“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.”
41
STROLLING 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?
She opened her eyes. Her reflection was still shimmering on the water, but behind her, a few feet away . . . His suit was torn in several places and had bloodstains on the shoulder, as though after dying in the accident his first thought had been to come and find her, without stopping to change. She didn’t turn round. She doubted he was real, convinced that she had finally lost her mind. Until he spoke.
“Hello, Miss Mournful. I told you I’d be back.”
Emma gritted her teeth and felt her heart leap.
“And I’ve been waiting for you, Mr. Impossible,” she replied.
Then she wheeled round, and their eyes locked.
“You’re late,” she reproached him.
He raised his eyebrows.
“Er, forgive me, but . . . ,” he stammered in apology. “I was helping to save the world.”
She smiled and stepped forward, lips parted, those lips that believed they would never kiss anyone again. And the whole world was reduced to the precise length of each moment that separated them.
Acknowledgments
Little did I know that when I wrote the first word of this trilogy, more than six hundred thousand would follow. Seven years devoted to this project, including the latest book, dear reader, which you have just finished. If your patience allows, I would like to devote a few more words to thank you for having accompanied me on this long adventure. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did.
This journey would not have been possible without the help of some wonderful people: my publisher, Judith Curr, and editor, Johanna Castillo, along with the entire team at Atria Books in New York, and my agents, Tom and Elaine Colchie, whose enthusiasm for my work is priceless.
As I’ve said before, only geniuses are capable of writing novels without help. The rest of us need someone who can look at it from the outside while we are writing, to let us know whenever we have lost sight of our goal. In my case, my friend and colleague Lorenzo Luengo acted as a lookout during this journey, and I can never thank him enough for his enthusiasm.
But this titanic project would not have come to fruition without the compass of my own discerning Jane, who hides behind the initials M.J. She has been my muse for all this time, and she took her job so seriously that she didn’t just inspire me but whispered many of these pages in my ear. Without her, this book would not only have been a very different one, but it might not even exist. I can only thank her and put here in writing that I cannot imagine a more exciting adventure than loving her every day.
I also want to thank Alex for being the teenager and son I would have liked to be.
It would be impolite if I did not include in my thanks the master H. G. Wells, who started as one of my favorite writers and, after seven years of living together, ended up becoming a brother. Thank you, Bertie, for your novels that inspire the imagination of many readers, including one who now writes the last word of this trilogy and who owes you
so much.
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Given the many twists and turns of the plot and the numerous characters in this novel, I feel obliged to provide my kind readers with a list of those who are most important. In strict order of appearance, this is as follows:
Observer Wells: Eminent biologist, an alternative version of the author H. G. Wells in a parallel world.
Observer Jane: Observer Wells’s spouse, project director in Wells’s laboratory, an alternative version of Amy Catherine Robbins in a parallel world.
Observer Dodgson: Professor of mathematics, an alternative version of the author Lewis Carroll in a parallel world.
Newton: A Border Collie used by Observer Wells in his experiments.
Herbert George Wells: A British author more commonly known as H. G. Wells, considered the father of science fiction. Among other books, he wrote The Time Machine, The War of the Worlds, and The Invisible Man. For anyone who has read those three novels, I need add nothing more, except perhaps that in 1970 Wells had a lunar impact crater named after him.
Amy Catherine Robbins: The author H. G. Wells’s spouse, whom he affectionately nicknamed “Jane.”
Cornelius Clayton: An inspector with Scotland Yard’s Special Branch, responsible for investigating the supernatural. Since losing his left hand on his first mission he has used an elaborate wood and metal prosthesis.
Angus Sinclair: Captain at Scotland Yard’s Special Branch. No one knows how he lost his right eye, so an accident with a pair of tweezers cannot be ruled out.
Valerie de Bompard: A beautiful French countess residing in the accursed village of Blackmoor, and Inspector Clayton’s love interest.
Armand de Bompard: Husband of the Countess de Bompard, a scientist ahead of his time.
Muscardinus avellanarius: Also known as the hazel dormouse, a species native to the British Isles.
