The Map of Time

by Félix J Palma

  Treves nodded vaguely, as though the vanity of authors and their jokes were of no consequence to him. He had more important things to worry about. Each day, new and ingenious diseases emerged which required his attention, the extraordinary dexterity of his hands, and his vigorous resolve in the operating theater.

  He gestured to Wells with an almost military nod of his head to follow him up a staircase leading to the upper floors of the hospital. A relentless throng of nurses descending in the opposite direction hampered their ascent, nearly causing Wells to lose his footing on more than one occasion.

  “Not everybody accepts Joseph’s invitations, for obvious reasons,” Treves said, raising his voice almost to a shout. “Although, strangely, this does not sadden him. Sometimes I think Joseph is more than satisfied with the little he gets out of life. Deep down, he knows his bizarre deformities are what enable him to meet almost any bigwig he wishes to in London, something unthinkable for your average commoner from Leicester’.

  Wells thought Treves’s observation in rather poor taste but refrained from making any comment because he immediately realized he was right: Merrick’s appearance, which had hitherto condemned him to a life of ostracism and misery, now permitted him to hobnob with the cream of London society, although it remained to be seen whether or not he considered his various deformities too high a price to pay for rubbing shoulders with the aristocracy.

  The same hustle and bustle reigned on the upper floor, but a few sudden turns down dimly lit corridors, and Treves had guided his guest away from the persistent clamor. Wells followed him as he strode along a series of never-ending, increasingly deserted passageways. As they penetrated the farthest reaches of the hospital, the diminishing numbers of patients as well as nurses around was clearly due to the wards and surgeries becoming progressively more specialized. However, Wells could not help comparing this gradual extinction of life to the terrible desolation surrounding the monsters” lairs in children’s fables.

  All that was needed were a few dead birds and some gnawed bones.

  While they walked, Treves used the opportunity to tell Wells how he had become acquainted with his extraordinary patient. In a detached, even tone that betrayed the tedium he felt at having to repeat the same story over and over again, Treves explained he had met Merrick four years earlier, shortly after being appointed head surgeon at the hospital. A circus had pitched its tent on a nearby piece of wasteland, and its main attraction, the Elephant Man, was the talk of all London. If what people said about him was true, he was the most deformed creature on the planet. Treves knew that circus owners were in the habit of creating their own freaks with the aid of fake limbs and makeup that were impossible to spot in the gloom, but he also bitterly acknowledged that this sort of freak show was the last refuge for those unfortunate enough to be born with a defect that earned them society’s contempt. The surgeon had few expectations when he visited the fair, motivated purely by unavoidable professional curiosity. But there was nothing fake about the Elephant Man. After a rather sorry excuse for a trapeze act, the lights dimmed and the percussion launched into a poor imitation of tribal drumming in an overlong introduction which nevertheless succeeded in giving everyone in the audience a sense of trepidation. Treves then watched, astonished, as the fair’s main attraction entered, and saw with his own eyes that the rumors circulating fell far short of reality. The appalling deformities afflicting the creature who dragged himself across the ring had transformed him into a misshapen, lopsided figure resembling a gargoyle. When the performance was over, Treves convinced the circus owner to let him meet the creature in private. Once inside his modest wagon, the surgeon thought he was in the presence of an imbecile, convinced the swellings on his head must inevitably have damaged his brain.

  But he was mistaken. A few words with Merrick were enough to show Treves that the hideous exterior concealed a courteous, educated, sensitive being. He explained to the surgeon that the reason why he was called the Elephant Man was due to a fleshy protuberance between his nose and upper lip, a tiny trunk measuring about eight inches that had made it hard for him to eat and had been unceremoniously removed a few years before.

  Treves was deeply moved by this creature’s gentleness, by the fact that despite the hardship and humiliation he had suffered, he apparently bore no resentment towards humanity, faceless humanity, whom he, Treves, was so quick to despise whenever he could not get a cab or a box at the theater.

