And why is that?” asked Wells, imagining some kind of romantic entanglement.

“Because she was one of the group who went on the second expedition I organized to the future,” replied Murray. “And when I saw her climb aboard the
Cronotilus,
I swear I would never have imagined that bubbling away inside her little head was the mad idea of separating from the group and hiding in the ruins in order to stay behind in the year 2000. Luckily, we found her before she was able to get very far. I hate to imagine what might have happened if we hadn't discovered her in time.”

“And why would anyone want to live in a ruined world?” Wells murmured, incredulous.

“I think she fell in love with Captain Shackleton.” Murray smiled good-humoredly. Wells raised his eyebrows. “I assure you she wasn't the only one, George. You can't imagine the extent of some young girls' fantasies.”

“Well, she seems to have found her hero without having to travel to the future,” Wells said, noticing how the young woman doted on her affluent husband.

Murray nodded and, looking away from the couple, began rummaging through his pockets.

“Incidentally, George, I brought you something.”

“Another invitation to travel to the year 2000 to add to my collection?”

Murray's loud guffaw almost made the box quake.

“You should have accepted one of them, George,” he said. “I guarantee you would have enjoyed the trip. But no, I'm afraid it's something else.”

With a solemn gesture, he placed in Wells's hands the letter he denied having written. Wells opened it and at last was able to read the advice someone else had given Murray, to forget about reproducing a Martian invasion and simply make Emma laugh.

“Well, what have you to say now, George?”

A triumphant smile appeared on Wells's lips.

“This isn't my handwriting, I assure you,” he told Murray, passing the letter back to him, “and I can prove it to you whenever you wish. As I told you, this was written by an imitator.”

Murray folded the letter again and slipped it back into his pocket with great care. Then he studied Wells with an amused grin.

“Don't you think an imitator would try to reproduce your handwriting? Besides, how do you explain a stranger replying to a letter only you and I know exists?”

Wells shrugged. For a moment he imagined Jane replying secretly to the letter he hadn't wanted to answer but instantly ruled that out. Jane would never do anything behind his back. Besides, that wasn't her handwriting either.

“Do you know what my theory is?” said Murray. Wells shrugged again. “The letter is so clumsily executed it looks like someone crudely attempting to disguise his own handwriting, perhaps so that he could later deny his selfless act.”

Murray concluded his theory with a wink that came close to rousing all the old resentment Wells had made such an effort to smother. And yet, knowing that this puzzling misunderstanding would one day be cleared up, he managed to contain himself and change the subject. Toward the end of the day, worn down by Murray's indefatigable bonhomie, Wells even thought it might only be a matter of time before, as the apocryphal letter announced, he would end up considering him his friend.

A week later, at the engagement ceremony, Wells was one of those who applauded the most. Somehow, he had grown used to the couple's mutual displays of affection and couldn't help feeling happy when he saw them formalize their betrothal. Murray and Emma agreed to marry in London, the city invaded by Martians that had joined their lives forever, but the wedding date was postponed until Emma's father, who had suffered the spectacular loss of all his hair, had recovered. Despite the couple's eagerness to tie the knot, they decided to wait until the bride-to-be's parents could cross the Atlantic, considering that they had already broken quite enough conventions.

