The Mammoth Book of New Jules Verne Adventures (42 page)

No one answered. So I
slipped the thin iron hook, which served in part to justify my pseudonym, from
my sleeve and a few seconds later I had unlocked the door. I opened the door
and entered, an explanation prepared in case I had to face Fogg’s anger.

A pointless precaution.
The cabin was empty.

Impossible, yet true.
Fogg had disappeared. The perfect closed door mystery. The cabin had no other
exits, not even a ventilation shaft through which a skilful contortionist could
wend his way. And Fogg’s circumference prohibited any such fantasies.

I took care to close and
lock the door behind me and quickly inspected the few square yards. Everything
was in its place as I had arranged it when we took possession of the rooms. I
resolved to wait for Fogg to return, hidden in his trunk. I was small enough
that this was quite simple. A hole cut in the wicker with my pocket knife gave
me a clear view of the small cabin. All that remained was to wait patiently . .
.

It wasn’t long. I barely
had time to feel the first cramps in my calves when a flash of lightning lit up
the interior of the cabin, as if someone had launched a distress flare. Once
again, I heard the distant detonation. I blinked, my vision blurred by a
thousand phosphorescent specks. Fogg’s voice came to me, distorted by a
metallic echo, as if he were speaking from the other end of a lead pipe.
Despite this, I was able to make out his words.

“Until we meet again,
dear brother!”

When I looked again, he
was there, standing in front of the small writing table that was affixed to the
back wall, adjusting the knot in his tie. He looked exhausted, yet delighted.
He started to whistle a tune that was unfamiliar to me (and for good cause,
since it had been composed in a place to which I could never travel), while
straightening his attire.

I knew immediately that
I had just witnessed a brilliant demonstration, in all meanings of the word, of
travel between worlds. What concerned me above all was what I had heard. Who
had Fogg been speaking with? Who was this ‘brother’ whom he had promised to
meet again?

I had no time for
further questions. Once he had freshened up, Fogg went out. I squeezed out of
my hiding place, inserted my hook into the lock once again (which was locked
from the outside this time), stepped outside, closed the door behind me, and
took to my heels in an effort to beat Fogg to the captain’s table.

Fortunately for me, the Englishman
was in no great hurry. I bolted into the dining room, barely out of breath,
greeted the guests, who had already been seated, apologized to the captain for
my master’s tardiness and sat down just as Fogg entered, radiant and
nonchalant.

The dinner was
delightful and Fogg was a most charming guest.

The next day, we landed
in India.

Once again, I will skip
over the circumstances that lead to the rescue of the beautiful widow of the
Rajah of Bundelkund. M. Verne provided sufficient details in his account. Aouda
Jejeebhoy was a magnificent woman and that is all that matters. If Fogg fell
under the spell of her charms and then enjoyed a mutually beneficial
relationship with her, of which I have absolutely no doubt, the affair was
conducted in the most complete secrecy — at least in my opinion — in a world
where this type of relationship between a white man of high social standing and
a woman of colour, even though she was a princess, did not infringe on good
manners. As for Aouda, I only know what I saw and what M. Verne reported, which
was not much at all.

Together, we boarded the
Rangoon
and headed for Hong Kong from Calcutta. Fogg reserved a second
cabin for Aouda, and I found a company employee who assured me that he had made
no other reservations. With a few well distributed banknotes, I had confirmed
that there was no Mr Smogg on board. I was convinced that he would not attempt
anything during the crossing. Yet, when Fogg informed me, as we approached
Singapore for a brief stopover there, that he was taking the princess for a
ride in the country, I knew that he considered that an ideal opportunity to act
in all quietude since a Frenchman would never be so boorish as to interfere
with a blossoming romance.

A Frenchman wouldn’t,
but I would. After all, my blood contains various exotic influences ... But,
enough said about that. Let us return to what concerns us. Therefore, Fogg
managed to give me the slip for long enough for a carriage ride through
Singapore. I let him take a small lead and then followed. I found it amusing that
I was not alone since that policeman, Fix, had had the same idea.

It was just that Fix was
not sufficiently interested to follow the couple into all of the sites they
visited, much like newlyweds on their honeymoon who are curious about
everything. Most fortunately, I did not share that imbecile’s scruples. In the
old city of Singapore, in the heart of the Chinese community, there is a temple
with elegant, gilded curves, in imitation of ancestral and continental models.
I cannot swear to this, but I think Fogg checked his watch. Then he ordered his
carriage to stop at the entrance to the building and invited Aouda to follow
him. I followed in their footsteps, behind Fix, and was in turn intoxicated by
the rich fragrance of the incense — and something else, more bitter, sharper,
that I suspected had something to do with the poppies that grew a few leagues
from the island, in China.

My suspicions were
confirmed when I discovered, in an area where altars dedicated to the gods were
usually found, a row of stalls, separated by paper screens. In each small
space, a silhouette slumped languorously, pipe in mouth, possibly dreaming,
eyelids fluttering under the effect of the opium.

Never for a single
second did I imagine that Fogg had brought Aouda to such a place to partake of
the pleasures of the drug. I was only half surprised when I saw him convince
the pretty princess to take a puff on a pipe, which immediately put her to
sleep. Then, abandoning her to the supervision of a young Chinese man with a
shaved head, he strode through the pearl curtain at the back of the room.

I made the most of the
welcome darkness to steal a tunic and pointed hat from a smoker and, thus
disguised, I followed suit. My small size gave me an advantage since I was
easily mistaken for an employee of that strange temple and I was allowed to
come and go in peace.