  When the surgeon left the circus an hour later, he had firmly resolved to do everything in his power to take Merrick away from there and offer him a decent life. His reasons were clear: in no other hospital records in the world was there any evidence of a human being with such severe deformities as Merrick’s. Whatever this strange disease was, of all the people in the world, it had chosen to reside in his body alone, transforming the wretched creature into a unique individual, a rare species of butterfly that had to be kept behind glass. Clearly, Merrick must leave the circus at the earliest opportunity. Little did Treves know that in order to accomplish this admirable goal he had set himself in a fit of compassion, he would have to begin a long, arduous campaign that would leave him drained. He started by presenting Merrick to the Pathology Society, but this only led to its distinguished members subjecting the patient to a series of probing examinations and ended in them becoming embroiled in fruitless, heated debates about the nature of his mysterious illness, which invariably turned into shouting matches where someone would always take the opportunity to try to settle old scores. However, his colleagues” disarray, far from discouraging Treves, heartened him. For ultimately it underlined the importance of Merrick’s life, making it all the more imperative to remove him from the precarious world of show business. His next step had been to try to get him admitted to the hospital where he worked, where he could be easily examined. Unfortunately, hospitals did not provide beds for chronic patients, and consequently, although the hospital management applauded Treves’s idea, their hands were tied. Faced with the hopelessness of the situation, Merrick suggested Treves find him a job as a lighthouse keeper, or some other occupation that would cut him off from the rest of the world.

  However, Treves would not admit defeat. Out of desperation, he went to the newspapers, and in a few weeks managed to move the whole country with the wretched predicament of the fellow they called Elephant Man. Donations poured in, but Treves did not only want money; he wanted to give Merrick a decent home.

  And so he decided to turn to the only people who were above society’s absurd, hidebound rules: the royal family. He managed to persuade the Duke of Cambridge and the Princess of Wales to agree to meet the creature. Merrick’s refined manners and extraordinarily gentle nature did the rest. And that was how Merrick came to be a permanent guest in the hospital wing where they found themselves at that very moment.

  “Joseph is happy here,” declared Treves, in a suddenly thoughtful voice. “The examinations we carry out on him from time to time are fruitless, but that does not seem to worry him.

  Joseph is convinced his illness was caused by an elephant knocking down his heavily pregnant mother while she was watching a parade. Sadly, Mr. Wells, this is a pyrrhic victory. I have found Merrick a home, but I am unable to cure his illness. His skull is growing bigger by the day, and I’m afraid that soon his neck will be unable to support the incredible weight of his head.” Treves’s blunt evocation of Merrick’s death, together with the bleak desolation that seemed to permeate that wing of the hospital, plunged Wells into a state of extreme anxiety.

  “I would like his last days to be as peaceful as possible,” the surgeon went on, oblivious to the pallor beginning to spread over his companion’s face. “But apparently this is asking too much.

  Every night, the locals gather under his window shouting insults at him and calling him names. They even think he is to blame for killing those whores who have been found mutilated in the neighborhood. Have people gone mad? Merrick couldn’t hurt a fly. I already mentione
d his extraordinary sensibility. Do you know that he devours Jane Austen’s novels? And on occasion, I’ve even surprised him writing poems. Like you, Mr. Wells.” “I don’t write poems, I write stories,” Wells murmured hesitantly, his increasing unease apparently making him doubt everything.

  Treves scowled at him, annoyed that his companion would want to split hairs over what he considered such an inconsequential subject as literature.

  “That’s why I allow these visits,” he said, shaking his head regretfully, before resuming where he had left off, “because I know they do him a great deal of good. I imagine people come to see him because his appearance makes even the unhappiest souls realize they should thank God. Joseph, on the other hand, views the matter differently. Sometimes I think he derives a sort of twisted amusement from these visits. Every Saturday, Joseph scours the newspapers, then hands me a list of people he would like to invite to tea, and I obligingly forward them his card. They are usually members of the aristocracy, wealthy businessmen, public figures, painters, actors and other more or less well-known artists … People who have achieved a measure of social success and who in his estimation have one last test to pass: confronting him in the flesh.

