The Map of Chaos (26 page)

With that, she marched out of the little room and slammed the door behind her, leaving Wells by himself, high and dry. He hated it when Jane cut short their disagreements by going off in a huff to some other part of the house, not so much because it left him in mid-sentence, but because it prevented them from resolving things there and then, obliging him to argue in installments. He slumped into a chair, not yet in the mood to chase her around from room to room. Forget your old resentments, she had said, the same as when he showed her Murray's letter. Wells hadn't brought the subject up again since that fateful day, and as his wife hadn't either, he assumed she had ended up forgetting about it. But perhaps Jane hadn't forgotten about it at all, perhaps she was only pretending in order to keep the peace, and, like the corpse one thinks one has disposed of at the bottom of a lake, the matter had unexpectedly risen to the surface. Wells gave a sigh. Jane never ceased to surprise him. And yet he held no mystery for her, or so she never tired of telling him. It was as if he were transparent, his heart, digestive tract, liver, and other vital organs exposed to her scrutiny. In fact, his wife took advantage of any situation to come up with fresh theories about the workings of what she affectionately referred to as “the Wells specimen.”

Only last week, she had shared another of these revelations with him. It could happen anywhere; Wells had no way of knowing. On that occasion, they were dining at a restaurant in Holborn, and for almost ten minutes Wells had been extolling the virtues of the wine they were drinking, without being able to persuade Jane to agree with him. She had been content to smile every now and then as she listened to her husband's rhapsody, more attentive to the ambience of the place than to his praise. And so Wells, who couldn't bear his wife to keep her opinions to herself, much less about something he had deemed excellent, was obliged to ask her directly if she disagreed with his opinion. Jane sighed, contemplating her husband for a few moments, as though considering whether to tell him what she thought or let it pass. At last, she shrugged, and entrusted herself to fate.

“The wine isn't bad, Bertie. But I don't think it as excellent as you maintain. Moreover, I would venture to say nor do you.”

Jane's last pronouncement threw Wells, who insisted even more stubbornly on how pleasurable he found the wine, on how velvety it was as it slipped down his throat, the aftertaste it left in his mouth of a forest at dawn, and so on. Jane let him talk, making an irritating clucking sound with her tongue that succeeded in gradually dampening Wells's exalted speech. Finally, rather peevishly, he decided to listen to what his wife had to say. And Jane spoke with the authority conferred upon her by the many similar revelations she had made in the past.

“It isn't the wine itself you find excellent,” she explained, smiling the way she always did when she began analyzing her husband, “but rather the situation.”

And, with a sweep of her hand, she invited Wells to consider their surroundings. They were in a restaurant, which, as advertised, successfully combined the charm of a Parisian bistro with the silence and orderliness essential to the English way of life. In addition, there were few customers that evening, so the background conversation, far from being a nuisance, created a pleasant murmur. They had been seated at a corner table, from which they were able to observe their fellow diners discreetly from a distance. The waiter who had brought them the menu had even recognized Wells and praised his latest novel. The wine was served at the perfect temperature, in an elegant, tall-stemmed glass that was perfectly adapted to his hand and as light as a bubble. The orchestra was playing mellow music, he had enjoyed a productive day's work . . . need she go on?

“Any decent wine would taste excellent to you under these circumstances, Bertie. But you would have found the same wine unremarkable, and possibly downright bad, if they had given us a table beside the door and we had been forced to sit in a cold draft every time someone came in or left. Or if the waiter hadn't been so friendly, or if the lighting was too dim or too bright, or if . . .”

“All right, all right. But isn't that the same for everybody?” he had protested, rather halfheartedly, as though it were a formality he had to go through before yielding to Jane's new theory.

She shook her head.

“Nobody is as impressionable as you, Bertie. Nobody.”

