Captain Nemo_ The Fantastic History Of A Dark Genius Part 12

He shouted with delight, and the noise echoed back at him, refracted by the crystals and stalact.i.tes, so that it sounded as if an entire chorus of wide-eyed young men had expressed their amazement. If only Caroline could be here.

He drank in the splendor for minutes, until he remembered he had few torches remaining. Then he extinguished the fire and sat waiting until his eyes adjusted. A brighter patch of the pale glow appeared from below. He would use the staggered flow of stalact.i.tes as a staircase to reach the bottom of the pit.

Nemo made his way, grasping with both hands, feeling with his feet. The stalact.i.tes were slick and damp. Every inch was accomplished at the risk of falling to his death, but he continued, undaunted. He knew there must be an easier path somewhere, for the dinosaur could never have toiled up through this treacherous labyrinth. For Nemo, though, any path that continued to lead forward was as good as any other.

Halfway down, he found a wide ledge, where he curled up and slept again. Some hours later, he woke, drank some mineralized water that had pooled in a depression on one of the rocks, and set off once more.

When he reached the bottom, he fell to his knees on the cold, hard stone. After he caught his breath, he walked toward the brightening light. He emerged into a second grotto, even more vast than the first, and Nemo knew he had stepped into another world -- a fairyland beyond even the wildest theories of modern science.

The ground was soft and crumbly, and the air smelled of mulch. All around him, as far as he could see, stood immense fungi, mushrooms as tall as trees. The mushroom caps were white, each ringed with a golden frill. Some were the size of dining chairs, others grew four times as tall as a man. Wreaths of mist crept around the gigantic toadstools, and dripping strands of moss clung to the rocks. A greenish, cold light filled the chamber as if it oozed from the rock walls.

Far in the distance, obscured by the humid air, Nemo heard a raucous cry from a bird whose species he could not determine. It sounded immense, louder and stranger than any bird he had encountered in his travels.

He walked into the forest of mushrooms like a lost wanderer and stood under them as if seeking refuge beneath Herculean garden umbrellas. They made him think of the parasols Caroline carried when she strolled out in the sun dressed in her finest clothes. Her mother had seen to it that she had the finest accouterments, but Caroline held them awkwardly, daydreaming, letting her parasol droop to the mud as her attention wandered to other things.

Nemo shook that thought from his mind and continued.

He rapped his knuckles against the stiff stem -- or was it the trunk? -- of a mushroom. It was softer than wood, but still firm and thick. When he pushed harder, a rain of dusty spores showered from the broad mushroom cap. They covered him like sawdust as he coughed and sneezed, but he laughed and knocked the mushroom again, setting off another shower. He ran through the mushroom forest, b.u.mping the pallid stems and unleas.h.i.+ng a torrent of spores.

He climbed one of the mushroom trunks and used his pirate cutla.s.s to hack off a chunk of the soft fungus. He chewed on it, finding the delicate flesh a wonderful accompaniment to his preserved dinosaur meat.

Nemo wandered through the mushroom forest, always continuing toward the brightening light. When at last he pa.s.sed beyond the mammoth toadstools, Nemo looked ahead into a steaming primeval jungle filled with prehistoric plant life. He could lose himself in its wonders and mystery for months without end.

Just then Nemo heard the ominous sounds of large creatures cras.h.i.+ng toward him through the dense underbrush.

iii

Paris, ah Paris!

Leaving his backwater town behind, Jules Verne felt as if he had stepped into a color-filled painting by one of the great masters. The buildings, cafes, cathedrals, street performers -- the culture culture -- were all so different from home. The Seine! The Louvre! Notre Dame! It was like a fantastic world from the stories of Marco Polo or the romances of Sir Walter Scott. Paris was indeed the center of France, its heart and its mind. And Verne reveled in being here. -- were all so different from home. The Seine! The Louvre! Notre Dame! It was like a fantastic world from the stories of Marco Polo or the romances of Sir Walter Scott. Paris was indeed the center of France, its heart and its mind. And Verne reveled in being here.

He had at first been fearful of the political turmoil: b.l.o.o.d.y uprisings, gunfire in the streets, worker barricades, revolutionary fervor. His father had been concerned, and his mother had gnawed her fingernails in worry. Verne, though, wrote from his narrow room to rea.s.sure them that he was having a fine time. And, of course, learning much.

He reached Paris in July, just after a long string of violence that had plagued the capitol since February. Though Pierre Verne was a staunch conservative and had raised his son to hold similar opinions, the younger Verne now found it confusing enough just to keep track of who was running which portion of the country during any given week. Politics made him dizzy.

