The Map of Chaos (78 page)

“First I must study the fabric of the multiverse,” Ramsey explained calmly, “and find out if the Executioners have regained full use of their canes. In fact, I was thinking of going to my club right now, as I am sure some of my colleagues are already there, keen to have the first of what will be many meetings, since those of us who come from the Other Side have a Great Exodus to prepare. And so I think the time has come for me to bid you farewell. Mrs. Wells, gentlemen, we shall meet again soon, I am sure. Mr. Murray, if you would like to accompany me, perhaps we can discuss the details of your possible trip on the way.”

For a moment, everyone thought Murray was going to fling his arms around the doctor and kiss him. Fortunately, he seemed to stop himself just in time.

“Certainly!” he declared excitedly. “Tell me, if everything is in order, could I leave immediately?”

“I don't see why not, if that is what you want.”

“It is.”

And never, in any of the infinite worlds, were two words spoken more sincerely. After that pronouncement, Murray turned to his friends to say his good-byes while Ramsey did the same with Sinclair and Clayton.

“Arthur . . . ,” Murray murmured, eyes moist as he went over to his friend.

“I know, I know . . . you don't need to thank me. I promised you I would find a way to reach the Emma in the mirror, and I have been as good as my word.” Doyle beamed with satisfaction, thrusting his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets.

“Well, I don't think you deserve all the credit, but . . . bah, no matter.” Murray seized Doyle's shoulders, as if he were trying to plump them up like cushions. “Thank you, Arthur. Thank you for everything. I don't know if I will have a telephone where I am going . . . but let me know how you are telepathically from time to time.”

“That will be far more effective, given your servants' disinclination to answer the telephone,” Doyle retorted.

Murray guffawed, and the two men shook hands cordially. Then Murray turned to Wells.

“George . . .” His voice failed him, and he gave a cough to mask it. “My dear George, I . . . I owe you so much. It is thanks to you that I won Emma over—”

Wells cut him short, exasperated, “Gilliam, you know perfectly well I didn't write that blasted—”

Before he could finish, Murray clasped him in a tight embrace, to which Wells instantly yielded. When they separated, Murray took Jane's face in his huge paws and planted a resounding kiss squarely on the young woman's lips, again before Wells could to do anything.

“Take care of him, Jane,” he whispered to her, gesturing toward Wells with his chin. “And don't let that big head of his think too much.”

“Don't worry, I won't. And give my love to Emma,” she said, her eyes brimming with tears.

Finally, Murray turned to the two inspectors, who were speaking with Ramsey. He shook Sinclair's hand, bobbing his head, and then, after a moment's hesitation, he extended it to Clayton as well.

“I hope there is some other world where we will like each other more, Inspector Clayton.” He smiled earnestly.

“Who knows, Mr. Murray?” the inspector replied, shaking his hand. “We have seen things more impossible happen.”

Murray signaled to Ramsey that he was ready to leave, and the two men made their way down the steps while the others stood watching them. When he reached the bottom, Murray stopped abruptly, as if he had forgotten something, and shouted back to Doyle, “Arthur, remember you must write the story about the bloodhound! And I want you to dedicate it to Gilliam Murray, the greatest crossbowman in all the worlds!”

“We shall see, we shall see . . .” Doyle chuckled as he waved his friend good-bye.

At that very instant, a few feet behind Doyle and the Wellses, Sinclair glanced at Clayton, who was watching the two men start down the stairs with the dark, melancholy air of a drenched crow.

“Come on, my lad . . .” The captain sighed, clapping his former disciple on the shoulder. “Let's go back to the Yard and have a nice cup of coffee. Miss Barkin will be there by now, and you know she always makes yours—”

“Just the way I like it,” Clayton cut in, rolling his eyes. “Do you really think the solution to all my problems is to be found in a cup of coffee?”

Sinclair shrugged.

