The Map of Time (Trilogía Victoriana #1)(46)

“And yet you’ve written about it!” his host exclaimed, horrified.

“That’s precisely why, Mr. Merrick,” he explained, trying to think of a simple way of bringing together the various ideas underlying his conception of literature. “I assure you that if it were possible to build a time machine, I would never have written about it. I am only interested in writing about what is impossible.” At this, he recalled a quote from Luciano de Samósata’s True Tales, which he could not help memorizing because it perfectly summed up his thoughts on literature: “I write about things I have neither seen nor verified nor heard about from others, and in addition, about things that have never existed and could have no possible basis for existing.” Yes, as he had told his host, he was only interested in writing about things that were impossible.

Dickens was there to take care of the rest, he thought of adding, but did not. Treves had told him Merrick was an avid reader. He did not want to risk offending him if Dickens happened to be one of his favorite authors.

“Then I’m sorry that because of me you’ll never be able to write about a man who is half-human, half-elephant,” murmured Merrick.

Once more, Wells was disarmed by his host’s remark. After Merrick had spoken, his gaze wandered over to the window. Wells was unsure whether the gesture was meant to express regret or to give him the opportunity to study Merrick’s appearance as freely as he wished. In any case, Wells’s eyes were unconsciously, irresistibly, almost hypnotically drawn to him, confirming what he already knew full well. Merrick was right: if he had not seen him with his own eyes, he would never have believed such a creature could exist. Except perhaps in the fictional world of books.

“You will be a great writer, Mr. Wells,” his host declared, continuing to stare out of the window.

“I wish I could agree,” replied Wells, who, following his first failed attempt, was beginning to have serious doubts about his abilities.

Merrick turned to face him.

“Look at my hands, Mr. Wells,” he said holding them out for Wells to see. “Would you believe that these hands could make a church out of cardboard?” Wells gazed benevolently at his host’s mismatched hands. The right one was enormous and grotesque while the left one looked like that of a ten-year-old girl.

“I suppose not,” he admitted.

Merrick nodded slowly.

“It is a question of will, Mr. Wells,” he said, striving to imbue his slurred voice with a tone of authority. “That’s all.” Coming from anyone else’s mouth these words might have struck Wells as trite, but uttered by the man in front of him they became an irrefutable truth. This creature was living proof that man’s will could move mountains and part seas. In that hospital wing, that refuge from the world, the distance between the attainable and the unattainable was more than ever a question of will. If Merrick had built that cardboard church with his deformed hands, what might not he, Wells, be capable of—he who was only prevented from doing whatever he wanted by his own lack of self-belief? He could not help agreeing, which seemed to please Merrick, judging from the way he fidgeted in his seat. In an embarrassed voice that sounded even more like that of a dying child, Merrick went on to confess that the model was to be a gift for a stage actress with whom he had been corresponding for several months. He referred to her as Mrs. Kendal, and from what Wells could gather she was one of his most generous benefactors. He had no difficulty picturing her as a woman of good social standing, sympathetic to the various types of suffering in the world, so long as they were not on her doorstep, who had discovered in the Elephant Man a novel way of spending the money she usually donated to charity. When Merrick explained that he was looking forward to meeting her in person when she returned from her tour in America, Wells could not help smiling, touched by the amorous tone which, consciously or not, slipped in his voice. But at the same time he felt a pang of sorrow, and hoped Mrs. Kendal’s work would delay her in America so that Merrick could go on believing in the illusion of her letters and not be faced with the sudden discovery that impossible love was only possible in books.

After they had finished their tea, Merrick offered Wells a cigarette, which he courteously accepted. They rose from their seats and went over to the window to watch the sunset. For a few moments, the two men stood staring down at the street and at the fa?ade of the church opposite, every inch of which Merrick must have been familiar with. People came and went, a peddler with a handcart hawked his wares, and carriages trundled over the uneven cobblestones strewn with foul-smelling dung from the hundreds of horses going by each day. Wells watched Merrick gazing at the frantic bustle with almost reverential awe. He appeared to be lost in thought.

“You know something, Mr. Wells?” he said finally, “I can’t help feeling sometimes that life is like a play in which I’ve been given no part. If you only knew how much I envy all those people …” “I can assure you, you have no reason to envy them, Mr. Merrick,” Wells replied abruptly. “Those people you see are specks of dust. Nobody will remember who they were or what they did after they die. You, however, will go down in history.” Merrick appeared to mull over his words for a moment as he studied his misshapen reflection in the distorted windowpane, like a bitter reminder of his condition.

“Do you think that gives me any comfort?” he asked mournfully.

“It ought to,” replied Wells, “for the time of the ancient Egyptians has long since passed, Mr. Merrick.” His host did not reply. He continued staring down at the street, but Wells found it impossible to judge from his expression, frozen by the disease into a look of permanent rage, what effect his words, a little blunt perhaps but necessary, had had on him.