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.
I made the most of the welcome darkness to steal a tunic and pointed hat from a smoker and, thus disguised, I followed suit. My small size gave me an advantage since I was easily mistaken for an employee of that strange temple and I was allowed to come and go in peace.
I witnessed the most extraordinary scene which even today, almost half a century later, remains engraved in my memory. Fogg had gone into a modest room, lit by an oil lamp, where the temple accessories were stored. Votive statuettes stood next to rolls of paper covered with frescos painted in old-fashioned colours; crates of moth-eaten tunics framed the most impressive object, a superb Buddha in the lotus position, covered with gold from his belly to the top of his head, as smooth as could be. I crouched down behind a crate, not far from the single door, ready to note the slightest suspicious sign. Fogg, glanced quickly around the room, making sure that he was quite alone and then kneeled in front of the Buddha.
Was he about to pray? I was filled with doubt. Would he secretly invoke the pot-bellied idol of the Asian peoples? But the pretence of prayer did not last. Removing his gloves, Fogg ran his hands over the statue’s belly, which was as round as a globe of the Earth. In a low voice, he started to chant in a language that I did not recognize. Then, to my great surprise, the effigy of the ‘Enlightened One’ shone with a gentle light, which increased in intensity as Fogg recited his rosary.
Under the direction of Camille Flammarion, I had attended a few séances held to communicate with another world. As a result, I had already looked upon the luminescent nimbus of the creatures that had been contacted by the metapsychic. Yet the halo of energy connecting the universes had never been so bright! I was completely dazzled and had to close my eyes for a second. The distant detonation caused me to jump.
When I opened my eyes, Fogg was no longer alone.
He was embracing a large, thin man wearing a loose tunic embroidered with gold thread. The hands of the new arrival, which rested on Fogg’s shoulders, were impressive. Long and knotted, they ended with claw-like fingernails, covered with a silvery polish. The embrace continued. Then Fogg took a step back, revealing the face of the apparition.
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep myself from crying out.
The face was a perfect replica of Fogg’s, apart from the skin colour, which was similar to that of the Natives, and the fine, black whiskers that hung from the corners of his mouth, much like those of a catfish.
“Welcome, my brother!” Fogg exclaimed.
I then saw that they were about to leave the room. I withdrew, with the required amount of discretion, on tiptoe, and returned to the smoking room where I hid behind a screen.
Fogg and his ‘brother’ arrived a few seconds later. After embracing once again, Fogg left his curious twin. Then, he gathered up the sleeping Aouda and left the temple.
I followed suit and took to my heels to return to the wharves, still wearing the local dress. The Rangoon would soon get underway for Hong Kong. Neither Fogg, nor Aouda for that matter, ever referred to their detour into the opium den.
At this point, I would like to remind you that we ran into a storm and arrived a day late. It was there in Hong Kong that Fogg decided to take Aouda to Europe. I’m convinced that he had already planned the outcome of this decision — marriage — but he never once breathed a word of it.
That imbecile Fix chose this moment to interfere and sidetrack me from my mission. After a number of misadventures, I was able to join Fogg in Yokohama, Japan. M. Verne provides an uplifting account, with the occasional exaggeration.
Still, we finally found ourselves together on board the steamer, the General Grant, on our way to America. There, a train would take us from San Francisco to New York, where our trip around the world would be almost over.
I concluded that I would have to force Fogg to reveal his intentions before we arrived on the East coast of the United States. Obviously, I had no way of guessing that he had, in turn, decided to submit to my requirements, in a most spectacular manner!
Using the pretext that we might eventually have to ward off an Indian attack as we travelled through the American Mid West, I purchased some Enfield rifles and Colt revolvers. Fogg accepted the weapons without comment. He didn’t even take the time to inspect them. This was fortunate for me since the models I had given him were loaded with blanks — unlike those I had kept for myself.
I was fully prepared for the final scene when I would force Fogg to reveal his true identity, just when he least expected it, namely when he would once again contact a “brother” from another world, something I was fully convinced he would do. Let me explain. The first contact had taken place, and I am convinced of this, in the compartment of the train that carried us across France. In Europe, as a result. The second, on the ship that carried us to India, near the Arabian peninsula, not far from Africa. The third took place in Singapore, taking care of Asia. And we had just landed on the final important continent in our trip around the world: North America. Thus, it was inevitable that a new ‘brother’ would be contacted there.
However, first hours then days passed and Fogg appeared to take no interest in anything but the interminable whist games played with certain passengers. We did have quite a few adventures (encountering a buffalo herd, crossing a bridge that threatened to crumble under the weight of the train . . . ), but nothing perturbed Fogg particularly. We passed through state after state as we inexorably continued on our way towards the East Coast.
Then we arrived in Nebraska. There, after that stupid duel Fogg fought with a certain Colonel, what had been just a pretext for me became reality. A tribe of blood-thirsty Sioux attacked our train. This was followed by a violent battle in which my sole concern was to hope that Fogg did not notice he was shooting blanks!
I’ll skip the details. However, I would just like to say that I had to use all my skills to distance the Indian threat from the train, taking steps to disconnect the locomotive from the cars. Just as I was about to return to the train, which was rolling freely, I received a brutal blow to the back of my head and fell unconscious.
This was one thing M. Verne did not mention, since he preferred to imply that I re
mained a prisoner in the tender as a matter of bad luck! As a result, everyone believes that Fogg reacted heroically, and like a perfect gentleman, organizing a hasty rescue mission to Sioux territory.
But, here’s the truth. I regained consciousness inside a teepee, one of those large pointed tents that housed entire Indian families. Two stolid braves, with skin as red as brick, stood guard, armed with rifles. Yet, I was not mistreated and I was even fed well during the time I was confined there.
Then, rifle shots broke the silence. Shortly thereafter, the buffalo hide that covered the entrance to the tent was raised and Fogg came in.
“How are you doing, my old friend?”
He had slipped the Colt I had given him a few days earlier into his belt. The Redskins had given up their posts. Faking anger, I leapt to my feet, and moved as close as I could to the rifle held by the Brave who stood next to the door “What’s the meaning of all this, Fogg?”
“Calm down. You’ll be given all the explanations you need shortly. But, before that, I have one last ritual to complete. This place will be fine.”
I wanted to protest, but Fogg raised his index finger to his lips and murmured, “Shh! Let me concentrate.”
He took off his gloves, as I had seen him do in Singapore, and then consulted his pocket watch, as he had done in France and on board the Mongolia.
“Yes,” he said, “The time is right. And the location is fitting,” he added after another glance at his watch, which he then put away.
Next, Fogg’s hands appeared to dance in the air, painting complex figures in the void, similar to Japanese calligraphy. Each movement left a luminous residue in its wake, much like the energy halo mentioned by the metapsychics, but even brighter. I noticed that the Sioux, who were impressed, had closed their eyes. I took advantage of the opportunity to slip over to the rifle I had noted earlier and grab it without being noticed.
When I returned my attention to Fogg’s incandescent sculpture, I noticed that it was “inhabited”. I was no longer surprised by the famous detonation, much like the sound of a gun being fired into eiderdown. I was familiar with the phenomenon by now and showed no emotion. Fogg repeated his Buddha trick. But there was one difference. The “brother” he contacted appeared to be no more than a child, judging from his small stature. (I easily towered head and shoulders above him).
The Mammoth Book of New Jules Verne Adventures Page 29