“I don't know, lad, I don't know . . . But what I do know is that, despite all Ramsey's fine words, man cannot live by dreams alone, believe me. So, you decide.”

Sinclair began descending the steps, whistling a jolly tune, hands in his pockets, nodding to Doyle and the Wellses as he went past them. A few seconds later, Inspector Cornelius Clayton of Scotland Yard's Special Branch came to the conclusion that the only thing to do if he wanted some peace, in this world at least, was to follow the captain and have that blasted cup of coffee.

As the two detectives walked down Brompton Road away from the museum, Doyle, who still seemed to have energy to spare, offered to go and retrieve his carriage, which he hoped was waiting for him where he and Murray had abandoned it during that morning of madness, and drive Wells and Jane home. The couple accepted, as they didn't fancy traipsing round London in their nightclothes. Doyle continued down the museum steps at a vigorous trot while Wells and Jane sank onto one of the steps, utterly exhausted.

“Jane, I don't feel like a dream, or someone's memory,” Wells sighed, returning to the subject that was troubling him. “Do you really believe what Ramsey said is true? Do you think we are here now because someone is telling our story? Because if that is the truth, then I shan't write another word as long as I live . . .”

Jane chuckled.

“What do you find so funny? Go on, tell me; you know I don't like it when you keep your opinions to yourself.”

“I am laughing because I can't think what else you would do if you didn't write.”

Wells bridled. “Well, lots of things, actually. Teaching, for example. I was rather good at that, if you remember . . .”

“You hated it, dear.”

Well . . . then I could devote myself to being the most romantic husband in the world. I could come home every day in a hot-air balloon, perform the most incredible feats . . .”

“You have already performed the most incredible feat of all, Bertie: you saved my life, and you saved the world. How could you improve on that?”

“Hmm, well . . . I suppose you are right. I have made it very difficult for myself. I don't think even Murray could improve on that, do you?”

Jane's face broke into an amused smile.

“Listen to me, dear,” she said, resting her head on his shoulder. “If writing seems like a terrible thing to you now, it is only because you associate it with the traumatic experience we have just been through. But remember what I have always told you: you must ignore any disturbing factor. You like writing. You always have. And you will like it again. Why should you care if your creations come to life in other worlds? You will probably never see them again . . .”

“But supposing for instance I write about a mother whose child dies. Wouldn't I feel responsible for—”

“What does that matter?” Jane quickly interjected. “Doubtless another Wells will write about her not losing her child. And as for the idea that we might be someone else's creations . . .” Jane shrugged. “Well, I only hope our author has good taste in babies' names.”

Wells looked at her, puzzled.

“Why do you say that?

“Because it would be terrible if our narrator called our firstborn Marmaduke or Wilhelmina, don't you think?”

So saying, she gently patted her belly. Wells leapt to his feet.

“Do you mean that . . . ? But how? Since when have you known?”

“I wouldn't have expected a biologist to ask how. As for your second, far more sensible question: I have known for a few days, but I didn't tell you because, well . . . I didn't want to worry you, what with the end of the world being just round the corner and everything.”

“You didn't want to . . .”

Wells looked at her in astonishment, as if he were seeing her for the first time. This was the woman he loved, crouched on a dusty step, embracing her knees in an attempt to cover her legs with her thin white nightie, her chestnut hair falling over her eyes, eyes that had seen inconceivable horrors, tiny and fragile like a china figurine, and yet equally capable of plunging a hairpin into the eye of the most fearful Villain as she was of consoling her husband after some critic demolished one of his novels.

“My dear . . . ,” he said with a lump in his throat, kneeling down beside her. “To think that you kept that secret to yourself all those days we were waiting for the Invisible Man to come. That you have you listened to me holding forth about Clayton, the book, the end of the world, the blasted ambush, and that you didn't tell me anything so as not to worry me. To think that you have endured the horror of the past few hours knowing that . . . Good heavens . . . You are the bravest woman in the world! And I am a . . . boor.” He cupped Jane's face in his hands. “We are going to have a baby!” he exclaimed, as if he had only just realized, and she nodded, tears in her eyes. “This is the most wonderful thing that could happen to us; it is fantastic, incredible; it is . . .” Wells shook his head, at a loss for words. “You see? And besides being a boor, I am a dreadful writer. I can't even think of the proper adjective to describe this miracle . . .”

