The Mammoth Book of New Jules Verne Adventures (41 page)

The character of Phileas
Fogg, like Captain Nemo, is mysterious and enigmatic. We never really get to
know him, despite our closeness to him throughout the adventure. Verne created
two other fascinating characters in the novel, Fogg’s servant, Passepartout,
and the stupid Detective Fix who, on the trail of a bank robber, pursues Fogg
around the globe. We shall meet both these characters, and learn a lot more
about them and Fogg, in the next two stories.

You can call me
Passepartout, since I’ve already gone by that name. But you may rest assured
that’s not my true identity. Furthermore, I’m not the only one who has lied in
this respect in this tale. The masks will come off when it’s time. Don’t you
worry about that.

Phileas Fogg’s crazy
wager had everyone in the world on the edges of their seats for eighty days, at
the end of 1872. I was at the peak of my form at that time. Despite my tender
age, I had already practised numerous trades — acrobat, fireman, gymnastics
instructor — all of which required perfect physical condition, muscles and
flexibility. I was in such good shape that, despite my modest stature, I easily
defeated larger men in most of these disciplines. It was for that reason that
the French Information Services, founded in June 1871, after we lost the war to
Prussia, contacted menthe
Statistics and Military Reconnaissance Section
(for
that was its true name) was responsible for obtaining any information France
considered vital, using any means available. For that purpose, the Section
needed vigorous, strong-willed men, with a taste for adventure.

That suited me to a T,
although nothing could have prepared me for the most remarkable adventure that
could possibly be imagined.

At that time, you see,
few people were aware that travel between worlds was possible. Even fewer were
able to make such trips.

So, when I was assigned
to the service of this unusual Englishman for my first mission, I had no idea
about Phileas Fogg’s true nature. Yet, his very name should have aroused my
suspicions! What could be more nebulous than “Fogg”? What could be more
inconsistent, more deceptive?

The man I met on
Wednesday 2 October 1872 appeared to be in his forties and in relatively good
physical condition, apart from a slight stoutness. He towered head and
shoulders above me and his hair was a blonde mop. In other words, he could have
been anyone, since there was absolutely nothing particular about his appearance
and certain specialists were already highly skilled in the art of disguise.

Everyone now knows the
conditions in which the wager concerning the journey around the world was
placed, that very day, in a hall in the Reform Club, in Pall Mall, not far from
another famous club — I’ll return to this later. Obviously, there was nothing
of chance about it. The
Statistics Section
could never have guessed the
form in which the challenge would be issued to Fogg, since no one had even
heard tell about the eccentric Englishman just a few days earlier!

At this point, I would
like to provide some clarification about travelling between worlds and the
information collected by the secret services in this respect. Those who
specialized in communicating with spirits, namely famous metapsychics such as
Camille Flammarion and mediums of the calibre of a Daniel Dunglas Home, all
agreed that, although there was nothing difficult with respect to travelling in
the form of an astral body, they still knew nothing about the theory that made
this “common marvel” possible. For some time, it had been accepted that the
entities with which the meta-psychics communicated were not the souls of the
deceased, but rather spiritual residues of individuals who were quite alive,
yet living in other worlds. The mediums’ abilities to concentrate and certain
mental predispositions granted either by Nature or Chance provided invaluable
bridges between our inaccessible neighbours and ourselves.

In short, when the
Statistics
Section
got wind of Fogg’s extravagant project, my superiors’ hearts
skipped a beat. I

was immediately assigned
to get as close to the Englishman as possible and collect as much information
about the man as I could.

I have no intention of
going into our expedition in any detail at this time. Everyone knows our
itinerary, the methods of transportation we used, the successive ports of call
on our journey, from London to Suez, from India to China, from San Francisco to
the Far West, and so on. The fictionalized versions of our adventure
(particularly that of M. Jules Verne), the theatrical adaptations (I’m thinking
of Adolphe Dennery’s wonderful play) and, more recently, Mr Méliés’
unparalleled screenplay have all popularized the ‘terrestrial’ episodes of our
tribulations.

But that is not the main
point. Far from it. As is so often the case, we have to dig through the
silences in the story to get to the heart of the matter. After all, that which
is written, which is left to posterity, is only a general consensus. That which
is left unsaid, intentionally, because we fear that it will fly in the face of
common sense, deserves the full attention of enlightened minds.

Initially, I was
overwhelmed by the frantic pace of the race, the haste with which we left
London for France. I played the role of the zealous servant, inasmuch as
possible. Fogg appeared satisfied. For my part, I was glad that his finickiness
required me to remain close by, since that facilitated my true mission which
was, as I remind you, to seize the moment when my “master” would deploy a
portion of his inexhaustible energy to contact another world.

As for my employers, no
one doubted that Fogg was a talented medium, since he had taken up the gauntlet
cast down at the Reform Club. Now, and I am returning to this matter because
the time is propitious, it appears that this august gathering was known in
occult circles for the quality of its members, a quality that owed nothing to
birth, nothing to fortune, as in the case of most gentlemen’s clubs — with the
noteworthy exception of one other club, also located in Pall Mall, which I will
touch on soon. No, as you see, what brought the members of the Reform Club together,
apart from their allegiance to the Crown, was their passion for the Journey. A
passion which all could appease, depending on the purity of their gift. These
gentlemen met to turn the tables and communicate with foreign spirits, in the
intimacy of their downy nest. We obtained this information from a servant who,
although he officiated with the required discretion inside the Club, led a life
of debauchery outside it. His turpitudes had led him into the arms of highly
unscrupulous trollops, and it was a matter of no consequence for the
Section
to exert a little pressure on
the libertine flunky by threatening to reveal the details of his escapades to
his wife.

