The Map of Time (Trilogía Victoriana #1)(104)

It was possible a story like this might work as satire, but the problem was Gilliam took it terribly seriously, imbuing it with an air of solemnity which only made the plot seem even more ludicrous. Gilliam’s vision of the year 2000 was utterly implausible. In all other respects, his writing was infantile and verbose in equal measure, the characters were poorly drawn, and the dialogue dull as dishwater. All in all, it was the novel of someone who believes anyone can be a writer. It was not that he strung words together willy-nilly without any aesthetic pretensions; if he had, it would have made for dull but palatable reading. No, Gilliam was one of those avid readers who believed good writing was akin to icing a cake—a conviction that resulted in overblown, horribly flowery prose that was full of ridiculous verbal displays, indigestible to the reader. When Wells reached the final page he felt aesthetically nauseated. The only fate the novel deserved was to be flung on the fire; furthermore, if time travel were to become the order of the day, Wells would be honor-bound to journey into the past and beat the fellow to a pulp before he was able to disgrace future literature with his creation.

However, telling the truth to Gilliam Murray was an experience he had no wish to undergo, especially since he could get out of it simply by handing the novel over to his editor Henley, who would certainly reject it, but with none of the recriminations that would fall upon Wells.

When the day came for his next appointment with Murray, Wells still had not decided what to do. Gilliam arrived at the house with enviable punctuality, a triumphant smile on his face, but Wells immediately sensed the barely controlled anxiety beneath his cloying politeness. Gilliam was plainly desperate to hear his verdict, but both men were obliged to follow the rules of etiquette. Wells made small talk as he guided him into the sitting room, and they sat down while Jane served tea. The author took advantage of this moment of silence to study his nervous guest, who was pressing his fleshy lips into a serene smile. Then, all of a sudden, Wells was filled with a sense of his own power.

He, more than anyone, knew of the sense of hope involved in writing a novel and the insignificance of that illusion in the eyes of others, who judged the work on its merits, not on how many sleepless nights had gone into its creation. As Wells saw it, negative criticism, however constructive, was invariably painful for a writer. It always came as a blow, whether he responded to it like a brave wounded soldier or was cast into the abyss, his fragile ego in shreds. And now, as if by magic, Wells held this stranger’s dreams in his hand. He had the power to shatter them or to let them live. In the end, this was the choice before him, he realized; the novel’s wretched quality was irrelevant, and in any case that decision could be left to Henley. The question was whether he wanted to use his authority for good or not, whether he wanted to witness this arrogant creature’s response to what was in essence the simple truth, or whether on the contrary he preferred to fob him off with a pious lie so he could carry on believing he had produced a worthwhile piece of writing, at least until Henley’s diagnosis.

“Well, Mr. Wells?” Gilliam asked as soon as Jane had left the room. “What did you think of my novel?” Wells could almost feel the air in the room tremble, as though reality itself had reached a crossroads and the universe was awaiting his decision to know which path to go down. His silence was like a dam, a dike holding back events.

And still today Wells was not sure why he had taken the decision he had. He felt no real preference; he could have chosen either way. He was sure of one thing, though: it was not out of cruelty.

If anything, he was simply curious to see how the man sitting opposite him would react to such a brutal blow. Would he conceal his wounded pride, politely accept Wells’s opinions, or break down in front of him like a child or a man condemned to death? Perhaps he would fly into a rage and hurl himself at Wells with the intention of strangling him, a distinct possibility Wells could not rule out. Whichever way he dressed it up, it was an empirical exercise, a simple experiment on the soul of that poor wretched man. Like the scientist who must sacrifice the rat in pursuit of his discovery, Wells wanted to measure the capacity for reaction in this stranger, who by asking him to read his manuscript had given Wells an immense power over him, the power to act like the executioner of the despicable society in which they lived.

Once Wells had decided, he cleared his throat and replied in a courteous, almost cold voice, as though he were indifferent to the harmful effect his words might have on his visitor: “I read your work with great care, Mr. Murray, and I confess I did not enjoy any part of it. I found nothing in it to praise, nothing to admire. I have taken the liberty to speak to you in this way because I consider you a colleague and I believe that lying to you would do you no good whatsoever.” The smile on Gilliam’s face vanished in a second, and his huge paws gripped the arms of the chair. Wells studied his shifting facial expression even as he carried on wounding him, extremely courteously: “In my opinion, not only have you started out with a rather na?ve premise, but you have developed it in a most unfortunate way, stifling its few possibilities. The structure of your narrative is inconsistent and muddled, the episodes are linked only tenuously, and in the end one has the impression that events occur higgledy-piggledy, without any inner cohesion, simply because it suits you. This tiresome randomness of the plot, added to your writing style—worthy of some legal clerk who admires Jane Austen’s romantic novels—inevitably produces boredom in the reader, or if not then a profound aversion to what he is reading.” At this point, Wells paused for a moment to study his guest’s contortions with scientific interest. The man must be a block of ice not to have exploded with rage at such remarks, he thought.