And Wells observed his habitual thoughtful silence following one of his wife's revelations. Then Jane began browsing through the menu, pretending to choose between the beef and the salmon, letting Wells muse at his leisure, aware that he was doing what he always did after she pronounced one of her judgments: recalling other incidents in his life to see whether that theory applied. When, after a few minutes, Wells saw the pointlessness of the exercise, he grudgingly accepted that she was right. And as they headed for home, he wondered whether Jane wasn't afraid that their love might be built on something as fragile as the random circumstances that had held sway the day they had met: the good humor with which he imparted his lecture, the black dress she wore because she was mourning her father's recent death, the light filtering through the window and setting her hair aflame, the boredom of the other students, which allowed the two of them to speak without feeling they were being watched . . . Perhaps if it had been raining that day, and he had been in a bad mood, or she had been wearing a different dress that didn't make her look so vulnerable, that dinner might never have taken place. But in the end what did it matter? he thought. The circumstances had been propitious, and, whether they liked it or not, here they were, happily together.

The sitting room door opened again, breaking off Wells's reflections, and from his armchair he saw Jane walk in holding the pruning shears, then take her straw hat from the stand. After putting it on, she left the room, giving him a stern look, as if it vexed her to see him slumped in an armchair instead of training a troupe of chimpanzees to dance for her. Whenever they quarreled, Jane would go out into the garden and vent her fury on the defenseless rosebushes, and for days the fragrance of freshly cut roses would fill the house. It was a smell Wells couldn't help associating with their squabbles, but also with their reconciliations, for sooner or later he would go to her with a submissive smile, the first of many steps he would have to take before Jane finally agreed to sign a peace treaty, which she always did. It was an unspoken rule that, by the time the roses wilted, Wells would need to have patched things up between them. And if out of apathy or indifference he allowed that deadline to expire, he might as well start packing his bags.

Before commencing the process, Wells couldn't help wondering once again if it was worth all the effort for a marriage he found increasingly stifling. Recently, for example, he had noticed within him the stirrings of desire for other women, for the newness of unknown bodies, for embarking anew on the forgotten adventure of courtship, of seducing a woman who wasn't yet aware of all his little foibles. He had felt guilty to begin with, but he soon realized that this intense desire did not affect the love he felt for Jane. He had no doubt that she was the woman with whom he wanted to end his days. It had taken them almost three years to get to know each other, and the idea of forging a similarly deep bond with another woman was unthinkable. And so, far from betraying Jane by experimenting with his desire, Wells felt he was betraying himself by trying to suppress it, advocating by his irreproachable behavior a virtue and honesty to which he did not subscribe. Whose bright idea had it been to force man into monogamy when it was so obviously not natural to him? Wells had needs his marriage couldn't satisfy. Perhaps he should speak to Jane about all this, he thought, explain to her that his soul craved more emotions than she alone could provide, and that if she allowed him to indulge in an occasional extramarital affair, he would promise never to fall in love and only maintain playful, fleeting dalliances that posed no threat to their marriage—something he preferred, in the end, for it would free him from the need to behave in the romantic fashion Jane was always complaining he lacked. Jane would remain the guiding light of his life, while those future lovers would only ever attain the pitiful status of stimulants, which as the years went by would become increasingly necessary if he didn't want the slow but sure road to decrepitude to plunge him into depression. However, no matter how reasonable that explanation seemed to him, he doubted very much whether his wife would understand or agree to a new routine whereby his controlled dalliances would be allowed to act as an aid to their marriage.

Wells rose from his chair and, eager for life to return to normal, went to find Jane and beg her forgiveness, which she conceded at about midnight. However, although on this occasion Jane appeared to have forgotten Wells's disappointing way of showing his love for her, or was pretending she had for the sake of keeping the peace, he was unable to. Not because of any grudge he bore, but because Murray was preventing him. In the days that followed, there wasn't a single newspaper in the land that didn't contain some sycophantic reference to his extraordinary, marvelous exploit, or a men's club where his audacity or daring was not the subject of a passionate debate. From the moment Murray made his unusual request for Emma Harlow's hand on Horsell Common, the couple had become the talk of the town. Hundreds of people with miserable lives contemplated them with adulation, happy that someone could achieve their dreams for them. Wells tried his best to avoid the astonishing display of public devotion toward Murray and succeeded for a while by avoiding newspapers and society gatherings.

