The Map of Time (Trilogía Victoriana #1)(47)

He could not stand by while his host wallowed in his own tragedy. He was convinced Merrick’s only comfort could come from his deformity, which, although it had marginalized him, had also made him into a singular being and earned him a place in the annals of history.

“No doubt you are right, Mr. Wells,” Merrick said finally, continuing to gaze at his distorted reflection. “One should probably resign oneself to not expecting too much of this world we live in, where people fear anyone who is different. Sometimes I think that if an angel were to appear before a priest, he would probably shoot it.” “I suppose that is true,” observed Wells, the writer in him excited by the image his host had just evoked. And, seeing Merrick still caught up in his reflections, he decided to take his leave: “Thank you so much for the tea, Mr. Merrick.” “Wait,” replied Merrick. “There’s something I want to give you.” He walked over to a small closet and rummaged around inside it for a few moments until he found what he had been looking for.

Wells was puzzled to see him pull out a wicker basket.

“When I told Mrs. Kendal I had always dreamed of being a basket maker, she employed a man to come and teach me,” Merrick explained, cradling the object in his hands as though it were a newborn infant or a bird’s nest. “He was a kindly, mild-mannered fellow, who had a workshop on Pennington Street, near the London docks. From the very beginning he treated me as though my looks were no different to his. But when he saw my hands, he told me I could never manage delicate work like basket weaving. He was very sorry, but we would evidently both be wasting our time. And yet, striving to achieve a dream is never a waste of time, is it Mr. Wells? Show me,’ I told him, ‘only then will we know whether you are right or not.’ ” Wells contemplated the perfect piece of wickerwork Merrick was cupping in his deformed hands.

“I’ve made many more since then, and have given some away to my guests. But this one is special, because it is the first I ever made. I would like you to have it, Mr. Wells,” he said, presenting him with the basket, “to remind you that everything is a question of will.” “Thank you,” stammered Wells, touched. “I am honored, Mr. Merrick, truly honored.” He smiled warmly as he said good-bye and walked towards the door.

“One more question, Mr. Wells,” he heard Merrick say behind him.

Wells turned to look at him, hoping he was not going to ask for the accursed Nebogipfel’s address so that he could send him a basket, too.

“Do you believe that the same god made us both?” Merrick asked, with more frustration than regret.

Wells repressed a sigh of despair. What could he say to this? He was weighing up various possible replies when, all of a sudden, Merrick began emitting a strange sound, like a cough or a grunt that convulsed his body from head to foot, threatening to shake him apart at the seams. Wells listened, alarmed, as the loud hacking sound continued rising uncontrollably from his throat, until he realized what was happening. There was nothing seriously wrong with Merrick. He was simply laughing.

“It was a joke, Mr. Wells, only a joke,” he explained, cutting short his rasping chortle as he became aware of his guest’s startled response. “Whatever would become of me if I was unable to laugh at my own appearance?” Without waiting for Wells to reply, he walked towards his worktable, and sat down in front of the unfinished model of the church.

“Whatever would become of me?” Wells heard him mutter in a tone of profound melancholy. “Whatever would become of me?” Wells watched him concentrate on his clumsy hands sculpting the cardboard and was seized by a feeling of deep sympathy.

He found it impossible to believe Treves’s theory that this remarkably innocent, gentle creature invited public figures to tea in order to submit them to some sinister test. On the contrary, he was convinced that all Merrick wanted from this limited intimacy was a few meager crumbs of warmth and sympathy. It was far more likely that Treves had attributed those motives to him in order to unnerve guests to whom he took a dislike, or possibly to make allowances for Merrick’s extreme na?veté by crediting him with a guile he did not possess. Or perhaps, thought Wells, who had no illusions about the sincerity of man’s motives, the surgeon’s intentions were still more selfish and ambitious: perhaps he wanted to show people that he was the only one who understood the soul of this creature whom he clung to desperately to be guaranteed a place beside him in history.

Wells was irritated by the idea of Treves taking advantage of Merrick’s face being a terrifying mask he could never take off, a mask that could never express his true emotions, in order to attribute to him whatever motives he wished, knowing that no one but Merrick could ever refute them. And now that Wells had heard him laugh, he wondered whether the so-called Elephant Man had not in fact been smiling at him from the moment he stepped into the room, a warm, friendly smile intended to soothe the discomfort his appearance produced in his guests, a smile no one would ever see.

As he left the room, he felt a tear roll down his cheek.





13


This was how the wicker basket had come into Wells’s life, and with it he found that the winds of good fortune soon began to blow off the years of dust that had accumulated on his suit.

Shortly after the basket’s appearance, he obtained his degree in zoology with distinction, began giving courses in biology for the University of London External Programme, took up the post of editor-in-chief of The University Correspondent, and began writing the odd short article for the Educational Times. Thus, in a relatively short period of time he earned a large sum of money, which helped him recover from his disappointment over the lack of interest in his story and boosted his self-confidence. He got into the habit of venerating the basket every night, giving it long and loving looks, running his fingers over the tightly woven wicker. He carried out this simple ritual behind Jane’s back and found it encouraged him so much he felt invincible, strong enough to swim the Atlantic or wrestle a tiger to the ground with his bare hands.