Two years of bad wheat and potato harvests had sent prices soaring, and peasants began looting bakeries and food storehouses, demanding their due. When factories closed, unemployed workers took to the streets. The government refused to inst.i.tute changes, and during a protest march in February, a frightened army patrol had fired into the crowd, triggering a riot.

The incident united the dissatisfied people behind barricades, and even the National Guard joined the rebels after ransacking armories for weapons. Within days they had ousted numerous officials from the government, then marched on King Louis Philippe himself, who abdicated and fled to England. In his wake, the French people declared a new Republic. Elections were held on April 23, and in the following months the government struggled to a.s.sert itself. The bloodiest battles took place in June -- the Archbishop of Paris had been killed while trying to negotiate peace with a pocket of rebels.

A month later, when Verne entered the city with little spending money and an avid curiosity, he explored the alleys and byways, careful to stay clear of any danger. He saw the cluttered barricades thrown up in the streets -- carts, barrels, ladders, and crates stacked on top of furniture to block the military guard. He tried to imagine the bravery, the sacrifices, the heroes and traitors. It took his breath away . . . so long as he didn't have to be counted among the partic.i.p.ants.

Some nights as he lay awake, he heard gunshots in the distance. Later, he spotted white starbursts where bullets had struck the brick walls and shattered windows. He could even see the path of a cannonball down a long street, tracing the wreckage through successive balconies, bal.u.s.trades, and facades. Verne stood with his hands on his narrow hips and marveled at the sight.

Though others railed against the changing governments and charged off to join the continued fighting, Verne kept a low profile in Paris. It was a matter of common sense. He remained in his rooms far from the gunfire, cannon shots, or battle cries. He had no interest in seeing the excitement, did not want to place himself in danger's path.

His lost friend Nemo would probably have gone running in with a flag in one hand and a musket in the other, outraged at the injustice they were fighting. Verne had always admired the idea idea of doing the things Nemo did, but his personal safety took precedence. of doing the things Nemo did, but his personal safety took precedence.

He remained on the outskirts of politics, a mere bystander, risking nothing. Outside the Paris National a.s.sembly, he watched revolutionaries celebrating their victory in April's elections. The shouting men wore cotton caps and raised thin sabers, no doubt stolen from fallen soldiers in the street fighting. Since February, the peasants in the militia had been allowed to carry their own weapons, and they did so with great fervor.

At times, surrounded by turmoil and chaos, strident voices and gunshots, celebrations and parades, he longed for quiet days on the peaceful docks of Ile Feydeau. But then he would remember that Caroline was married to her sea captain, Nemo was lost at sea, and his own father wanted him to spend every hour in the dreary law offices. At least Paris was exciting, in its own way.

To him, there was no point in going home. Verne would rather stay here to feel the excitement in the air, the thrill of liberty -- a vigor that could not be matched in a provincial city like Nantes. In Paris, the world had opened up to him. He discovered the marvels of the theater and the opera. In Nantes, staged dramas had been unusual events, but in Paris Verne grew dizzy trying to keep up with the performances scheduled for every night of the week.

Ah, if only he could afford them all! His father had given him a limited budget based upon what the country lawyer considered a fair cost of living. But the revolutions and the fighting had created extraordinary inflation in Paris, and the value of a franc had plummeted. Verne could buy barely half of what his father expected him to afford with his allowance. Meticulous Pierre Verne required his son to keep an itemized list to prove that he needed a larger monthly stipend.

Verne worked hard in his law cla.s.ses, discussed the various lecturers with his fellow students, and knew how eccentric and facetious their grading systems could be. All of his prior legal knowledge had come from a provincial practice dealing with everyday matters. Yet the professors at the Paris Academy expected him to be familiar with grand ethical arguments and obscure cases that meant nothing on Ile Feydeau.

But Verne studied, anxious to pa.s.s, though he had no desire to become an attorney. A far worse fate, he thought, would be to fail and return home to the wrath of his father. No, he would rather face rapacious pirates or typhoons.

Still, even when his head hurt, his eyes burned from lack of sleep, and his muscles ached from poor food and sheer weariness, Verne found time to spend in the company of stimulating intellectuals.

For hours, he sat with musician friends and aspiring poets in bistros and sipped his coffee oh-so-slowly so as not to have to purchase another cup. They spouted verse to each other, reminding Verne of the evenings his family had challenged each other to make rhymes. He also met other writers, one of whom had even had a two-act tragedy performed in a small puppet theater, which made him a celebrity in their circle.

