The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(133)

Unable to take refuge with this group of startled children without feeling ridiculous, I left the house in the opposite direction. People had crowded into the streets and taverns and formed restless clusters in the squares, but they appeared curious rather than alarmed about what might be happening on the city’s outskirts. Strolling aimlessly, I noticed a knot of people eager for information surround one of the fugitives’ carts, their faces aghast as its owner related in a garbled manner the destruction from which he had miraculously escaped. These simple folk had not traveled to the year 2000, and so their fear, whilst grotesque, was in some sense justified. I, on the other hand, had been there, and so I resolved to make my way to Madame M——’s brothel as I already mentioned—one of my favorites owing to its exotic merchandise. I couldn’t think of any better place to amuse myself while the invasion was being quelled. After that, I would return to Queen’s Gate to fetch Victoria and with a smirk on my face try to resist the temptation to point out her lack of judgment with a cutting remark. I might even take her out to dinner to make up for the anxiety she had suffered unnecessarily.

Inside the brothel, I crossed the spacious, rococo hall with its caricature of The Birth of Venus, far less sublime and more brazenly sensual than that of Botticelli, on the back wall. The room, perfumed and intimate, was strangely empty. Almost no one occupied the chairs and tables where the whores would usually converse, engage in banter, or smoke their long-stemmed opium pipes with the clientele. Nor did I glimpse any movement behind the drapes, through which it was customary to see some bigwig floating on a sea of fluffy cushions. The women weren’t even shimmying around the room, flaunting their contours swathed in diaphanous gauze. Most were seated in gloomy silence, giving the impression of being at a wake, regardless of their plumed headdresses. The bleakness enveloping the brothel discouraged me; even so, I resolved to cheer myself by taking advantage of the lull in proceedings to enjoy two of the most sought-after girls, who were amazed I could muster an erection in such a situation. What better way to die than in your arms, I told them. After pleasuring myself, I took an apple from the fruit bowl beside the bed, although I couldn’t help biting into it with a degree of annoyance. I had enjoyed myself, yet I had sensed the girls’ minds were elsewhere. Even these poor wretches were concerned about the invasion.

It was then I heard the first blast, far away in the direction of Chelsea. The girls gave a start and hurriedly began dressing. There was a second blast. These explosions were too close to be coming from the outskirts, which could only mean that the tripods had broken through the line of defense and were entering London. A third blast, even closer now, made the building shake and confirmed my suspicions. I poked my head out of the window amid a gaggle of hysterical girls. There were people running, panic-stricken, through the streets, but I could see nothing above the rooftops, save for a few peculiar reddish flashes coloring the evening sky. I pulled on my clothes and left the brothel, together with a small number of fellow customers, just as what sounded like all the church bells in London began to ring out. In the street, I heard some men shouting that these were Martians and one had been shot down in Richmond. I smiled at the news. But, apparently, following this heroic action, our mighty army had been wiped out. From the garbled rumors circulating among the crowd, I learned that the Martians had broken through the line of defense at Kingston and Richmond. And, if the increasing number of blasts resounding in the distance was anything to go by, they would soon do the same elsewhere, if they hadn’t already. But this couldn’t be happening! I said to myself, dumbfounded, even as I narrowly escaped being run over by a cartload of refugees.

As I puzzled over why things weren’t turning out as they should, I found myself being jostled this way and that by the nervous crowd. Finally I found my way into a square, where, more shaken and anxious than I cared to admit, I sat down on a bench. I needed time to think. It was impossible to know exactly what was going on, although clearly the terrible explosions were occurring more frequently and coming ever closer. It was always the same: first there was a loud hissing noise, then the roar of the blast, and finally the air would shake as a building crashed to the ground. The worst thing was that this gruesome symphony was apparently being played all over London, from Ealing to East Ham.

In a bid to calm my nerves, I plucked a cigarette from my cigarette case and smoked it with the icy composure of a suicide, while those rushing by gazed at me in astonishment. I returned their gaze defiantly, even though the panic I was stifling had started to give the tobacco a bitter, metallic taste. I exhaled the smoke slowly and tried to assess the situation: why hadn’t whatever had been destined to prevent the invasion already snuffed it out? The inspired command of a minister, a powerful secret weapon, an unexpected natural phenomenon, a detachment of soldiers specially trained to deal with this type of situation, or perhaps a lone individual who by some random action would restore the order of things. I did not know how, but I was convinced something had to halt the invasion. I surveyed the crowd fleeing before me: innkeepers in their aprons, maids in uniform, children dragged by their mothers, vagrants and bankers running side by side, now and then a solitary rider. Their confusion and terror were so overwhelming it seemed clear that none of these wretched souls could save London, much less the planet. Even our own army appeared incapable of doing that, according to the snatches of conversation I was able to overhear, and which were immediately corroborated by the growing proximity of the blasts. Yet I knew someone had to do something, and quickly. What if that was my role? I wondered suddenly. What if I was the one who had to intervene and put events back on the right track? But the thought seemed as pompous as it was absurd. What could I possibly do to set things straight?