I witnessed the most
extraordinary scene which even today, almost half a century later, remains
engraved in my memory. Fogg had gone into a modest room, lit by an oil lamp,
where the temple accessories were stored. Votive statuettes stood next to rolls
of paper covered with frescos painted in old-fashioned colours; crates of
moth-eaten tunics framed the most impressive object, a superb Buddha in the
lotus position, covered with gold from his belly to the top of his head, as
smooth as could be. I crouched down behind a crate, not far from the single
door, ready to note the slightest suspicious sign. Fogg, glanced quickly around
the room, making sure that he was quite alone and then kneeled in front of the
Buddha.

Was he about to pray? I
was filled with doubt. Would he secretly invoke the pot-bellied idol of the
Asian peoples? But the pretence of prayer did not last. Removing his gloves,
Fogg ran his hands over the statue’s belly, which was as round as a globe of
the Earth. In a low voice, he started to chant in a language that I did not
recognize. Then, to my great surprise, the effigy of the ‘Enlightened One’
shone with a gentle light, which increased in intensity as Fogg recited his rosary.

Under the direction of
Camille Flammarion, I had attended a few séances held to communicate with
another world. As a result, I had already looked upon the luminescent nimbus of
the creatures that had been contacted by the metapsychic. Yet the halo of
energy connecting the universes had never been so bright! I was completely
dazzled and had to close my eyes for a second. The distant detonation caused me
to jump.

When I opened my eyes,
Fogg was no longer alone.

He was embracing a
large, thin man wearing a loose tunic embroidered with gold thread. The hands
of the new arrival, which rested on Fogg’s shoulders, were impressive. Long and
knotted, they ended with claw-like fingernails, covered with a silvery polish.
The embrace continued. Then Fogg took a step back, revealing the face of the
apparition.

I bit the inside of my
cheek to keep myself from crying out.

The face was a perfect
replica of Fogg’s, apart from the skin colour, which was similar to that of the
Natives, and the fine, black whiskers that hung from the corners of his mouth,
much like those of a catfish.

“Welcome, my brother!”
Fogg exclaimed.

I then saw that they
were about to leave the room. I withdrew, with the required amount of
discretion, on tiptoe, and returned to the smoking room where I hid behind a
screen.

Fogg and his ‘brother’
arrived a few seconds later. After embracing once again, Fogg left his curious
twin. Then, he gathered up the sleeping Aouda and left the temple.

I followed suit and took
to my heels to return to the wharves, still wearing the local dress. The
Rangoon
would soon get underway for Hong Kong. Neither Fogg, nor Aouda for that
matter, ever referred to their detour into the opium den.

At this point, I would
like to remind you that we ran into a storm and arrived a day late. It was
there in Hong Kong that Fogg decided to take Aouda to Europe. I’m convinced
that he had already planned the outcome of this decision — marriage — but he
never once breathed a word of it.

That imbecile Fix chose
this moment to interfere and sidetrack me from my mission. After a number of
misadventures, I was able to join Fogg in Yokohama, Japan. M. Verne provides an
uplifting account, with the occasional exaggeration.

Still, we finally found
ourselves together on board the steamer, the
General Grant,
on our way
to America. There, a train would take us from San Francisco to New York, where
our trip around the world would be almost over.

I concluded that I would
have to force Fogg to reveal his intentions before we arrived on the East coast
of the United States. Obviously, I had no way of guessing that he had, in turn,
decided to submit to my requirements, in a most spectacular manner!

Using the pretext that
we might eventually have to ward off an Indian attack as we travelled through
the American Mid West, I purchased some Enfield rifles and Colt revolvers. Fogg
accepted the weapons without comment. He didn’t even take the time to inspect
them. This was fortunate for me since the models I had given him were loaded
with blanks — unlike those I had kept for myself.

I was fully prepared for
the final scene when I would force Fogg to reveal his true identity, just when
he least expected it, namely when he would once again contact a “brother” from
another world, something I was fully convinced he would do. Let me explain. The
first contact had taken place, and I am convinced of this, in the compartment
of the train that carried us across France. In Europe, as a result. The second,
on the ship that carried us to India, near the Arabian peninsula, not far from
Africa. The third took place in Singapore, taking care of Asia. And we had just
landed on the final important continent in our trip around the world: North
America. Thus, it was inevitable that a new ‘brother’ would be contacted there.

However, first hours
then days passed and Fogg appeared to take no interest in anything but the
interminable whist games played with certain passengers. We did have quite a
few adventures (encountering a buffalo herd, crossing a bridge that threatened
to crumble under the weight of the train . . . ), but nothing perturbed Fogg
particularly. We passed through state after state as we inexorably continued on
our way towards the East Coast.

Then we arrived in
Nebraska. There, after that stupid duel Fogg fought with a certain Colonel,
what had been just a pretext for me became reality. A tribe of blood-thirsty
Sioux attacked our train. This was followed by a violent battle in which my
sole concern was to hope that Fogg did not notice he was shooting blanks!

I’ll skip the details.
However, I would just like to say that I had to use all my skills to distance
the Indian threat from the train, taking steps to disconnect the locomotive
from the cars. Just as I was about to return to the train, which was rolling
freely, I received a brutal blow to the back of my head and fell unconscious.

This was one thing M.
Verne did not mention, since he preferred to imply that I remained a prisoner
in the tender as a matter of bad luck! As a result, everyone believes that Fogg
reacted heroically, and like a perfect gentleman, organizing a hasty rescue
mission to Sioux territory.

But, here’s the truth. I
regained consciousness inside a teepee, one of those large pointed tents that
housed entire Indian families. Two stolid braves, with skin as red as brick,
stood guard, armed with rifles. Yet, I was not mistreated and I was even fed
well during the time I was confined there.

Then, rifle shots broke
the silence. Shortly thereafter, the buffalo hide that covered the entrance to
the tent was raised and Fogg came in.

“How are you doing, my
old friend?”