The Mammoth Book of New Jules Verne Adventures (45 page)

We arrived in Hong Kong
after much adventure. In your letters you expressed the wish that you could
join me in my pursuit. You must realize that this travelling abroad, though
exhilarating for a man, would be much too demanding for a delicate woman such
as yourself. You are much happier at home.

Just before we landed we
met with a hurricane, the greatest storm I’ve ever seen. It was as if the
heavens themselves were on my side, whipping the seas and the wind into frenzy
to delay us. And while I was gripped by the most horrible nausea, I hoped we’d
have to turn and run before the squall, which would slow our journey to Hong
Kong. This made it more likely the warrant would arrive, and would also disrupt
whatever plans this scoundrel has for escaping the law.

Alas, the vessel braved
it, and we made landfall shortly after.

Meanwhile, I learned
that the relatives of the mysterious woman are not likely to chase Fogg for
besmirching her honour. Aouda is a mere native, despite her pale skin — an
Indian princess, whom Passepartout and Fogg supposedly rescued from being
burned with her husband’s body, a barbarous tradition of immolation. Now she is
travelling with them.

They have already
reserved berths on the
Carnatic,
which was scheduled to depart tomorrow
for Yokohama. But I met Passepartout on his way from the quay to his master’s
hotel, and he told me the
Carnatic
has unexpectedly changed its
departure time to this evening instead. The Frenchman was in a great hurry to
tell Fogg about it, but I waylaid the simple-minded and naive servant and got
him intoxicated in an opium den, a very common establishment in these parts.

The man will sleep for
at least a day, till long after the
Carnatic
has sailed. I am sure Fogg
will not leave without his man. If my plan succeeds in delaying them, I shall
go to the embassy and see if there are any forwarded letters from you.

Yours,

Herbert Fix

Letter #45

14 November 1872

Yokohama, Japan

Elizabeth,

Once more I write in
haste. Fogg, having missed the
Carnatic,
engaged a small sail boat, the
Tankedere
—
and he allowed me to travel with him. He does not even suspect that I am
his nemesis! And Passepartout refuses to believe his master might be a thief.
Either he is a wily accomplice, or a fool.

It is maddening to be so
near him for so long and yet not to have the warrant that would stop him in his
tracks. But there is nothing for it, as we’re no longer in British territory.
My only hope now is that he’ll indeed go around the world in such a fashion
hoping to confuse pursuers. I shall arrest him as soon as he lands in England
again. Fogg intends to pursue travel to America aboard the
General Grant.

I’ve already engaged a
cabin in the
General Grant,
and I’ve now read the latest batch of your
letters which, if you’ll forgive me, are rather tiresome in your insistence that
I return to you at once. I have a job to do. Despite the rate at which this
scoundrel is spending the stolen money, think of the renown his capture will
bring me, and how much easier it will make my rise in the world.

Only minutes ago I saw
Passepartout being dragged into the boat by Fogg. Passepartout wore a most
extraordinarily fanciful oriental uniform, with wings and a false nose which
would have sufficed for a family of twelve. People on deck say this is a
costume worn in theatre for the glory of some god or other. Foolish native
habits and abominable idolatry, of course, and one wonders how even a Frenchman
could bear to mix himself in it.

While I take a moment to
catch my berth, let me tell you something about Yokohama. It is a city of good
size, and the native quarter is lit by many-coloured lanterns. There are
astrologers everywhere using fine telescopes. Scientific instruments to enhance
their superstition. Most ironic. For fun, I thought about having a horoscope
cast for you — an unusual and exotic gift — but I had no time to delay. I must
catch Fogg.

Sincerely,

Herbert Fix

Letter #64

3 December 1872

San Francisco, United States of America

Elizabeth,

We are in San Francisco,
the wild city of 1849, with its bandits, incendiaries, and assassins who all
came here in the Gold Rush. The city looks more civilized than you’d expect,
with a lofty tower in the town hall and a whole network of streets and avenues.
It also has a Chinese town, that you’d swear came from China itself.

We found ourselves caught
in the middle of some incomprehensible political rally — a dispute for the post
of Justice of the Peace involving two men — and soon it turned into a brawl. I
could not make head nor tail of it, nor why anyone would seek to harm anyone
else over such a silly squabble. I think these Americans are just hot-tempered.

In the turmoil, I
actually protected Fogg from what might have been a disabling blow. Don’t
worry. Other than my clothes, nothing was hurt. Fogg insisted on buying me new
garments, which are of a quality and cut to which even your parents could not
object.

In your latest letters
you reproached me for my “despicable Opium plot.” I must say that you simply
don’t understand the business of men. Some deeds, though unpleasant, are
necessary. Don’t concern yourself about the matter any further.

You’ll be heartened to
know I’m now wholeheartedly working to speed Fogg’s travel. Indeed, now that
the thief is heading back to England, I am more than glad to help him. The
sooner he gets there, the sooner I can arrest him. (And be back home with you,
of course.)

