The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(55)

And the world appeared to believe them.

? ? ?

FOLLOWING AN ENDLESS ROUND of interviews that left them worn out, they traveled at last to Virginia, where Reynolds was relieved to see that the air appeared to agree with Allan. Within a few days he had completely recovered, emerging intact from his feverish chrysalis, or at least as intact as he must have been before Reynolds knew him. Even so, the explorer could glimpse in his eyes the vestige of horror left in his soul, and he was unsure whether Allan recalled what had actually happened in the Antarctic or whether he had buried the memory beneath that mound of lies. A week after their arrival, unable to assuage his doubts, Reynolds decided to ask him straight out. Allan stared at him, slightly astonished.

“Why, of course I remember what happened to us there, my friend. Each night I force myself to remember, so that the horror feeds my nightmares, and each morning I force myself to forget, so that I can set them down on paper with a steady hand,” he confessed, smiling gently. “Don’t worry about me, Reynolds. I am an artist. And an artist is simply a man who is pulled along by a river: on one side sanity lies, and on the other madness, yet he will find no peace on either, as the current of his art drags him away from the everyday life on its banks, where others watch, unable to help him, until he reaches the immensity of the ocean.”

Reynolds nodded, although he did not fully grasp Allan’s convoluted metaphor. He had understood the first part of what he said and that was enough: Allan remembered everything. He was perfectly well aware they had been attacked by a Martian. He could tell the difference between reality and fantasy. He had not lost his mind, as the explorer had feared. And, content with Allan’s reply, he spoke no more of the matter. Since setting foot on America’s blessed soil, Reynolds had, metaphorically speaking, cast off his dreamer’s garb and thrown it onto the equally metaphorical fire, to embrace instead his true, pragmatic nature. And so, once the gunner’s mental and physical health appeared to be out of danger, he busied himself with his own affairs, considering he had more than fulfilled his duties as a friend.

The first thing he did was visit his fiancée, Josephine, with the intention of jilting her, as he had decided during the expedition. But, to his surprise, he left her house having agreed on a wedding date. At the outset, Reynolds had studied her with inscrutable intensity, expecting to feel something akin to repulsion welling up inside him, for, having discovered a renewed and boundless lust for life, he did not wish to spend another day in the company of someone who was able to breathe without being moved to joy by such a miracle. There was a time when he might have resigned himself to that, but now he no longer needed money, respect, glory, or social status. He needed something more; to experience love, to fall passionately, everlastingly in love. He did not want to die without having tasted what suddenly struck him as the most sublime of all emotions.

Reynolds was certain Josephine was not the woman to stir such feelings in him. Yet, when he saw her sitting there, wearing the appropriate dress for that time of afternoon and listening to his exploits with demure politeness, but without the slightest interest in a world which for her had no validity or substance simply because it was not the one she lived in, Reynolds came to doubt the existence of another world at the Earth’s core or in the depths of outer space. Perhaps it would be more precise to say that he preferred not to know, because, for the very first time, the self-evident world before him, filled with things that not only could he touch but that were devoid of all mystery, such as the porcelain teapot on the table or the young woman’s choker, was enough for him. And Josephine, the empress of that falsely true reality inhabited by the uncurious, seemed to him to offer the perfect refuge from the horror pulsating beneath the surface. All at once, he realized that the only escape from being overwhelmed by fear or madness was to become as ordinary as she was, to shelter behind the ignorance and apathy of singularly uncomplicated souls. As he contemplated the young woman, he told himself it was up to him to find her more beautiful and interesting than she really was. And so he set himself to the task, helped by his relentless pragmatism, and after half an hour of sparkling conversation he managed to make Josephine forget the desultory manner in which he had previously courted her and to surrender her heart to the surprisingly ardent lover whom the frozen wastes had delivered back to her. What better way to secure his place in this innocuous world that Man had constructed than to apply himself to making sure it ran smoothly? thought Reynolds. Having planted his first heartfelt kiss on Josephine’s lips, he threw his belongings into a trunk, bade Allan farewell, and set off for New York to study the law.

However, despite taking shelter behind the fa?ade of an ordinary life, each time Reynolds lowered his guard he was plagued by memories of his experiences in the Antarctic. For that to happen he need only examine the tiny burn mark on the palm of his right hand, the letter or symbol whose meaning he would never know, which was a constant reminder of the hidden mysteries that lay beyond the visible world. Some nights, this thought would keep the explorer awake, and he would gaze out of the window at the star-speckled sky, wondering what had become of the Martian. Had they really managed to kill it, or had it survived and contrived to follow him to America? Was it keeping watch on him, having usurped the appearance of one of his fellow students? He realized this was unlikely, but it did not stop him from feeling a stab of fear whenever he noticed one of his classmates staring at him more intently than usual. He had even stopped speaking to a certain Jensen, who had invited him to his room for a brandy. Reynolds realized he was being overly cautious, yet he could not help such fears affecting his life. He felt alone, gripped by a strange, absurd sense of his own isolation. Only Allan’s letters managed to dispel his unease, as the gunner was the sole person who could understand him.