The Map of Chaos (57 page)

It was while trying to describe those new emotions more precisely that the miracle occurred: without realizing it, they were taking the opposite path to the one they had been following in their world. Thus they ended up feeling the powerful emotions they were exposed to. They loved each other in infinite different ways, with infinite different results, only to discover that there was only one true way of loving: when two hearts beat as one. When that happened, nothing else mattered, Jane finally admitted, having discovered to her astonishment that many of her twins accepted that their respective husbands took lovers, provided the women they chose pleased them—in other words, that they posed no threat to their marriages. Her only request (which he fulfilled out of a respect for the truth?) was that he didn't fall in love with them. Afterward, when Wells left them, in some of the universes she herself wrote them long letters of condolence.

In the meantime, in this universe it was Observer Wells who had to take the blame for his dissolute twins.

“But, my dear,” he had protested timidly, in an effort to stop his wife from decimating the rosebushes, “you must admit that intellectually speaking at least it was a brilliant idea. I'm not saying I agree with it, but if you think about it from a logical point of view, in a world dominated by passions, monogamy doesn't reflect man's natural state. In my humble opinion the approach a few of our twins have taken is highly intelligent. After all, provided there is no emotional attachment and both sides consent, what is the harm in an occasional extramarital affair?”

“Would you like to put your theory into practice and verify it empirically,
my dear
?” Jane replied, spinning round with an icy smile as she brandished a pair of pruning shears, which seemed to Wells bigger and more pointed than usual.

“Er . . . I already told you I don't agree with that approach, my dear. I was simply analyzing the, er . . . the logic behind it.” Despite the dangerous proximity of the pruning shears, Wells couldn't help ending his apology with a gibe: “But have no fear. I shall follow the example of those twins of mine who have decided to repress their instincts to promote through their wholesome example a system of virtue and integrity they have no belief in.”

“I think that is the most
intelligent
approach you could possibly adopt, my dear, in my
humble opinion
” was Jane's retort.

But those quarrels were part of their new way of loving each other, and both of them discovered that their ensuing reconciliations, habitually enveloped in a pungent aroma of freshly cut roses, made them worthwhile.

Their minor differences resolved, those were happy times again. Wells was delighted to learn that many of his twins had found success as authors, and moreover with the same books he had thrown on the fire in his universe. He was also very relieved to be able to share that old secret with Jane at last, though even more amazed to discover that she already knew. She had crept into his study one day with the aim of finding out why he shut himself away in there every evening and had been unable to resist reading them.

“I thought they were so wonderful, Bertie, that I was mortified when you condemned them to the flames,” she confessed. “Why don't you go back to writing stories like that? You could do it openly in this world.”

“I don't know, Jane . . .” He hesitated. “I used to be so . . . miserable. I didn't realize it, but I was. And I suppose those stories were my way of escaping, a kind of liberation . . .” He took his wife's hand and kissed it tenderly. “If you want the truth, I no longer feel any need to write.”

“But we are what we imagine,” she said, remembering what the Dodgson from their world had once told her.

“No, my dear,” corrected Wells, smiling suggestively. “We are what we love.”

Jane smiled back at him, and for a few seconds they were content to make eyes at each other, the way they had only recently learned to do. Suddenly, Jane asked, “What if I were to write?”

Wells looked at her, surprised.

“You, write . . . ?” He hesitated, “Well, if that's what you want . . . But why? And what about?”

“Oh, I don't know. And I probably won't even bother,” she replied with a nonchalant air. “I was only thinking aloud . . . Besides, if I did, I would keep it from you, the way you kept yours from me. I have been thinking, and I came to the conclusion that, knowing your twins' ‘urges' as well as I do, the only way I can keep you interested is by making sure you don't know everything about me. I am afraid that if you did, you would get bored and start looking for other . . .
mysteries.
”

“My dear . . . ,” Wells said, his voice choked with desire as he leaned toward his wife's mouth, which parted sensually to receive his kiss, “I assure you that in none of the infinite worlds in which you exist could you be considered a boring woman.”

Jane knew he meant it. Much to her relief, she had seen for herself that, in one way or another, all her twins had managed to escape the fate normally reserved for women in their adopted universes. They were without exception brilliant young women who had avoided humdrum existences by pursuing serious intellectual activities, or a wide array of artistic disciplines, and although that meant they were shunned by society, none of them seemed to care. Those infinite Janes enjoyed being part of their husbands' cultural and political circles, not merely as companions, but as valued and admired colleagues. In fact, none of them fulfilled the roles expected of women in their respective worlds, and Observer Jane felt as proud of that as if she had instructed each of them herself.

And yet it made her equally sad to observe that they all voiced the same complaint: their husbands didn't love them enough. They all thought, as they pruned their rosebushes with a vengeance, filling their respective houses with reproaches that reeked of freshly cut roses, that their husbands would never understand them or realize how far they were from making their wives happy. But they were mistaken. All of them were mistaken. Observer Jane wished she could tell them everything she knew, about what her Wells had described to her in so much detail, about what all of their husbands felt deep inside, safe from prying eyes: how much they admired and respected their wives, how profound their love for them was, and the terrible impotence they experienced in not being able to show it. Perhaps Wells was incapable of grand romantic gestures in any of the infinite universes, but Observer Jane knew that somewhere deep down he possessed that ability, and it was only a matter of time before it burst forth in one of those worlds, before some Wells showed his Jane what he was capable of doing for love. Indeed, Observer Wells was a case in point: no doubt intimidated by a universe full of discontented Janes, he had developed an unexpectedly amorous nature that would have made Casanova himself turn green with envy. And if her Wells could do it . . . Although he wasn't just any Wells, Jane reflected proudly, he was a unique Wells. Different from any other Wells. And he was hers.

