Captain Nemo: The Fantastic History of a Dark Genius (28 page)

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 petits 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 pass 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 passion 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
, 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
, 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 fashions 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.
 
They both tumbled backward like carts crashing in a crowded street, a flurry of legs and shoes.

While a few other party-goers tittered at the spectacle, Verne disentangled himself and mumbled his apologies, blushing as red as a sugarbeet with embarrassment.
 
He kept his gaze downcast, flustered.
 
“Excuse me, Monsieur!
 
I stumbled.
 
I couldn’t help myself.”

The big man laughed, and Verne raised his eyes, hoping he hadn’t bumbled 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 amusement 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 fashion.
 
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 Saturday 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
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, flashing bright white teeth.
 
“Oh, ho!
 
So many fawning people cling to me at all times.
 
Rarely does anyone bump 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.

The monstrous mushrooms provided sturdy, woody stems that floated with ease.
 
Squatting in the soft dirt, Nemo used a stick to sketch plans for building a simple, seaworthy craft.
 
He took what he knew of engineering and added ideas he’d gleaned from Captain Grant’s library -- from the sketchbooks of Leonardo da Vinci to the designs of the steamboat inventor, Robert Fulton.
 
It was a problem to be solved through time and ingenuity, and Nemo had both.

With his cutlass, he hacked down seven sturdy mushrooms.
 
He removed the hemispherical caps, each one broader than his outstretched arms, and dragged the porous logs to a flat clearing at the shore of the sea.
 

Rather than using simple vines to lash the mushroom logs together, he took extra time to braid thin tendrils into a sturdy cord.
 
He had no way of knowing how long he’d need this craft to last.
 
He secured four of the large fungus caps together on the bottom of the raft to act as pontoons for extra flotation.
 
Next he used his braided cord to tie the logs together on top.
 

After many hours of labor, Nemo stripped to swim in the leaden waters of the Earth’s central sea; then he went back to work again until, exhausted, he crawled under a mushroom canopy to sleep. . . .

Once the completed structure was firm and stable, he looked across the cavern ocean.
 
Seeing no end to the water, he gathered fresh supplies: ripe fruit, hard roots, even the meat from a small plant-eating dinosaur he ambushed behind the thick ferns.
 
He still had his two pistols taken from the pirates, but so far he’d found no need to use them.
 

Ready to undertake a long voyage, Nemo heaved his lightweight fungus boat into the water, using shaved mushroom logs for paddles and a tiller.
 
The raft drifted along, carried by the strong subterranean current.
 
Behind him, the underground shoreline faded into the distance, veiled by a mist that clung to the thick fungus forest.
 

Before long, Nemo found himself in the uncharted expanse of a featureless sea.
 
The grotto ceiling above shone with pearly luminescence, far, far away, and Nemo had no stars or familiar land features to guide him.
 
Only his dreams. . .

#

The hardest part was coping with the sheer boredom.
 
For so long, Nemo had been forced to spend every waking hour on the simple business of survival, occupying himself with essential tasks all day long to feed himself, improve his life, or reinforce his defenses.

Drifting in the open sea, Nemo had nothing to do but lie back and think.
 
He tried to determine his velocity by tossing bits of flotsam over the side, but had no fixed point of reference.
 
Smiling, he let himself enjoy memories of his childhood days and the port of Ile Feydeau, playing card games with his father, spending joyful times with Jules Verne, competing for the attentions of Caroline Aronnax, imagining all the adventures they would have in their lives. . . .

Now he was at the mercy of the strong current, and his simple rudder could barely nudge him in one direction or another.
 
He saw no reefs or shoals, still no sign of an opposite shore, or a passage leading to the surface.
 
He began to think he might never see the real sun again.