The Map of Time (Trilogía Victoriana #1)(158)
He must simply choose the life that most appealed to him without splitting moralistic hairs. Did he want to stay with Jane, write novels, and dream about the future, or did he aspire to the life of that distant, future Wells? Did he want to go on being Bertie, or to become the link between Homo sapiens and Homo temporis? He had to admit he felt tempted to surrender quietly to the fate described in the letter, to accept that life punctuated by exciting episodes such as the bombardment of Norwich, which, why deny it, he would not have minded experiencing secure in the knowledge he would come out of it alive. It would be like rushing around calmly while bombs dropped out of the sky, admiring the terrifying force of man’s insanity, the hidden depths of beauty in that display of destruction. Not to mention all the wonders he would be able to see on his journeys into the future, brimming with inventions even Verne could not have imagined.
But that would mean giving up Jane, and, more importantly, literature, for he would never be able to write again. Was he prepared to do that? He thought about it for a long time, before finally making up his mind. Then he went up to the bedroom, woke Jane with his caresses, and in the anguished, oppressive darkness of the night, which felt exactly like being down a mole hole, he made love to her as if for the last time.
“You made love to me as if for the first time, Bertie,” she said, pleasantly surprised, before falling asleep again.
And hearing her breathe softly by his side, Wells understood that, as so often happened, his wife knew what he wanted much better than he did, and that if only he had asked her, he could have saved all that time he had taken coming to a decision which, in addition, now proved to be the wrong one. Yes, he told himself, sometimes the best way to find out what we want is to choose what we do not want.
He pushed aside these thoughts when the cab pulled up in front of number 50 Berkeley Square, the most haunted house in London. Well, the moment had finally arrived. He took a deep breath, climbed out of the carriage, and made his way slowly towards the building, savoring the aromas floating in the afternoon air, still with the manuscript of The Invisible Man tucked under his arm. On entering, he discovered Stoker and James already there, engaged in a lively conversation with the man who was about to kill them in the halo of light cast by the candelabra dotted about the hallway. From then on, every time he heard some columnist praising the American’s uncanny powers of observation, he would be unable to stop himself guffawing.
“Ah, Mr. Wells,” cried Marcus on seeing him, “I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.” “Forgive the delay, gentlemen,” Wells apologized, glancing despondently at Marcus’s two henchmen, who were firmly planted at the edge of the rectangle of light on the floor, waiting for Marcus to give them the order to finish off the foolish trio.
“Oh, that doesn’t matter,” said his host, “the important thing is you’ve brought your novel.” “Yes,” said Wells, waving the manuscript idiotically.
Marcus nodded, pleased, and pointed at the table beside him, signaling to him to leave it on top of the two already there.
Rather unceremoniously, Wells added his own to the pile, then stepped back a few paces. He realized this placed him directly in front of Marcus and his henchmen, and to the right of James and Stoker, an ideal position if he wanted to be shot first.
“Thank you, Mr. Wells,” said Marcus, casting a satisfied eye over the spoils on the table.
He will smile now, thought Wells. And Marcus smiled. He will stop smiling now and look at us, suddenly serious. And he will raise his right hand now. But it was Wells who raised his. Marcus looked at him with amused curiosity.
“Is something wrong, Mr. Wells?” he asked.
“Oh, I hope nothing is wrong, Mr. Rhys,” replied Wells. “But we’ll soon find out.” With these words, he let his hand fall in a sweeping motion, although owing to his lack of experience at making gestures of this kind, it lacked authority, looking more like the action of someone swinging a censer. Even so, the person who was supposed to receive the message understood. There was a sudden noise on the upper floor, and they raised their heads as one towards the stairwell, where something which for the moment they could only describe as vaguely human came hurtling towards them. Only when the brave Captain Shackleton landed on the ground in the middle of the circle of light did they realize it was a person.
Wells could not help smiling at the position Tom had taken up, knees bent, muscles tensed, like a wild cat ready to pounce on its prey. The light from the candelabra glinted on his armor, the metal shell covering him from head to toe, except for his strong, handsome chin. He struck a truly heroic figure, and Wells understood now why Tom had asked his former companions to get him the armor, which they had stolen from Gilliam Murray’s dressing room that very morning. While the others were still trying to understand what was going on, Shackleton unsheathed his saber, performed a perfect flourish in the air and, following the movement through, plunged the blade into one of the two henchmen’s stomachs. His companion tried to take aim, but the distance between them was too short for him to maneuver, which gave the captain ample time to draw the sword from his victim’s stomach and swing round gracefully. The henchman watched with horrified fascination as Shackleton raised his sword, slicing the man’s head off with a swift two-handed blow. Still gaping in terror, the head rolled across the floor, disappearing discreetly into the gloomy edge of the circle of light.