She grinned happily, abandoning herself to her husband's embraces. “Well, don't give it another thought, Bertie. Perhaps it is just one of those things that happen simply because they
can
happen.”

S
TROLLING THROUGH THE GARDEN OF
her parents' home during the first days of autumn made Emma feel doubly sad. The trees were turning a tragically bright orange, fallen leaves blurred the contours of the paths, the ponds reflected leaden skies, and a cold breeze surprised her round every corner like a capricious child. Still, even though they only made her gloomier, Emma refused to give up her walks: it was the only way of airing out her soul, now that apathy had prompted her to reduce the world to her parents' house. She had no desire to walk in Central Park or go to the theater or opera, or pursue any activity that involved meeting people. She didn't want them looking at her pityingly, assessing her strength or fragility. Nor did she wish to receive the spurious condolences of those who had criticized her when she had announced her betrothal to the millionaire Montgomery Gilmore. New York had never interested her, and now the entire world and all its inhabitants didn't interest her either, because he was no longer among them. But at least she had the garden, which with all its secret corners was big enough for her to wander around, fleeing her mother's kindly gaze. It was her second refuge.

Her first was her dreams. Those curious, often-recurring dreams. When she awoke, she couldn't remember all the details, yet she felt a tiny spark ignite in her frozen heart, a sensation that lasted almost the entire day. And she had no doubt that this pleasant warmth was because she had spoken with him. The dream was always the same: she was in her room, doing something, when he called to her from the mirror. She would go over to the glass where he was reflected, pale and gaunt, his hair disheveled, as if he were trapped in the kingdom of the dead. After smiling at each other for a long time, they would try to hold hands through the mirror, but they never could, and he would end up beating his fists against the glass in despair, furious that they were so close and yet so far away. When at last he calmed down, she would ask him to forgive her for having insisted that she drive, because if she hadn't he would still be alive, and he would shake his head and say it didn't matter, and, between sobs, he would promise to come back, to find the way to reach her world. Emma did not know what those dreams meant, but they were so vivid that the following day she could not help peering into all the mirrors in the house with a mixture of foreboding and anticipation, as though expecting to find something reflected there other than what was in front of them. On those days when the imprint of his voice warmed her heart, it felt as if he were less dead.

Lost in her thoughts, Emma walked down one of the paths leading to the pond. She studied her reflection in the grey water: a figure in mourning, a black, quivering teardrop. She breathed a sigh, folding her arms around herself, and rocking gently. She closed her eyes, trying to grasp the sensations the dreams aroused in her, that warm, pleasurable memory that made her glow inside.

“I'll come for you,” he would tell her in her dreams. “I promise. I will find the way to reach your world. The word ‘impossible' doesn't exist in my vocabulary!”

And she believed him, just as she had always done. Yes, he would find a way to reach her, to bridge the abyss separating them. How could she not believe in a man who had asked for her hand by planting a Martian cylinder on Horsell Common, who had created a world within a world only for her, who knew how to make her laugh? How could she not believe that this man, who alone had achieved the miracle of making her fall in love, would not come for her? That was why, whenever she was in the garden, she would make herself forget he had died, pretending he was simply keeping her waiting interminably the way he used to, and that she was putting up with it because she knew that sooner or later he would arrive. He would arrive inventing the most hilarious excuse, tying himself up in such knots with his apologies that, instead of justifying himself, he would condemn himself hopelessly. But he would arrive. She had never had the slightest doubt about that, so why should she doubt his promise now? Because he had only made it in her dreams? Because the man who had promised he would come back lay six feet under the ground?