  As I already explained, Joseph’s deformities are so hideous they invariably evoke either pity or disgust in those who see him. I imagine Joseph can judge from his guests” reaction whether they are the kindhearted type or on the contrary ones riddled with fears and anxieties.” They came to a door at the far end of a long passageway.

  “Here we are,” said Treves, plunging for a few moments into a respectful silence. Then he looked Wells in the eye, and added in a somber, almost threatening tone: “Behind this door awaits the most horrific-looking creature you have probably ever seen or will ever see; it is up to you whether you consider him a monster or an unfortunate wretch.” Wells felt a little faint.

  “It is not too late to turn back; you may not like what you discover about yourself.” “You need not worry about me,” stammered Wells.

  “As you wish,” said Treves, with the detachment of one washing his hands of the matter.

  He took a key from his pocket, opened the door and, gently but resolutely propelled Wells over the threshold.

  Wells held his breath as he ventured inside the room.

  He had only taken a couple of faltering steps when he heard the surgeon close the door behind him. He gulped, glancing about the place Treves had practically hurled him into once he had fulfilled his minor role in the disturbing ceremony. He found himself in a spacious suite of rooms containing various normal-looking pieces of furniture. The ordinariness of the furnishings combined with the soft afternoon light filtering in through the window to create a prosaic, unexpectedly cozy atmosphere that clashed with the image of a monster’s lair. Wells stood transfixed for a few seconds, thinking his host would appear at any moment. When this did not happen, and not knowing what was expected of him, he began wandering hesitantly through the rooms. He was immediately overcome by the unsettling feeling that Merrick was spying on him from behind one of the screens, but even so continued weaving in and out of the furniture, sensing this was another part of the ritual. But nothing he saw gave away the uniqueness of the rooms” occupant; there were no half–eaten rats strewn about, or the remains of some brave knight’s armor. In one of the rooms, however, he came across two chairs and a small table laid out for tea. He found this innocent scene still more unsettling, for he could not help comparing it to the gallows awaiting the condemned man in the town square, its joists creaking balefully in the spring breeze. Then he noticed an intriguing object on a table next to the wall, beneath one of the windows. It was a cardboard model of a church. Wells walked over to marvel at the exquisite piece of craftsmanship. Fascinated by the wealth of detail in the model, he did not at first notice the crooked shadow appearing on the wall: a stiff figure, bent over to the right crowned by an enormous head.

  “It’s the church opposite. I had to make up the parts I can’t see from the window.” The voice had a labored, slurred quality to it.

  “It’s beautiful,” Wells breathed, addressing the lopsided silhouette projected onto the wall.

  The shadow shook its head with great difficulty, unintentionally revealing to Wells what a struggle it was for Merrick to produce even this simple gesture of playing down the importance of his work. Having completed the arduous movement, he remained silent, stooped over his cane, and Wells realized he could not go on standing there with his back to him. The moment had arrived when he must turn and look his host in the face. Treves had warned him that Merrick paid special attention to his guests” initial reaction—the one that arose automatically, almost involuntarily, and which he therefore considered more genuine, more revealing than the faces people hurriedly composed in order to dissimulate their feelings once they had recovered from the shock.

  For those few brief moments, Merrick was afforded a rare glimpse into his guests” souls, and it made no difference how they pretended to act during the subsequent meeting. Their initial reaction had already condemned or redeemed them. Wells was unsure whether Merrick’s appearance would fill him with pity or disgust.

  Fearing the latter, he clenched his jaw as tightly as he could, tensing his face to prevent it from registering any emotion. He did not even want to show surprise, but merely wanted to gain time before his brain was able to process what he was seeing and reach a logical conclusion about the feelings a creature as apparently horribly deformed as Merrick produced in a person like him. In the end, if he experienced repulsion, he would willingly acknowledge this and reflect on it later, after he had left. And so, Wells drew a deep breath, planted his feet firmly on the ground, which had dissolved into a soft, quaking mass, and slowly turned to face his host.