His mind filled to overflowing, Verne's imagination caught fire. He remembered his literary ambitions, which had been quashed by the bemus.e.m.e.nt of his mother and utter lack of encouragement from his father. Yet now he became more infected than ever with the dream of becoming an acclaimed dramatist -- and for that he needed to search out philosophical topics and devise grand commentaries on the human condition. Forsaking Robinson Crusoe Robinson Crusoe and and Swiss Family Robinson Swiss Family Robinson, Verne turned to Voltaire and Balzac, Byron and Sh.e.l.ley, reveling in their hot-blooded romanticism.

One day, waving a ticket that a sick friend had given him, Verne found a seat in the audience of the National a.s.sembly, where a case was being argued. A publisher had been arrested and his newspaper, La Presse La Presse, forcibly suspended by the government. For Verne, the main attraction was when the great novelist Victor Hugo rose to speak with great pa.s.sion for the cause of freedom of speech.

As a celebrity, Hugo had been elected as a deputy of the National a.s.sembly. "He may as well serve his country," one of Verne's aspiring-writer friends had commented sarcastically. "It's been ten years since he published anything new." Then the students had begun to argue about whether Hugo could ever surpa.s.s his literary masterpiece, The Hunchback of Notre Dame The Hunchback of Notre Dame.

Verne hoped that with great minds such as Victor Hugo's in the Second Republic -- and the election of the enlightened Louis Napoleon Bonaparte, nephew of the great Napoleon -- Paris and France would finally embark upon a long period of stability and prosperity.

He paid little attention to either politics or rhetoric at the a.s.sembly, but instead nudged closer to the great Hugo. The man turned and met Verne's eyes for the briefest of instants, which would keep the young man in happy delirium for an entire week. . . .

Mulling over these thoughts as he left the National a.s.sembly, Verne found a few sous in his pocket, enough for one day's food. But he walked past the fruit carts and bakery baskets and stopped instead at a book shop. There, he found the romances of Sir Walter Scott in thirteen volumes, a collection of the poetry of Racine -- and, in a single magnificent tome, the Complete Works of William Shakespeare.

Verne counted the coins in the palm of his hand, studying the prices of the books. A person had to have priorities, after all. After d.i.c.kering with the vendor, he settled on an amount. Verne walked home, penniless and still hungry . . . but carrying the book of Shakespeare.

He considered it a better investment of his money than mere food.

iv

Nemo was a stranger in a world where no human being had ever set foot.

Misty swamps spread out in the lost landscape, inhabited by strange and forgotten creatures. The ceiling of the incredible grotto became a sky of stone high above. Stalact.i.tes blurred in the distance, as far away as clouds, lit by a strange bright smear like a surrogate sun.

Nemo forged a path through the virgin wilderness. The primeval paradise simmered with subdued noises, shattered by occasional roars like the carnivorous dinosaur that had attacked his island. He pushed aside curled ferns similar to the tails of caged monkeys he had seen on the docks in Nantes.

In addition to his mushroom feast, he found brightly colored fruits and edible leaves in this uncharted Eden. Now that he was traveling again after so many years, Nemo felt even more restless. He moved one step at a time, pus.h.i.+ng onward in hopes of discovering a pa.s.sage that led upward. Home.

He trudged through swamps, slos.h.i.+ng in ankle-deep, peaty water. Huge flowers like sunbursts brightened the humid green-brown world. A dragonfly the size of a vulture ratcheted by with wings like the glider he had built. Nemo ducked to one side as the mammoth insect swooped down to the sluggish water, scooped up a thras.h.i.+ng fish, and made off with its meal.

Nemo parted moss-covered branches to look out upon a dozen wading dinosaurs, immense beasts larger than any whale. Their long necks curled like a giraffe's. One plump creature gazed at him with placid eyes, its mouth full of uprooted swamp weeds. It showed no intelligence, only a dull interest. The plant-eating dinosaurs dismissed him and went back to their tireless eating.

Keeping track of time and direction as best he could, Nemo slept when he was tired, ate when he was hungry. In the smoky twilight, he used his best guess to keep a regular cycle of day and night. He fas.h.i.+oned a makes.h.i.+ft compa.s.s in a small pool of water, but could not verify its accuracy. He did not know his direction . . . only onward.

For weeks he continued through the deeper swamp into a cl.u.s.ter of conifers that sheltered a h.o.a.rd of large, scaly bats. The startled bats took off with a thunderous flapping of wings toward the grotto ceiling, much as a flock of sparrows might have flown from a shooting party back in France.

At one point it rained for days on end. Salty-tasting water streamed from high above. Uneasy, Nemo wondered if he'd pa.s.sed beneath a porous section of the ocean floor that allowed water to trickle through. According to his best estimates, Nemo had long since pa.s.sed beyond the confines of the island.

The grotto seemed to go on forever, as if the Earth had swallowed a bubble of the past and preserved it far from the surface. Nemo proceeded for what might have been months, clinging to a thin twine of hope that if he walked far enough, searched diligently enough, he would emerge again to civilization.

In the remaining, waterstained pages in his bound journal, he continued to doc.u.ment his travels, pressing a few strange leaves and flowers between sheets of dense description. Even with the daily entries and the specimens, though, he doubted anyone would believe his story -- any more than he and Jules Verne had believed the tall tales told by sailors on the docks of Ile Feydeau.

At last, the prehistoric forest thinned again, returning to low swamps that led out of the ferns to another grove of t.i.tanic mushrooms. For a gut-wrenching moment Nemo feared that the mushroom forest was the same one he had first encountered. What if he had circ.u.mnavigated the buried grotto and found no other pa.s.sage to the surface?

As he studied more carefully, though, he realized that the forest, the water, even the far-off ceiling of stalact.i.tes, looked different. This was a new place, and the strangeness of it all gave him the energy to hurry forward.

Nemo parted the tall stems of mushrooms, disregarding the showers of spores, and came upon a sight that filled him with dismay. Where the spongy ground ended in an abrupt sh.o.r.e, the gray-blue waters of an incomprehensibly vast subterranean sea spread beyond the visible horizon, like spilled quicksilver. Currents stirred the water, as if from a bizarre tide in the center of the Earth.

Nemo saw no way around the water. He looked left and right at the ocean that stretched as far as he could see. From here he had no place left to go.

v

Jules Verne had pressed hard to obtain an invitation to a "minor literary soiree." However, now that he stood in a large private house among the Paris literati, pretending to belong among them, he felt as if he were walking in the clouds. Simply being here, Verne felt as if he were making progress toward his own ambitions. . . .

He wore his only good suit of clothes, which was a bit faded and tattered from continuous wear. Self-conscious, but affecting a haughty air to imitate those around him, Verne dipped into conversation with fiery-eyed young men who had political or dramatic ambitions. Still a hungry student, Verne also made frequent trips to the buffet table and ate four times as much as the other attendees, who only nibbled at the pet.i.ts fours and hors d'oeuvres.

The months in Paris had already stretched to more than a year. During days in the Academy lecture halls, he dove into legal esoterica dating to Roman times. Although he remained uninterested, Verne knew he must do well enough to pa.s.s his exams and send appropriate reports to his parents. Otherwise Pierre Verne would bring him home, and he couldn't think of a drearier prospect.

He wrote regular letters, often mailing separate messages to his mother in which he complained of indigestion and various ailments, seeking sympathy. In missives to his father, he emphasized how hard he was studying and how difficult it was to survive in Paris on the meager allowance he received.

In the evenings, feeling out of his element, Verne met with acquaintances in coffee shops along the Left Bank and at the Sorbonne. In his correspondence, though, Verne took care not to express his literary ambitions. He did not describe times spent in salons or at social parties where he hoped to meet famous personages of the French art scene. His father had little patience for such dreams and would see no connection between meeting "idlers, buffoons, or subversives" and his son's future as a stable lawyer.

Verne paid for his double life through lack of sleep. He stayed up late and rose early, struggling to meet both his father's obligations and those imposed by his ambitions. Though he had no money and only a tiny attic apartment, Verne still managed to insinuate himself into the circles of those who held rich parties in the finer quarters of Paris.

Now, surrounded by a buzz of conversation, he listened with giddy interest to profound debates. With pa.s.sion or feigned boredom, the literati discussed the plays offered along the boulevard du Temple, farces or romantic comedies, a few one-act tragedies told in lyrical verse. Many men chatted about the new play by Alexandre Dumas, who had adapted the first part of The Three Musketeers The Three Musketeers, to a stage production performed in his own playhouse, the Theatre Historique.

Comparable only to Victor Hugo, Dumas was the literary light of French romanticism. For almost two decades, he had produced masterpieces of historical adventure. His most recent success, The Man in the Iron Mask The Man in the Iron Mask, had appeared in 1847, the year before revolutions had forced him to close down his theatres. Now the Theatre Historique had reopened, with the performance of a brand new play by the master.