And now we are to catch
a train on the Pacific Railroad, headed for New York, from where we shall sail
for London. I must rush to the train, so I don’t lose sight of Fogg.

Herbert Fix

Letter #70

11 December 1872

New York, United States

Elizabeth,

Sorry for not writing
for two days. Ran out of paper. You’d never believe what we’ve done in our trip
across the United States. We rushed over a bridge mere moments before it
collapsed, and in the process we’d stoked up such a head of steam that we didn’t
even stop until we’d passed the station! Then there was a herd of animals so
large that they impeded the movement of the train. We had to wait until the
beasts moved before the train could pass. Only imagine! The Americans call them
buffalo, though Fogg said that such a classification is absurd. Not sure why.

The wonders of this
continent. This world.

At one point, Fogg
nearly engaged in a gunfight duel with another passenger, but they were
interrupted by an attack from the savage Sioux, who kidnapped three passengers,
including Passepartout — which, naturally, necessitated a rescue. Afterward, we
caught an express train at Omaha station. Fogg, apparently imagining the demons
of justice after him, is not fond of sightseeing, only rushing onward and
onward. All the better, for that means I’ll collect my reward sooner.

Now we’ve reached New
York at last — but alas the vessel in which we expected to cross the Atlantic
sailed forty-five minutes before our arrival. Fogg will no doubt find some boat
to purchase or coerce. I very much fear there’s not much money left out of the
£50,000 he stole, but I shall still reap fame for apprehending him. Wouldn’t
you like to be the wife of a hero?

Herbert Fix

Letter #80

21 December Friday

Liverpool

Elizabeth,

We have made landfall,
and I served Phileas Fogg with the warrant, but — how could misfortune befall
me so? After all my labours, after pursuing him round the world, I am not to
enjoy success. Despite every indication, it appears that Fogg is not the thief
after all, for the man who actually stole the £50,000 was apprehended three
days ago, whilst I was travelling.

Worse, that upstart
Passepartout punched me when he learned my true purpose in accompanying them on
their long journey. Now I am bruised and tired, humiliated, disappointed — but
at least I’m home, where doubtless you’ll be waiting for me.

Herbert Fix

[On
embossed
letterhead identifying it as belonging to the law firm of Everingham,
Entwhistle and Brown — on the fireplace mantel of Fix’s home.]

London,

18 December 1872

Dear Mr Herbert Fix,

This letter serves to
notify you that your wife, the honourable Elizabeth Rose Merryweather Fix, has
returned to her parents’ home and is suing you for divorce on the grounds of
abandonment.

Our client has further
instructed us to inform you that she did not object to your poverty or even
your low upbringing, but she cannot forgive your obsession with career at the
expense of her peace of mind and felicity. She further instructs us to inform
you that you married her under false pretences, always having characterized
your marriage as a love match, when it is clear you love nothing more than your
reputation and the pursuit of your own ambitions.

Lord and Lady
Merryweather advise you to pose no argument and seek no reconciliation with
their daughter, as they have the means to see you dismissed from your
employment.

Sincerely,

Nigel Entwhistle,
Esquire.

Fresh from
Around the World in Eighty Days,
Verne returned to the
character of Captain Nemo, believed dead at the end of
20,000 Leagues Under
the Sea. L’île mystérieuse
or
The Mysterious Island
had had a long
genesis. Verne had written an early version before he wrote
20,000 Leagues,
and this was essentially a novel of castaways who survive on an island by
using their ingenuity and scientific knowledge. It was derived, to a large
degree, from one of Verne’s favourite books,
Swiss
Family
Robinson
(1813)
by Johann Wyss. By the time he returned to it, though, Verne was able to weave
into it characters from other novels. We find that the survivors of a balloon
accident on a remote island have some kind of mysterious protector who turns
out, at the very end of the novel, to be none other than Captain Nemo. He
reveals, in his final moments, the truth about his origins and motives. With
his death the castaways obey his last wish and scuttle the
Nautilus
which
bears its body to a watery grave.
We
have already seen from Mallory’s
story that there might be another interpretation of Nemo’s final days. Now we
look ahead to the inspiration that the character and story gave to future
generations.

Riba leant out of the
window and looked up. His body was at an awkward twist because he dare not let
go of the ledge. It was twelve floors down to the pavement. Just above him and
to his right, outside the Newsdesk window, the summons’ posts of the Avian
Messenger Service jutted out of the brickwork. One of them was occupied by the
sturdy form of an external maintenance Parrokeet who was testing the wirework
for the new satellite dish the editor had just had installed. The other two
were empty.

Riba pulled his head in
and ran a hand through his hair reflectively. The posts and local environs were
crusted with foul-smelling bird muck which had a habit of flaking loose. He
lived in dread of inhaling the stuff, but he seemed to have escaped this once.

“Go stir up some
trouble, Riba, you’re spoiling the view.” Slattery, who was supposed to be
writing the minority sports column, had his feet up on his desk. A printed
magazine was laid over his face as he leant back in his chair, arms behind his
head.