The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(186)

On the train, the author wondered whether, by killing the Envoy, he had also saved his companions. He knew his action had rescued Jane from that reality, for he had occasionally followed her through the streets of London when she visited her favorite stores, or rode her bicycle in the environs of Worcester Park, and when he saw her go home and fall into the arms of his twin, he could not help feeling a strange mixture of jealousy and contentment. Wells had saved Jane’s life so that his other self could enjoy her, and more than once he had to remind himself that he, too, was this other Wells, and therefore he ought to be as happy that he loved her the way he did as he would doubtless be sad if, over time, he ceased to love her, which could still happen, regardless of his having risked his life to be able to spend the rest of his days with her.

He realized in time that he had also saved Charles, whom he liked to chance upon in theater foyers, simply to watch the elegant young man flash his dazzling smile and perfect teeth at his acquaintances, and even to walk by and overhear one of his droll comments on the state of the nation or other current affairs, as if by doing so Wells was trying to erase his last memory of Charles, filthy and bedraggled, fleeing through the London sewers, pursued by hideous monsters. He had saved Murray and Emma as well, along with Captain Shackleton and his beloved Claire, and Inspector Clayton, and the coachman whose name escaped him. Yes, wherever they were, happy or not, they could go on with their lives without having to suffer a Martian invasion.

But what of all the others, and their respective twins in the other reality; had he saved them, too? he wondered. Had that world disappeared, had it been erased when he destroyed the Envoy in the Antarctic, or had his action simply created a split, another branch on the leafy tree of time? Were his companions suffering the consequences of the Martian invasion in some other layer of the universe? Had the extraterrestrials captured them? Naturally, Wells liked to think they had not. He liked to think that his killing the Envoy had also made that branch of time wither to nothing. That if he pressed his ear to the walls of the universe he would not hear the cries of pain of those who had remained trapped in the adjacent Hell. In short, that none of it had ever happened.

But there was something that prevented this theory from being watertight: his memories, the memories of the invasion stored in his head. How could he remember something that had never happened? Wells had always fantasized about the possible existence of what he had called parallel universes, worlds that sprang from each choice Man took, however insignificant. If I decide to eat at home today nothing will happen, but if I have lunch at Coleridge’s Tavern, I will get food poisoning from eating something that is off, and this trivial decision will cause my life to split into at least two different realities, which will exist simultaneously, parallel to each other, even though I will only experience one of them. But now Wells had no doubt that parallel worlds existed: if he had not destroyed the Envoy, the Martians would have invaded the planet, but by killing the Envoy he had prevented this from ever happening. Yet did this really mean that the other reality had ceased to exist? Was it not supremely arrogant to assume that because we could not see something, it simply did not exist? The world where the invasion had taken place had certainly existed. Wells had more than enough proof of this, so it was logical to assume that it continued to exist somewhere. Consequently, try as he might to feel reassured by reminding himself that he had saved his companions through his heroism, deep down, he knew this was only one way of looking at it, a viewpoint that was as biased as it was vindicatory. For those who had remained in the sewers after his disappearance, he had simply evaporated mysteriously, or had perhaps drowned in the basin and been washed out into the Thames. None of them would have known about his heroic deed, because it would not have affected them at all.

This appeared to be the sad truth, and Wells had to learn to live with it. He tried to console himself with the thought that at least he had managed to create a world in which the invasion would never happen. He closed his eyes, and, as was his custom since traveling in time, he abandoned himself once more to going over his store of memories about the invasion. He recalled with a fond smile how his opinion of Murray had gradually changed during the invasion, his hatred slowly turning into something he could only describe as respect. And it suddenly dawned on him that in a couple of days’ time, the other Wells would find a letter from Murray in his mailbox. He would open it with trembling fingers, just as in the past he had opened Murray’s invitations to travel to the future, trying to deduce the reason for this missive. But he could never have guessed it was a declaration of love, as Wells already knew. Yet he also knew that this perplexing discovery would make no difference to his twin, who would continue to be outraged by Murray’s brazen request for his assistance in re-creating the Martian invasion described in his novel. He would read Murray’s letter several times with astonishment and disbelief but would never reply to it. He would simply slip it between the pages of his novel and forget all about it. He detested Murray too much to help him in any way, no matter how in love he claimed to be. But Wells no longer detested Murray. No, after what they had been through together, he bore him no grudge. Love had changed Murray, ridding him of his selfishness, transforming him into someone who was prepared to give his life to save his companions. When he said goodbye to him in the sewers of London, Wells had apologized for not replying to his letter. If I received it now, I assure you I would, he had told him.

This was exactly what was going to happen two days later: the younger Wells was going to receive it again. And so, arriving home, Wells laid a piece of paper out on his desk, placed his pen on top of it, and contemplated the fateful arrangement as he pondered his reply. Clearly he had no means to help Murray re-create a Martian invasion, and besides he did not deem it necessary. He remembered how, as they fled the Martians, Miss Harlow had begun to feel a mounting affection for Murray, and in particular he remembered her laughter, her spontaneous laughter when Murray was trying to milk a cow at the farm where they had stopped off on their way to London. This, quite simply, was what Murray needed to do. Wells leaned over the piece of paper, and with the crooked, rather childish writing he had developed after years of practicing with his left hand, so different from his previous spidery, hurried script with its rippling plateaus and sudden peaks, he began filling the page with his scrawl. Of all the pages he had written in either of his two lives, this was the one that would give him the greatest satisfaction: