The Map of Time (Trilogía Victoriana #1)(42)
The idea of having been invited to tea with this creature filled Wells with a strange mixture of awe and apprehension.
Even so, he arrived on time at the London Hospital, a solid, forbidding structure located in Whitechapel. In the entrance, a steady stream of doctors and nurses went about their mysterious business. Wells looked for a place where he would not be in the way, his head spinning from the synchronized activity everyone seemed to be engaged in, like dancers in a ballet. Perhaps one of the nurses he saw carrying bandages had just left an operating theater where some patient was hovering between life and death.
If so, she did not quicken her step beyond the brisk but measured pace evolved over years of dealing with emergency situations. Amazed, Wells had been watching the nonstop bustle from his vantage point for some time when Dr. Treves, the surgeon responsible for Merrick, finally arrived. Treves was a small, excitable man of about thirty-five who masked his childlike features behind a bushy beard, clipped neatly like a hedge.
“Mr. Wells?” he inquired, trying unsuccessfully to hide the evident dismay he felt at his offensive youthfulness.
Wells nodded and gave an involuntary shrug as if apologizing for not demonstrating the venerable old age Treves apparently required of those visiting his patient. He instantly regretted his gesture, for he had not requested an audience with the hospital’s famous guest.
“Thank you for accepting Mr. Merrick’s invitation,” said Treves, holding out his hand.
The surgeon had quickly recovered from his initial shock and reverted to the role of intermediary. With extreme respect, Wells shook the capable, agile hand that was accustomed to venturing into places out of bounds to most other mortals.
“How could I refuse to meet the only person who has read my story?” he retorted.
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.