Captain Nemo: The Fantastic History of a Dark Genius (66 page)

With such a string of novelistic successes, Jules Verne could now stand next to the great Alexandre Dumas as a colleague, rather than a mere sycophant.
 
However, as he continued writing furiously and researching adventure after adventure, Verne grew uneasy because he owed practically everything to the experiences of Nemo.

There are two types of men in this world, Jules: those who do things, and those who wish they did.

His friend’s words kept haunting him.
 
Verne had never been one to experience things first-hand.
 
At least he had sailed with Nemo on his
Nautilus
and shared a terrifying undersea adventure.
 
Someday, he hoped to travel and see a far-off land or two, but with a wife and young son and a contract for three books every year, he had no time.
 
He could make do, as he always had, with research alone.

He knew, though, that Nemo was out there, still having adventures . . . and Jules Verne would tell the world about them.
 
Readers would remember his name as a visionary, because Nemo shied away from public attention.

After the battle with the giant squid and traveling so many leagues beneath the sea, Verne had not seen Nemo again.
 
France had changed greatly in the fourteen years since his companion had gone off to the Crimean War.
 
Verne wondered if, after living so long apart from civilization, his boyhood friend could ever again become a man of society.
 
Not that Nemo wanted to. . .

Caroline came down from her upstairs offices, her face flushed with delight.
 
Verne wrung his hat in his hands as she handed a stack of papers to the clerk.
 
“Jules, it is lovely to see you.”
 
She embraced him, brushing her lips across his cheek.

He clasped her hand.
 
She wore no gloves, no distinctive perfume.
 
Her nails were trimmed short, and he noticed inkspots on her fingertips, like the stains on his own fingers when writing at a furious pace.
 
Her hair, which he’d once described as “honey caught on fire,” still retained its vibrant color, but now it was pulled back in a no-nonsense twist, tucked out of her way at the nape of her neck.
 
She wore comfortable clothes unhindered by lace or frills, and had not cinched her corset.
 
The outfit was formal yet serviceable, without drawing overt attention to her beauty.
 
Caroline’s natural prettiness shone through, though, in a way that no roses or Chantille lace could adequately emphasize.
 
Her blue eyes remained bright, like a ray of dawn crossing his face when she looked at him.

“Jules, I do not understand why we fail to see each other, since we both live in Paris.
 
It has been . . . five years?”

“Too many obligations, I believe,” he said.
 
“I have my writing, and you have your” -- He waved his hands around the offices -- “your business.”

She laughed.
 
“I can always find time for old friends.
 
You are my only reminder that I was a child once.
 
Come, I’ve had chocolat chaud sent in, for old time’s sake, along with those gooseberry pastries you enjoyed so much.”
 
Verne’s eyes brightened, and he followed her up the stairs and into the back room from which she ran her business.

A tray on her broad mahogany desk held one silver pot of chocolat chaud, and the other contained coffee.
 
Both smelled delicious.
 
Verne selected one of the tarts arranged on fine doilies.
 
“You remembered my favorites!”

Despite his rehearsed words, the conversation began to go wrong as soon as Caroline spoke up.
 
“Tell me about your mysterious wife, Jules.
 
You’ve never brought her to meet me.
 
And what about your son, Michel?
 
You must be so proud of him.”

Verne covered his surprise by taking a bite of the pastry.
 
“Honorine is well.
 
She . . . she’s rather quiet and withdrawn, not much for meeting people.
 
I apologize that you haven’t made her acquaintance yet.
 
On the other hand, Michel is . . .”
 
He heaved a sigh.
 
“Well, they tell me he’s just like any boy, but still I find much of his behavior . . . distressing.”

Caroline chuckled and leaned back in her chair.
 
“Or at the very least,
distracting
, no doubt.”

Verne countered before he could take his words back.
 
“And what about your husband, Caroline?
 
Is the good Captain Hatteras still lost?”

Her face turned stony.
 
“I still have not heard from him.”

Verne shook his head.
 
“I don’t understand why you so steadfastly refuse to remarry.
 
You’re a . . .”
 
He swallowed.
 
“A beautiful woman, still young.
 
You have no children, no man to run your personal affairs.”
 
He knew the words were wrong even as he spoke them, but years of longing for a woman out of his reach had built up behind a dam of bitterness that now began to break.
 
“It can’t be that you loved Hatteras -- you barely knew him.
 
What are you waiting for?”
 

He pretended that he didn’t already know the answer.
 
Caroline faced him as she poured a cup of chocolat chaud for herself.
 
“No.
 
It is not that, Jules.”
 
She lifted her cup to take a sip.

Verne leaned his elbows on the mahogany surface.
 
“It’s because you miss Nemo so much, isn’t it?”
 
When she didn’t answer, he nodded in triumph.
 
“I thought as much.
 
Well, I have something to tell you, Caroline.
 
I’ve kept it secret for years, because I wasn’t entirely sure anyone would believe me.”

Caroline gave him a wry smile, suspecting nothing.
 
“What could be so preposterous that even
I
would not believe you, Jules?”

Verne took two bites of the pastry, finishing it.
 
He had opened his mouth and let the truth spill out; now he had no choice but to tell her all of it.
 
“Everyone thinks I simply concoct my novels -- but I’ve used
experiences
.
 
You, more than anyone, saw how much I took from your balloon trip across Africa, how much I extrapolated about your Captain Hatteras at the North Pole, and . . . Nemo’s experiences underground for
A Journey to the Centre of the Earth
.”

“I have read every one of your books, and of course I recognized the inspiration.”
 
She gestured to the wall, and he was surprised to see the bound illustrated editions on her shelf.
 
“I am very proud of your success and whatever small hand I may have had in encouraging you when we were younger.”

“I have something to tell you,” he repeated.
 
And her cornflower-blue eyes widened, as if she already guessed.
 
“Nemo isn’t dead, after all, Caroline.
 
His death was falsified in the Crimea.”

Caroline clutched his hand, then sat back to listen.
 
While consuming two more pastries and two more cups of chocolat chaud, Verne explained how Nemo had been taken captive by a Turkish caliph and forced to build a sub-marine vessel.
 
Her eyes widened to hear of his journey for days beneath the sea.
 
Stunned and thrilled, she was rapt with a sense of wonder.
 
“You are right, Jules.
 
But I know you, and I know André.
 
If anyone could do such things,
he
could.”

Verne looked at her, his face grim as he told her the most important part.
 
“Nemo also has a young son -- and a wife.
 
He married her in Turkey, and he told me he loves her very much.”
 
He watched as Caroline struggled to compose her expression; his heart went out to her, but she needed to know this.
 

“In fact, when Nemo dropped me off on the French coast, he said he was going back to get them.”
 
He brushed crumbs from his beard, avoiding her gaze, not wanting to see if tears sparkled in her eyes.
 
“I haven’t heard from him again, not in five years.
 
He knows you’ve thought him dead all this time, and he was sure that by now you would have made your own life, married someone else.
 
He said he doesn’t want to torment you by coming back to visit you, when he is already bound to another woman.”

Caroline managed to cover the flicker of dismay that crossed her beautiful face with a stoic expression.
 
“Thank you for telling me, Jules.
 
I hope they are very happy together.
 
After all he’s been through, André deserves to be happy.”

“We all deserve to be happy, Caroline.”
 
Verne regretted hurting her, snuffing her dreams.
 
But his own dreams of a life with her had long ago been vanquished.
 
“It just doesn’t always work out that way.”

v

The
Nautilus
traveled secretly beneath the waters, circling the oceans of the Earth.
 
All aboard remained isolated from the world . . . and at peace.
 
Following their years-long ordeal, Nemo and his crew reveled in freedom.
 

Finally, after staying away for as long as Auda had asked, the sub-marine boat passed again through the Straits of Gibraltar.
 
With growing anticipation, Nemo headed east toward the Turkish coast.
 
He felt cold and uneasy about returning to Rurapente, which bore so many violent memories for him.
 
Isolated on the
Nautilus
, they had learned little about world news, but he’d had enough of war and bloodshed.
 
He hoped the political turmoils had settled down in the Ottoman Empire, as Auda had promised.
 

He longed to see his wife and son again, and the rest of his crew missed their families as well.
 
On the
Nautilus
they would take their wives and children and be free to make their lives wherever they wished.
 
They clung to that hope.

In his gruff British accent, Cyrus Harding proposed that they search for Nemo’s mysterious island, which presumably remained uninhabited.
 
There, they could establish a wonderful new colony, a utopia based on principles of cooperation and support.
 
With the extensive engineering and technical knowledge the sophisticated crew possessed, they could build anything they wished.
 
The
Swiss Family Robinson
would be mere amateurs by comparison.

Nemo set a course through the sparkling blue waters, threading a maze of scattered Greek islands until they reached the isolated cove where they had been imprisoned for so many years.

As they traversed the deep channel to the rocky shore of Rurapente, Nemo kept the
Nautilus
submerged.
 
Through the round windows they could see dock pilings and other wreckage covered with silt.
 
When he blew ballast to raise the craft and the sea washed clear of the portholes, Nemo and his crew pushed forward, hoping to see cheering, victorious rebels.

Instead, Rurapente had been devastated.
 
The entire industrial compound, its factories and drydocks, its ore smelters and kilns, its village of dwellings -- all had been burned and destroyed.
 
Reduced to charred rubble, nothing more.

The
Nautilus
rested against the empty docks, and a moan of despair rose from the crew.
 
Nemo said nothing, jaws locked in a grim expression only partially hidden by his dark beard.
 
His intense eyes stared at the devastation.
 
Somewhere in the dead emptiness of his shock, the fires of anger sparked and blazed.