But his luck could not last indefinitely, and two months later the two men's paths crossed at the opera. Wells had taken Jane to see
Faust
at the Royal Opera House and was comfortably ensconced in his seat, ready to enjoy that moment when all the circumstances seemed to coincide favorably (the chair was comfortable, he was close enough to the stage not to have to strain his eyes, he admired Goethe's work, the acoustics were excellent . . .), when all at once a disruptive element appeared. There was a general murmur, and people began to turn their opera glasses away from the stage toward one of the boxes, which Montgomery Gilmore had just entered, accompanied by his fiancée and her aunt. Realizing all eyes were upon them, Gilmore gave a magnanimous salute worthy of a Roman emperor, and motioned to Emma to curtsey gracefully, under the disapproving gaze of her aunt, that formidable-looking grande dame. A burst of enthusiastic applause rose from the audience. It couldn't be denied that happiness seemed to suit the couple down to the ground, and yet Wells refused to join in the noisy ovation. He remained with his arms folded, watching Jane applaud, and in doing so making it very clear that their difference of opinion over the matter would remain forever irreconcilable.

Once the curtain went up, Wells did his best to enjoy the opera; but, as Jane had predicted, the destabilizing factor of Murray's presence impeded him from doing so. He shifted in his seat, suddenly unable to get comfortable, while an almost visceral loathing for the genre began to take hold of him. He closed his eyes, blacking out the stage where the soprano was trying to decide whether an elegant Faust truly loved her. Wells opened his eyes and was preparing to close them again when Jane noticed the face he was pulling. She placed her hand gently on his, giving him a smile of encouragement, as if to say, Ignore this intrusion, Bertie. Enjoy the performance, and put all other thoughts out of your mind. And Wells let out a sigh. Very well, he would try. He wasn't going to let Murray's presence spoil his evening. He attempted to focus on the stage, where Faust, in a plumed hat and tight-fitting purple doublet, was walking in circles around Marguerite. But the sound of whispering a few rows behind immediately distracted him. What a beautiful young woman, he heard someone comment with admiration. Yes, and they say he asked for her hand by reproducing the novel of some chap called Geoffrey Wesley. Wells had to grit his teeth to prevent himself from uttering an oath. How long before that stupid opera finished?

•  •  •

O
UTSIDE, ONE OF THOSE
drizzles typical of London had set in where most of the water seems suspended in the air, unable to penetrate it. When the operagoers stepped out of the theater, they had the impression of plunging into an enormous fish tank. The footmen, splendid in their red and gold uniforms, strove to bring some kind of order to the chaotic procession of carriages slowly approaching the entrance to the Royal Opera House. The ladies sent their male companions—husbands or beaux—on the heroic mission of rousing their drivers to vie with the other carriages while they sought shelter beneath the portico, forming into selective groups and exchanging pleasantries about the opera, although most of them had given it but a fleeting glance. All anyone wanted was to arrive home as quickly as possible, take off their damp coats, asphyxiating corsets, and excruciating shoes, and put their aching feet up in front of the fire. And yet they all smiled politely, as if they wouldn't want to be anywhere else. In many ways it made far more interesting viewing than the performance they had seen in the theater.

One of the men exposed to the rain was Wells, who was doing his best to capture the attention of the nearest footman by tapping him gently on the shoulder, but to no avail, as the man was too busy barking at the sleepy coachmen. Tired of being jostled and apologized to by his male companions, Wells decided to return to the portico, where he had left Jane talking to an elderly couple called Stamford. Discreetly concealed behind one of the columns, Wells surveyed the sea of top hats and elaborate bonnets in search of Jane's modest hat decorated with pale pink roses, scarcely looking up for fear his and Murray's eyes might cross. Fortunately, there was no sign of his enormous frame protruding from the crowd like a bookmark. Perhaps he was one of the lucky ones who had found a carriage, Wells thought hopefully; or, true to his old habit of taking what did not belong to him, perhaps he had appropriated someone else's. He glimpsed Jane's chestnut hair a few yards away and walked over to her with a feeling of relief, but scarcely had he taken a few steps than a huge paw landed on his shoulder, threatening to hammer him into the ground.