The Map of Time (Trilogía Victoriana #1)(102)

“Had Gilliam written this novel after he set up his business, I would have no other reason, besides my natural skepticism, to question the authenticity of his year 2000,” he explained. “But he brought me his novel a whole year before! Do you understand what I’m saying? Gilliam has staged his novel, and you are its main protagonist.” He picked up the manuscript, searched for a specific page, and, to the young man’s dismay, started to read out loud: “Captain Derek Shackleton was a magnificent specimen of the human race, with his statuesque muscles, noble face, and eyes brimming with ferocity like a cornered panther.” The lad blushed at the description. Was that what he looked like? Did he really have the eyes of a cornered animal? It was quite possible, for he had been cornered since birth, by his father, by life, by misfortune, and lately by Murray’s thugs. He stared at Wells, not knowing what to say.

“It’s a ghastly description by a talentless writer, but I have to confess you fit the part perfectly,” said Wells, hurling the manuscript back onto the table with a gesture of utter contempt.

A few moments passed in which no one spoke.

“Even so, Bertie,” Jane finally stepped in, “this young man needs your help.” “Oh, yes. So he does,” responded a reluctant Wells, who assumed that with his masterful exposure of Murray he had resolved the reason for the visit.

“What’s your real name?” Jane asked him.

“Tom Blunt, ma’am,” replied Tom, bowing politely.

“Tom Blunt,” Wells echoed mockingly. “It doesn’t sound quite so heroic, of course.” Jane shot him a reproachful look. She hated it when her husband resorted to sarcasm to compensate for the terrible feeling of physical inferiority that usually assailed him when he was in the presence of someone bigger than himself.

“Tell me, then, Tom,” Wells went on, after clearing his throat, “how may I help you?” Tom sighed. No longer a brave hero from the future, just a miserable wretch, he stared down at his feet, ceaselessly wringing his hat as though trying to squeeze it dry, and attempted to tell the couple everything that had happened since his pressing need to empty his bladder had compelled him to find a quiet place on the set of the year 2000. Trying not to gabble, he told them about the girl named Claire Haggerty who had appeared out of nowhere just after he had taken off his helmet and armor, how she had seen his face, and the problems that would cause him. He was obliged to tell them about the unpleasant ways Murray had of assuring his cast of actors did not give away the hoax, and about what had happened to poor Perkins. His speculations caused the author’s wife to gasp in horror, while Wells simply shook his head as if to say he had expected as much of Gilliam Murray. Tom then told them how he had bumped into Claire Haggerty at the market and had made her agree to meet him, driven, he confessed shamefully, by his male instinct. He described how he was then forced to make up the story about the letters in order for her to agree to go with him to the boardinghouse. He knew he had done wrong, he told them, not daring to raise his eyes from the floor, and he regretted it, but they should not waste time judging his behavior because his actions had given rise to unforeseen consequences.

The girl had fallen in love with him, and, believing every word to be true, had duly written the first letter, which she had left at Harrow-on-the-Hill. He fished the letter out of his pocket and handed it to Wells, who took it from him, stunned at everything he was hearing. The author unfolded the letter and, after clearing his throat noisily, began reading aloud so that his intrigued wife could also know what it contained. He tried to read in a modulated voice, like a priest reciting the lesson, but could not avoid his voice catching when he read out certain passages. The emotions expressed were so beautiful he could not help feeling a pang of resentment towards the young man in front of him, who had undeservingly become the object of a love so absolute it forced him to question his own emotions, to reconsider his whole way of experiencing love. The look of compassion that had overtaken Jane’s face confirmed his wife was feeling something similar.

“I tried writing to her,” said Tom, “but I can barely even read.

I’m afraid if there’s no letter waiting for her on the hill tomorrow, Miss Haggerty might do something foolish.” Wells had to admit it was most likely, given the feverish tone of her missive.

“The reason I came here was to ask you to write to her on my behalf,” the young man went on to confess.

Wells looked at him, incredulous.

“What did you say?” “Three letters, that’s all, Mr. Wells. It’s nothing for you,” pleaded the youth, and then after a moment’s thought, he added: “I can’t pay you, but if you ever have a problem that can’t be dealt with in a civilized way, just call on me.” Wells could scarcely believe his ears. He was about to say he had no intention of getting involved in this mess, when he felt Jane’s hand pressing his firmly. He turned to look at his wife, who smiled at him with the same dreamy expression she wore when she finished one of her beloved romantic novels: then he looked back at Tom, who in turn was gaping at him expectantly. And he realized he had no choice: he must once more save a life using his imagination. He gazed for a long time at the pages he was holding, covered in Claire Haggerty’s neat, elegant script. Deep down, he had to confess he found it tempting to carry on this fantastic story, to pretend to be a brave hero from the future caught up in a bloody war against the evil automatons, and even to tell another woman he loved her passionately, and with the approval of his own wife. As though suddenly the world had decided to nurture man’s deepest feelings, instead of keeping them in check, giving rise to a harmonious cohabitation on a planet cleansed of jealousy and prejudice, where licentious behavior had been sublimated into an almost tender, respectful friendship. The challenge excited him enormously, it was true, and as he had no choice but to accept it, he cheered himself with the notion that he might find corresponding with the unknown young woman at once amusing and exciting.