The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(78)
“Well, what did you think?”
“Get out and leave me alone,” Murray ordered.
“What?” replied Martin.
“Get out!”
Alarmed, Martin rapped on the cylinder. A tiny hidden hatch opened on its side, and the two men operating the puppet crawled out.
“Did you like it this time, Martin?” one of the men asked eagerly.
“The boss needs to be on his own to reflect, Paul,” Martin said, gesturing to them to leave the hangar.
When Murray was at last alone, he gave a forlorn sigh that echoed through the warehouse. Things were going from bad to worse. On their first attempt, one of the men had chosen to dress up as the Martian, but the disguise made of painted cardboard and wool gave the impression of a sheep sheared by a blind man rather than a creature from another planet. Displeased with the result, Murray had engaged two employees from Madame Tussauds to make a wax effigy of a Martian, but the outcome, while more convincing than his men’s disguise, had the jolly air of a snowman and was of course unable to move, which to Murray’s mind inevitably made it less terrifying. And the thing he had just seen emerge from the cylinder was even more dismal. He approached the Martian rag doll, which lay on its side on the floor next to the machine. That dummy was all that stood between him and his marriage to Emma. Unable to help himself, he aimed a kick at it, sending it flying. Propelled by Murray’s rage, the doll went tumbling across the floor, losing one of the Robertson bulbs that were its eyes in the process. Murray shook his head. He needed to think, to find a proper solution, and quickly, for his time was running out.
He left the warehouse and climbed the stairs to his office, where he poured himself a glass of brandy. Sitting back in his armchair, savoring the liquor calmly, he tried to compose himself. He did not wish to fall prey to one of his usual, futile fits of rage, which, since falling in love, he viewed as a thing of the past. He would do better to reflect serenely upon the matter. All was not lost. He still had time. Murray picked up a piece of card containing a sketch of Wells’s Martian he had done to give his men something to go on. If only the author had thought up something simpler . . . But no, that kind of overdeveloped octopus was impossible to replicate. He had come to London believing Emma’s request would be easy to fulfill, a mere formality he had to see to before enfolding her in his arms forever. But creating a Martian was proving complicated. It might have been easier to fly to Mars and hunt one down. He had to concede that his imagination, which he had always depended upon, had let him down this time. He, who had taken the whole of England to the year 2000, was incapable of reenacting a stupid Martian invasion. He was guilty of hubris. He had truly believed he was the Great Murray who could conjure the impossible. And reality had just demonstrated that he was only Monty G., a sad puppet master. His rage got the better of him, and he tore up the drawing and threw it into the wastepaper basket.
“Why?” he bellowed, rising from his chair and turning his distraught face to the ceiling, as though demanding an answer. “Why are you making things so difficult for me now of all times, damn it! I don’t intend to gain money or fame from this! All I want is to win a woman’s heart!”
As had been his custom since time immemorial, the Creator was unforthcoming. In response to His antediluvian silence Murray gave a pitiful howl, like a wolf with its leg caught in a trap, and, unable to find a more sophisticated way of venting his frustration, he swept off the objects on his desk, sending a cascade of papers and books crashing to the floor. Scarcely soothed by this feeble release, he took a deep breath and clucked in dismay: he had only managed to come up with a pathetic dummy, and it was clear that in the six remaining weeks he could produce nothing better. He desperately needed help. But from whom? Who on earth could help him? With a gesture of despair, he looked out of the window and discovered the same sunny day he had been walking in scarcely an hour before. He imagined if he stared at it long enough he would infect it with his gloom, the sky would fill with leaden clouds, and a storm would erupt.
Then he saw him. And for a few moments he could scarcely believe his eyes. Was it him, was it really him? Yes, without a doubt! Murray said to himself, after carefully scrutinizing the fellow. Before his astonished eyes, standing on the pavement opposite, staring up at the building with discernible bitterness, was H. G. Wells. Although doubtless Wells could not see him due to the sun reflecting on the windowpanes, Murray swiftly hid behind the curtain and observed him with interest. What the devil was Wells doing there? He was looking at the building, yes, but why? Obviously he could not have guessed that Murray was inside. He no doubt imagined him in some other part of the world, happily spending his fortune under an assumed name, which indeed had been the case. But clearly the author still saw the old theater as the embodiment of Gilliam Murray’s hateful fantasy, for the expression on his birdlike face suggested that of a man visiting his worst enemy’s grave and lamenting not having killed him himself. But why had he come there at that precise moment? Why had he organized his day, his life so as to be standing at the exact spot where Murray had directed his gaze? Such synchronism could not be simple coincidence. Could it be a sign from the Creator, who was so fond of communicating with His creatures through such subtle gestures? For a few moments, Wells appeared deep in thought; then, after consulting his watch, he gave the theater a parting glance and walked down Charing Cross Road and into the Strand. He seemed in a hurry, as though he were keeping someone waiting somewhere.