Madame Amber: A famous medium from London, specialist in ectoplasmic materializations.
Sir Henry Blendell: Architect to Her Majesty Queen Victoria, creator of the most celebrated secret passageways and trick furniture in history, a man of outstanding moral virtue until proven otherwise.
Theodore Ramsey: Surgeon, chemist, and eminent biologist, given to cracking his knuckles.
Sir William Crookes: Well-known scientist and investigator of paranormal phenomena. Renowned for his defense of the medium Florence Cook, who communicated with the spirit of Katie King, daughter of the legendary pirate Henry Morgan.
Catherine Lansbury: An elderly lady with a mysterious past, a widow with an interest in spiritualism, inventor of the Mechanical Servant, who has a penchant for Kemp’s biscuits.
The Invisible Man: The villain of the piece, a ruthless killer who is known as M.
Clive Higgins: Doctor of neurology, psychoanalysis, and other afflictions of the soul.
Gilliam Murray: Known as the Master of Time, who died in the fourth dimension. From then on poses as the millionaire Montgomery Gilmore, who suffers from vertigo.
Emma Harlow: A young lady from New York, engaged to Gilmore, who refuses to be wooed as other women are.
Dorothy Harlow: Emma’s aunt, an embittered old maid, condemned to die alone.
Baskerville: Gilmore’s coachman, who is at least eighty and has a phobia about dogs.
Arthur Conan Doyle: Scottish physician and author, adept of spiritualism and allegedly telepathic, famous for being the creator of Sherlock Holmes, the most renowned detective in the world.
Jean Leckie: Arthur Conan Doyle’s lover.
Executioner 2087V: A cyber creature programmed to kill anyone who has the ability to jump between worlds. Efficient at his job but suffers from overwhelming feelings of guilt owing to a design defect.
Cleeve: Head butler at Undershaw. Nothing is known about his private life.
Alfred Wood: Alias “Woodie,” stoic personal secretary to Arthur Conan Doyle and a more than decent cricketer.
The Great Ankoma: Also known as Amoka or Makoma; a fabulous medium brought up in South Africa by a Bantu tribe, and who specializes in automatic writing. His name, when pronounced correctly, translates as “last-born child,” although we cannot be sure of this.
Alice Liddell: A six-year-old girl, one of Dean Liddell’s three daughters, and the real-life inspiration for Alice in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.
Lewis Carroll: Pseudonym of the British author Charles Dodgson, who wrote Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and its sequel, Through the Looking Glass. He also published numerous articles and books on mathematics under his real name, and was a prominent photographer and a harmless dreamer with a charming stutter. For reasons unknown, he refused to be ordained a priest while a professor at Christ Church, Oxford.
Elmer: Gilmore’s butler, happily married to Daisy, who is addicted to blueberry muffins.
Eric Rücker Eddison: British author known chiefly for his first novel, The Worm Ouroboros, an homage to Norse mythology. Many scholars consider this work as paving the way for modern fantasy fiction.
The Map of Chaos: A book containing the key to saving this and all other worlds imaginable.
FÉLIX J. PALMA has been acclaimed by critics as one of the most brilliant and original storytellers of our time. His devotion to the short story genre has earned him more than a hundred awards. The Map of Time, his first book published in the United States, was an instant New York Times bestseller and received the prestigious 2008 Ateneo de Sevilla XL Prize. It has been published in more than thirty countries. He is also the author of The Map of the Sky. Palma lives in Spain. Please visit FelixJPalma.com.
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ALSO BY FÉLIX J. PALMA
The Map of Time
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 by Cronotilus, S.L.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Palma, Félix J.
[Mapo del caos. English]
The map of chaos : a novel / Félix J. Palma ; translated by Nick Caistor.— First Atria Books hardcover edition.
pages cm
Includes bibliographical references and index.
1
. Wells, H. G. (Herbert George), 1866–1946—Fiction. I. Caistor, Nick, translator. II. Title.
PQ6666.A3965M3313 2015
863'.64—dc23
2014030620
ISBN 978-1-4516-8818-4
ISBN 978-1-4516-8820-7 (ebook)
The Map of Chaos Page 61