When his twin went off to London to study at the Normal School of Science, Wells decided it was time to resume his old plan and try to become part of the lives of that Wells and his future wife. Curiously, no matter how hard they concentrated, the minds of these two were the only ones Observer Wells and Observer Jane were unable to inhabit. Although that made some sense: the stage on which their twins were performing must have been a sort of observatory from which to contemplate the other stages in the theater, and perhaps that was why it was more difficult for them to observe it. As a result, the only way for them to discover more about their lives was through the traditional method of spying, watching from a distance their movements, which didn't seem to differ much from those of their other twins. Thus far, nothing in that couple's placid existence seemed to justify the urgent need that had driven Wells and Jane to move to Sevenoaks, although, now that Wells's double had moved to the biggest city in the world, that might all change. With the aim of keeping as close an eye on his twin as possible, Observer Wells requested references from his former dean at Oxford and managed to obtain a teaching post at the Normal School of Science. It was the second time the Wellses had moved since they fell down a rabbit hole into Dodgson's sitting room, in front of Alice's startled little eyes, and they couldn't help wondering whether that change might also herald the beginning of another Dark Era. Having found happiness again, having turned their lives into a prolongation of those golden afternoons by learning to love each other with utter devotion, neither wanted that to end. They did not believe fate could be so cruel.

But it was, as they discovered a week after they moved to London. The couple were sitting in front of the fire, after what for Wells had been a particularly grueling day. He had taught his first lessons at the school, and although he had been quite satisfied with the experience, he came home exhausted. After almost twenty years of not teaching and relating to practically nobody apart from Jane, it had taken a Herculean effort for Wells to control his talents and avoid giving his pupils the impression that he was a madman. Perhaps that was why he had spent longer than usual with his eyes shut, a weary smile on his lips, barely holding on to his forgotten glass, whose contents threatened to slosh onto the carpet. He looked so shattered that Jane decided not to trouble him. There would be no story that night, she said to herself resignedly, standing up to find a book with which to pass the time. Then her husband cried out, opening his eyes abruptly as he clutched his left hand, finally spilling half his drink. He had an expression of genuine bewilderment on his face.

“What's the matter, Bertie?” asked Jane, alarmed.

Wells allowed reality to settle around him for a few moments before stammering, “I just saw Newton . . . and he . . . he bit my hand.”

“Our dog bit you?”

“Naturally, my dear, I would scarcely be referring to Newton the scientist.”

Jane ignored the retort.

“What do you mean he bit you?”

“Well . . . he didn't bite me, of course; he bit the Wells whom I was observing,” he explained, rubbing his left hand absentmindedly. “He was a very young Wells, almost a child, out strolling in the countryside, on a lovely, sunny day, when suddenly Newton leapt out of a bush. The dog seemed jumpy. Perhaps because he recognized my scent on that young Wells but at the same time he realized it wasn't me. I suppose that must have confused him . . . In any case, he sprang at my twin and bit his hand.”

“Are you sure it was
our
Newton?” asked Jane, still unwilling to believe it.

Wells nodded sadly.

“It was definitely him, my dear. He had that white heart-shaped patch on his head.”

“Oh, God . . . And what did your twin do?”

“Er . . . he kicked him.”

“Bertie, how could you?”

“It wasn't me, Jane!” protested Wells. Then he cleared his throat before adding: “Newton ran off yelping and . . .”

“And what? For goodness' sake, Bertie, what happened to—”

Wells clasped her hands in his and gazed at her forlornly.

“I'm awfully sorry, my dear, but a carriage was going past at that moment, and Newton—”

“No!” Jane buried her face in her hands and began to sob loudly.

Wells attempted to console her. “Don't cry, my dear. At least he had a happy life.”

“You can't be sure of that,” Jane spluttered.

“Oh, I can,” replied Wells. “After the, er . . . tragedy, a woman came running over and held Newton in her arms.”

“A woman?”

“His mistress. According to what she told my twin, the dog had run off while she was taking him for a walk. When she noticed the boy's bloody hand she was horrified. She said she couldn't understand what had come over Bobbie, that he was a docile, affectionate creature who had never bitten anyone in all the years he had been with her family, ever since they found him wandering around a field in Oxford.” Wells stroked his wife's hair. “My dear, she really seemed to love Newton. I saw for myself how she wept inconsolably and held him tight, as if she thought that warming him with her body might bring him back to life . . . Our puppy immediately found a good home, and he has been very happy all this time.”

But Wells's words didn't seem to console his wife, and so he remained silent and let her weep. Not a single day had passed when Jane didn't think about Newton, hoping that wherever he was he was safe and sound, and if possible in a happy home. But discovering that was the case didn't diminish her terrible grief over his gruesome death: crushed under the wheels of a carriage after being kicked by the person he had possibly just recognized as his previous owner. When she looked up, her face puffy from crying, she was furious to see her husband staring off into space, without so much as a tear in his eye.

“Herbert George Wells, how can you be so callous!” Jane scolded. “Don't you care what happened to Newton? We are to blame, or more precisely
you
are to blame! You injected him with that accursed virus! You made him—”

“Return to a state of calm, my dear.”

That old proverb, spoken in a tone long forgotten by them both, caused Jane to stop crying instantaneously, and she stared at her husband in astonishment.

“Listen, Jane,” Wells resumed before she had a chance to interrupt, “I'm sorry you are so beset by grief, and I wish I could do something to stop that, for two reasons: because I don't like to see you suffering, and because it is clouding your mind. And I need your cleverness, Jane. I need it now. Think, dear, think . . . As you so rightly said, I injected the dog with the virus. A virus we didn't know worked until we arrived here . . . Now, what do you think will happen if Newton has infected my twin with that virus? It could be more contagious now: it may have mutated and be active in humans . . .”