Verne could never afford to see such a production, though he longed to. Still, it was a wonderful time to be in Paris, the pinnacle of human civilization.

When the topic inevitably turned from literature to politics, Verne found the conversation tedious. He wandered out of the drawing room in search of something else to hold his attention . . . and perhaps more food. He wondered how much he could hide in his pockets. Hearing a harpsichord and singing upstairs, he trotted up a long, curving marble staircase, so polished and smooth that it was like walking on wet ice.

Dozens of people milled about below, most of whom Verne didn't know. Their fas.h.i.+ons dismayed him, their references to unrecognized names confused him, but he continued to wear a knowing smile and moved from one group to another before anyone could expose his ignorance.

As he hurried up the marble steps in his worn shoes, Verne slipped and grabbed for the stone banister to keep his balance. Missing it, he fell into a tumbling roll, just as an enormous man began to climb the stairs. Verne crashed into the mountainous, dark-skinned stranger, who caught him with a loud oof. oof. They both tumbled backward like carts cras.h.i.+ng in a crowded street, a flurry of legs and shoes.

While a few other party-goers t.i.ttered at the spectacle, Verne disentangled himself and mumbled his apologies, blus.h.i.+ng as red as a sugarbeet with embarra.s.sment. He kept his gaze downcast, fl.u.s.tered. "Excuse me, Monsieur! I stumbled. I couldn't help myself."

The big man laughed, and Verne raised his eyes, hoping he hadn't b.u.mbled into a person in a surly mood. A haughty man just might challenge a gangly young student to a duel, and then Jules Verne would have to demonstrate just how fast he could run.

The stranger was one of the fattest men Verne had ever seen. He had kinky black hair that showed a strong Negro heritage and dusky skin, though light enough in color to indicate mixed blood. His fingers were studded with rings and he sported a cravat pin worth more than Verne's entire annual stipend. The man's cheeks were like balloons, and his dark eyes sparkled with amus.e.m.e.nt at the incident.

"Oh, ho! I'm delighted that I could rescue you by forming a barricade of my girth, young Monsieur." He patted the sheer volume of stomach barely contained within his straining waistcoat. "My only disappointment is that you've unsettled the delicious Nantes omelet I have just consumed."

Verne brushed himself off, though the lint and tatters and faded spots in his clothes were not so easily whisked away. Trying not to appear such a buffoon, he remembered his mother's secret recipe. "A Nantes omelet?" He scratched at the stubbly beard he had begun to grow in imitation of Paris literary fas.h.i.+on. Perhaps he could extend an appropriate apology. "You have not tasted the best omelet, Monsieur, because you have not yet eaten mine. I have a special recipe."

The fat man laughed. "Ho! Well then, since I have saved your life from such a terrible fall, I insist that you cook me a sample. I trust that it will be every bit as delicious as you've led me to believe. I am quite a gourmand . . . as you can see." He patted the barrel of his stomach, and it made a hollow, rumbling sound. "Would next Sat.u.r.day do?"

Verne balked at what he had just suggested. He couldn't invite this well-dressed and obviously wealthy man up to his dingy room. He didn't have pans, ingredients, a dining table, china -- not even napkins. He wanted to jump down the stairs again, and this time perhaps he would mercifully break his neck.

The dark-skinned man, observing Verne's distress, waved a pudgy hand to dismiss any concerns. "Young man, you need merely arrive at my chateau. I shall provide the cookware and supplies you require. I fancy myself something of a gourmet chef and would like to learn from such a master as yourself." His eyes twinkled.

"Certainly, Monsieur," Verne said, trying to be formal as he recovered his pride. He searched for more lint to brush from his jacket. "Alas, I cannot give you the recipe. It is a family secret."

"But of course," the man said, then patted his stomach again. "You are fortunate that for me, the primary interest is in consuming consuming the omelet." the omelet."

The man continued up the marble stairs toward the harpsichord music, but Verne stopped him. "Wait, Monsieur. You have not told me your name or your address."

The big man stopped in genuine surprise and turned to look down at Verne. "You mean you do not know?" He clapped his hands, then smiled even wider, flas.h.i.+ng bright white teeth. "Oh, ho! So many fawning people cling to me at all times. Rarely does anyone b.u.mp into me truly by 'accident.'"

He extended a ring-studded grip; his palm could easily have folded around Verne's entire hand. "I am Alexandre Dumas. You must come to my chateau at Monte Cristo. I believe anyone here can tell you the way."

vi

After all he had been through, all he'd accomplished and suffered, Nemo refused to let a mere ocean stop him. So he decided to build a raft.