Life went on regardless, and after the reprieve he had given Murray, Wells began to experience a kind of spiritual inertia, which to his surprise brought him a degree of serenity. Now that he had no great adversary who regularly upset him, who made him seethe whenever he thought about him, Wells felt oddly calm. If he stopped short of describing himself as happy it was because he had always been suspicious of such emphatic statements. As for his work, it had also begun to flow harmoniously, as though in accordance with his mood. Gone was his youthful zeal, the times when, in an attempt to find his own style, he would read his favorite authors with the methodical attention of a spy, as he dreamed of blazing a trail so original nothing hitherto published could be compared to it. And although critics had praised the imagination his novels exuded, the fact was that many of them hadn't evolved from his own ideas: he owed
The Time Machine,
The Island of Doctor Moreau,
and
The Wonderful Visit
in part to Joseph Merrick, better known as the Elephant Man, with whom Wells had enjoyed a most inspiring meeting in 1888. But the novel with the strangest beginnings of all was undoubtedly
The War of the Worlds,
the work that had marked the start of his unexpected friendship with Murray. A stranger had passed the plot on to him when he was fifteen years old. At that time, Wells was apprenticed to the loathsome bakery in Southsea where his mother had sent him to learn a trade. Every afternoon after work he would saunter down to the jetty and stare into the black waters while he wondered forlornly whether drowning in them wouldn't be his only escape from the depressing future that awaited him. It was on one of those melancholy evenings that a strange fellow of about fifty had walked up to him and started to talk to him as if he knew him better than anyone else in the world. Despite Wells's initial mistrust, they had ended up holding a conversation, as brief as it was astonishing, during which the stranger had told him a terrifying tale about Martians conquering the Earth. After he had finished, he told Wells that the story was a gift: he could write it one day if he became an author, although if that happened, which the man seemed in no doubt about, Wells must promise to find a more suitable, hopeful ending. And his prediction had come true: that youth had gone on to become a writer and with five novels to his name had finally felt equal to the task the stranger had entrusted him with eighteen years before. In the end, he thought it had turned out rather well. As had occurred with
The Time Machine,
his readers, oblivious to the social message in his novel, had interpreted it as a simple fantastical tale, but Wells consoled himself by thinking that if the stranger on the jetty were still alive and had read the book, he might feel satisfied with the ending Wells had given it.

However, Wells paid less and less attention to the quest for surprising plots for his scientific novels, because in the past few years he had decided to change course: he would abandon the fantasy fiction that had brought him such success and instead use as his narrative material his own experiences and responses to life. For the moment, he had managed for better or worse to finish
Love and Mr. Lewisham
and almost without coming up for air had submerged himself in
Kipps: The Story of a Simple Soul,
a comic novel in the Dickensian style, with a host of amusing characters going about their ordinary lives. And the fact was Wells seemed to have discovered an inexhaustible mine within himself. Moving to Sandgate had undoubtedly proved a great success: he had more ideas in one day there than in a whole week in Worcester.

And so, five months later, when it became abundantly clear that the air in Sandgate agreed with him in more ways than one, the couple moved to Arnold House, a semidetached dwelling, less exposed to the elements, where the sea lurked at a safe distance at the far end of the garden. Murray and Emma were frequent visitors, and their neighbors, the Pophams, a couple of private means and sophisticated tastes, soon proved the perfect companions. They read a lot and so could discuss with them their latest reads and their favorite works, and they were also keen athletes. Together they helped teach Murray to swim, fixing a raft thirty yards from the shoreline so he could swim out to it.

Overnight, without anyone planning it, Arnold House became the center of a vibrant cultural universe, where meetings of leading members of the Fabian Society took place as did endless discussions about art and politics, but also about cookery, sport, or any subject worthy of serious or lighthearted debate. Many writers and thinkers lived nearby, and as everywhere was easily accessible by bicycle, a network of houses soon sprang up, like the one the Blands had at Dymchurch, through which a stream of writers, actors, painters, and others possessed by the Muses would pass, partaking in lengthy social gatherings, many of which led to heated debates about this and that, which occasionally ended in a game of badminton. After dark, those discussions would turn into impromptu parties that went on until two or three in the morning, and the next day a haggard group of guests would emerge with hangovers from their bedrooms to guzzle the usual hearty breakfast of bacon and eggs, punctually served up in the hosts' dining room at noon.

Wells, who thanks to the success of his novels no longer suffered the past hardships, could also abandon himself in a controlled way to that placid and deceptively carefree existence. Above all, he enjoyed seeing Murray and Emma comfortably integrated into their circle of friends. He was proud to have introduced them to that stimulating, creative world that they would otherwise not have had access to, and—why deny it?—he felt thrilled to arrive at those gatherings accompanied by the famous millionaire, to introduce him to his acquaintances as he might a species of exotic bird, leaving everyone to puzzle over how their paths had crossed and the extent of their friendship. Occasionally, in the middle of one of those gatherings, Wells would pause during a conversation and observe with delight how Murray endeared himself to the others with his sardonic remarks, or how within minutes he managed to make everyone forget he was a millionaire by rolling up his sleeves and helping out with the chores, whether it be pruning hedges or fetching logs.