Daughter of the Deep(53)

The submarine does not respond. Obviously.

‘My ancestor,’ I continue, ‘the one who called himself Nemo, he left you alone for a very long time. I am sorry for that. The thing is … I’m the last of the Dakkars. I’m alone and unique, just like you. We’re kind of each other’s last chance. I’d like your permission to come aboard. I promise I’ll do my best to respect you and listen to you, if you’ll do the same for me. And if you could refrain from killing me that would be great.’

There is no way to tell whether the sub has heard me or understood.

Does it have little coppery ears somewhere on that hull? Does its artificial intelligence even recognize voices?

Only one way to find out.

I step onto the ramp.

I am not immediately electrocuted. I decide this is a good sign.

‘Thank you,’ I tell the Nautilus. ‘I am coming aboard.’

And I step over the last threshold my parents ever crossed.





Two things I do not associate with submarines: elegance and air freshener.

From the main hatch, a circular stairwell descends into a grand foyer that looks more like part of a cruise ship than a working sub. I half expect a steward in a white uniform to offer me a tropical beverage.

The black walls gleam like polished ebony, bordered with golden nemonium beams. On the other side of the room, a second spiral staircase leads down to a lower level. In the centre of the marble floor (at least it looks like marble) is a mosaic crest: a large golden cursive N in a circle of black, wreathed by golden squid. Underneath is the motto MOBILIS IN MOBILE.

Latin. Difficult to translate. Something like moving through the moveable or movement in motion, neither of which makes much sense.

Seeing that motto in person gives me a punch in the gut. I remember reading it in 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea the summer before eighth grade, just after my parents left home for the last time … before I got the news that I was an orphan. My life was moving through the moveable, and I didn’t even know it.

Now I’m standing in the actual Nautilus. Cyrus Harding and Bonaventure Pencroft passed through this room. So did Ned Land and Pierre Aronnax. Not just as characters in Jules Verne’s novels, but as real people.

My head spins. The smell from the air fresheners doesn’t help. They are the cheap kind you might buy at a car wash – cardboard cutouts shaped like Christmas trees. Some dangle from the stair railing. Others are taped to the nemonium wall beams. The cloying fragrances of pine and vanilla wage a war for dominance in my nostrils.

Behind those scents, I catch a whiff of mould and decay. Luca and Ophelia have tried their best, but the Nautilus still smells like a mixture between a rotted-out fishing wharf and somebody’s great-aunt’s house. It’s going to do a number on Robbie Barr’s allergies.

Top seems to think the foyer smells marvellous. He sniffs the air like he’s balancing a ball on his nose. Nelinha studies the walls without touching them, her eyes tracing the path of the air ducts. Ester stands in the middle of the coat of arms and turns in a full circle. Then she turns in reverse, as if unwinding herself.

‘This ship is angry,’ she decides. ‘It feels angry to you, doesn’t it?’

I’m not sure how to answer. My senses are overloaded. I do feel a heaviness in the air, like just before a thunderstorm. I may have bought a temporary truce with the Nautilus, but I suspect it is watching me, waiting for my next move. We are not friends yet. Not by a long shot.

‘It’s beautiful,’ I say. ‘Scary. Overwhelming.’

‘And angry,’ Ester insists. ‘Please be careful, Ana.’

Ophelia is the last one down the stairs. The hatch rises shut behind her.

‘So far, so good.’ She gives me an encouraging smile, but she looks tense. Every muscle in her body seems coiled for action. I imagine if a firecracker went off behind her, she’d jump so high we’d have to prise her off the ceiling. ‘Let’s find my husband.’

That, at least, shouldn’t be hard.

From the aft region of the ship, I hear the distant echo of someone whistling, punctuated by the whir of a power drill.

‘Luca!’ Ophelia’s shout almost makes me jump to the ceiling.

His voice reverberates back as if from the bottom of a well. ‘Yes, mio cuore! Engine room! It is quite safe!’

Ophelia raises an eyebrow at us. ‘So he says. I hope he’s right this time.’

Nelinha frowns. ‘I thought you said there hadn’t been any more, what did you call them, mishaps.’

‘No serious ones, no,’ Ophelia says. ‘But the Nautilus can be … grumpy. This way.’

Oh, hooray. Deeper into a grumpy submarine.

Ophelia leads us aft, down a central corridor.

Paintings in gilded frames hang along the walls. At least I assume they used to be paintings. Now they are canvases of black mould. The tile floor is marked with smudge lines where it looks like someone pulled up a rotten carpet. Along the ceiling, bronze oval light fixtures flicker a dim Halloween orange.

As we pass open doorways, it’s difficult not to stop and gawk.

To port: a formal dining room with a mahogany table and eight matching high-backed chairs. China and silverware gleam in the sideboard cabinet. Under the table lies a tattered and mouldy oriental rug.

To starboard: a library with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. It hurts my heart to see so many mildewed books, swollen and ruined from water damage. Two cracked leather armchairs sit on either side of a wood-burning fireplace. (Seriously? Where does the smoke go?) Against the far wall, a long oval window provides an underwater view of the phytoplankton constellations outside.