The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(190)
In fact, it was hard for Wells to pin down exactly which world he came from, for in the first journey in time he had made at the farm at Addlestone, he must have leapt into a different universe, and then returned to the past, but to the past of a third universe, which another of his twins had just abandoned, leaving the bed warm for him. There must be hundred, thousands of them. Wells shuddered to think how many had made some change in the universes they arrived in, and he was convinced not all of them could be as positive as the ones he had been able to carry out in that other world, and that, it had to be said, owed more to good fortune than to any skill on his part. He had pulled it off, yes, but God only knew how. Yet in other worlds he might have messed things up or made them worse, unleashing a disaster. Perhaps, he reflected with dismay, this was where his age-old, obsessive fear for the fate of the human race came from, his lasting conviction, even from before he had experienced a Martian invasion, that mankind would inevitably become extinct. Perhaps, thought the author, despite not being acquainted with any other of his twins (except for the Wells who was a native of this world, and with whom he had spoken on the pier at Southsea when he was still a boy), everyone shared a kind of collective awareness, a multilayered knowledge, intuitive and unconscious, that made them fear such a thing.
He could not be so rash as to believe he was unique, not even in the matter of his accursed gift, for Clayton had already revealed that he himself had met other time travelers. So, there had to be many more who, like him, were infected with this strange disease, other unknown time travelers hidden among the branches of this tree of universes. Might they be at that very moment leaping between worlds, perhaps not always with honorable intentions? Wells shook his head slowly, perceiving through the fog of terror that familiar, yearned-for tingling in his fingertips: there was enough material there for a good novel. Undoubtedly. But he was no longer a writer, he told himself ruefully, as he moved off slowly again toward the carriages. He would soon be extinct himself, even if the human race survived.
Anything was possible in an infinite universe, he concluded, turning to contemplate for the last time the now distant balloon surrounded by the joyous hullabaloo. When he saw the lovers in the midst of the encircling crowd, Wells smiled once more, hoping that what he had thought moments before when he saw the smile appear on the girl’s lips was true: that the love between Murray and Emma was permanent and unchanging; that in each universe, each reality, each and every world where their eyes met, they could not help but fall in love.
AUTHOR’S ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I WOULD LIKE TO thank my publisher, Judith Curr, and my editor, Johanna Castillo, and the team at Atria Books in New York, from Mellony Torres onward, for their enthusiasm for my Victorian trilogy. Thanks for trusting in me and for bringing to the United States this humble homage to the books that made us dream as children.
I would also like to express my sincere indebtedness to my agents, Tom and Elaine Colchie, for their extraordinary work and support. It is thanks to them I can say that when I relinquish my work it passes into even safer pairs of hands. I thank Nick Caistor, too, for creating a wonderful translation of my work.
Yet, as anyone can see who leafs through the acknowledgments at the end of most novels, a book is read many times over before being published. Only a genius is capable of writing a novel entirely on his or her own, while the majority of us authors depend for guidance and advice on those to whom we entrust the reading of our manuscripts. In my case, Lorenzo Luengo is someone who, from the day we met, has been a tireless reader of everything that issues from my pen, helping me to hone my work with his ruthless sincerity, which in the long run is what always compels me to let him read my work in the secret hope that he will one day award a few of my drafts his seal of approval. I cannot thank him enough for his comments, and for the humor he injects them with to make them more palatable. Friends like him go a long way toward alleviating the crushing loneliness of being a writer.
And yet, I have discovered while writing this novel that it is possible to go even farther; that simply sharing this loneliness with another person can keep it at bay completely. Until recently I found this hard to believe—as I did many things before I met M.J. She willingly took refuge with me in this novel, providing a warmth that helped ward off the cold spells that habitually threatened. I now know I will never be alone when I write, and since the thanks I give every day scarcely seem enough, I would like to acknowledge here how indebted to her I am, not just for the infinite patience she has shown in the face of my moodiness, anguish, and insecurity, all of which are an integral part of the creative process, but also for the steadfast gaze I have awakened to each day, the unwavering assurance telling me that if I ever got lost, she would know the way. And so, in some other universe where we never met, this novel might have turned out completely differently. But what does that matter? I am convinced no universe exists where that did not happen.
TRANSLATOR’S ACKNOWLEDGMENT
THE TASK OF RENDERING Félix Palma’s imagined worlds into English is often pleasurable, but also a lonely business. I have been privileged to share the task with the always scrupulous Lorenza Garcia, who has accompanied me throughout.
Nick Caistor