  What he saw made him gasp. Just as Treves had warned, Merrick’s deformities gave him a terrifying appearance. The photographs Wells had seen of him at the university, which mercifully veiled his hideousness behind a blurry gauze, had not prepared him for this. He wore a dark gray suit and was propping himself up with a cane. Ironically, these accoutrements, which were intended to humanize him, only made him look more grotesque.

  Teeth firmly clenched, Wells stood stiffly before him, struggling to suppress a physical urge to shudder. He felt as if his heart were about to burst out of his chest, and beads of cold sweat began to trickle down his back, but he could not make out whether these symptoms were caused by horror or pity. Despite the unnatural tensing of his facial muscles, he could feel his lips quivering, perhaps as they tried to form a grimace of horror, yet at the same time he noticed tears welling up in his eyes, and so did not know what to think. Their mutual scrutiny went on forever, and Wells wished he could shed at least one tear that would encapsulate his pain and prove to Merrick, and to himself, that he was a sensitive, compassionate being, but the tears pricking his eyes refused to brim over.

  “Would you prefer me to wear my hood, Mr. Wells?” asked Merrick softly.

  The strange voice, which gave his words a liquid quality as if they were floating in a muddy brook, struck renewed fear into Wells. Had the time limit Merrick usually put on his guests’ response expired? “No … that won’t be necessary,” he murmured.

  His host moved his gigantic head laboriously again in what Wells assumed was a nod of agreement.

  “Then let us have our tea before it goes cold,” he said, shuffling over to the table in the center of the room.

  Wells did not respond immediately, horrified by the way Merrick was obliged to walk. Everything was an effort for this creature, he realized, observing the complicated maneuvers he had to make to sit down. Wells had to suppress an urge to rush over and help him, afraid this gesture usually reserved for the elderly or infirm might upset Merrick. Hoping he was doing the right thing, Wells sat down as casually as possible in the chair opposite him. Again, he had to force himself to sit still as he watched his host serve the tea. Merrick mostly tried to fulfill this role using his left hand, w
hich was unaffected by the disease, although he still employed his right hand to carry out minor tasks. Wells could not help but silently admire the extraordinary dexterity with which Merrick was able to take the lid off the sugar bowl or offer him a biscuit from a plate with a hand as big and rough as a lump of rock.

  “I’m so glad you were able to come, Mr. Wells,” said his host, after he had succeeded in the arduous task of serving the tea without spilling a single drop, “because it allows me to tell you in person how much I enjoyed your story.” “You are very kind, Mr. Merrick,” replied Wells.

  Once the story had been published, curious about how little impact it had made, Wells had read and reread it at least a dozen times to try to discover why it had been so completely overlooked. Imbued with a spirit of uncompromising criticism, he had weighed up the plot’s solidity, appraised its dramatic pace, considered the order, appropriateness, and even the number of words he had used, in case this turned out to be an unlucky or magical number, only to end up regarding his first and quite possibly his last work of fiction with the unforgiving, almost contemptuous eye with which the Almighty might contemplate the tiresome antics of a capuchin monkey. It was clear to him now that the story was a worthless piece of excrement: his writing a shameless imitation of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s pseudo-Germanic style, and his main character, Dr. Nebogipfel, a poor, unrealistic copy of the exaggerated depictions of mad scientists already found in Gothic novels. Nevertheless, he thanked Merrick for his words of praise, smiling with false modesty and fearing they would be the only ones his writings ever received.

  “A time machine …” said Merrick, delighting in that juxtaposition of words he found so evocative. “You have a prophetic imagination, Mr. Wells.” Wells thanked him again for this new and rather embarrassing compliment. How many more eulogies would he have to endure before asking him to change the subject? “If I had a time machine like Dr. Nebogipfel’s,” Merrick went on, dreamily, “I would travel back to ancient Egypt.” Wells found the remark touching. Like any other person, this creature had a favorite period in history, as he must have a favorite fruit, season, or song.