Now you understand how
this whole matter started, the first in a long series, yet the only one that
was kept secret. The state of agitation that reigned at the Reform Club in the
days following Fogg’s appearance was sufficient to alert the
Statistics Section.
Something was about to
happen that would involve the most powerful metapsychic society of the day and
a perfect stranger — no matter what M. Verne says! My adoptive land could not
refrain from reacting; she sent me to London so that I could pierce through
Fogg’s mystery. Here is what I discovered . . .

The first incident
occurred in the train that we took to cross through France and Italy, on our
way to Brindisi. At one point, Fogg left our compartment, claiming that he
needed to ‘stretch his legs’ and charging me to rest since, he added, before
too long I would have no time for idling.

I nodded and allowed him
to walk down the corridor of the car. Then, once I was sure that he would not
detect me, I slipped out behind him. I saw him calmly walk through the doors to
the next car. I was on the verge of abandoning my tail, so that I would not
lose my cover so early on, when Fogg started behaving in a most unusual manner.
I saw him as he stopped in the middle of the corridor, took out his pocket
watch, and watched the hands turn for three long minutes, as if nothing else
could possibly be more important. Then, he suddenly put his watch back into his
pocket and disappeared into the closest compartment, so quickly that I doubt
anyone other than myself saw him.

The velvet drapes were
drawn, preventing me from observing. I approached the compartment on tiptoe and
placed my ear against the wooden wall. In vain. The clacketyclack of the train
wheels bumping along the track and the huffing and puffing of the nearby
locomotive masked the echoes of any potential conversations. Disappointed, I
returned to our compartment. Fogg reappeared there less than ten minutes later.
He looked radiant and found it difficult to hide this.

I allowed a few minutes
to pass before I stood up and declared, “If you please, I too would like to
stretch my legs a bit.”

“Go ahead. It will be
several hours before we reach Brindisi, unfortunately.”

He smiled as he made
this last remark. I nodded and left the compartment. I immediately headed for
the car where Fogg had had his mysterious rendezvous. The door of the
compartment was still closed and the curtains were drawn. I caught the eye of a
railway employee and said, “I have to take a message to Mr Dugenou. Is this his
compartment?”

Obligingly, the fellow,
who sported a bushy goatee and eyebrows, consulted his log. After a quick
glance, he shook his head.

“You’re mistaken. There’s
no Mr Dugenou on my list. And, in any case, this compartment is unoccupied.”

“It wasn’t reserved?”

“I didn’t say that. Only
that the passengers weren’t here when the train left.”

I tried my luck. The man
looked amenable enough. “You’re certain there’s no Dugenou?”

“Absolutely. The
reservation was made in the name of . . .” Once again he glanced at the log. “Ah,
here it is, in the name of Smogg. An Englishman, of course.”

I was dumbfounded. The
employee tipped his cap at me and walked off. I rejoined Fogg, who was dozing.
Smogg!

What nerve! Choosing
such a transparent pseudonym was tantamount to provocation. Did he know who I
was? Had he set such an obvious trap for me — and, I admit, one into which I
had all too readily fallen — in order to remove any shadow of a doubt as to my
person?

In any case, Fogg
demonstrated no change in his behaviour toward me. As soon as we reached the
heel of the Italian boot, we boarded a steamer, the
Mongolia,
heading
for Suez and then Bombay.

More than willingly, I
will say nothing of that professional nosy-parker who had dogged our heels from
Suez. Fix, since that is who I mean, has no role to play in this story, despite
the fact that Verne and his cohorts gave him a rather important one.

On the other hand, I
will provide details about an episode that was either unknown to the novelist,
or hidden by him, much like the compartment reserved by Mr Smogg. The
Mongolia
was steaming across the Arabian Sea with the Indian peninsula in its sights.
We had been on board five days and a certain routine’ had taken over our
activities. Yet, fewer than twenty-four hours before we were to arrive at
Bombay, Fogg started to look nervous. Oh, there was nothing spectacular in the
case of this man who controlled his emotions superbly . . . But I did see the
pocket watch reappear on several occasions, up to ten times in a single hour,
and for no apparent reason. That is until that evening, when Fogg decided that
it was time to head off to the captain’s table for dinner. I presumptuously
decided to inform him that we had been taking our meals in our cabin and that I
was perfectly content with that arrangement.

“It’s a simple matter of
courtesy,” he retorted. “This is our last evening on board. The captain has informed
me that he would be honoured by our presence.”

I said nothing and we
went outside to take some air to stimulate our appetites. Fogg consulted his
watch yet again as we strolled along the upper deck of the ship. Suddenly he
stopped, pretending to be vexed. And I must admit he was an excellent actor.

“I don’t have my calling
cards with me,” he exclaimed. “A most unfortunate omission on my part. This
dinner will most likely be an excellent opportunity to exchange cards with the
captain’s guests.”

“I’ll go get them,” I
offered.

“It’s getting late,”
countered Fogg. “You go to the dining room, instead, and tell them that I will
be late.”

What an elegant way of
getting rid of me! I pretended to continue on my way to the dining room, but I
quickly walked around the upper deck and returned to our cabin, just in time to
see Fogg closing the door behind him. I pressed my eye to the keyhole, but the
key was still in place. I pricked up my ears. This time there was no racket to
prevent me from overhearing the conversation. But it was all in vain. The cabin
was silent. One long minute passed. Then another. I was starting to believe
that Fogg had actually gone back to look for his cards when a muffled
detonation made me jump.

There was no question
about it. It came from the other side of the door. Fearing the worst, I knocked
and then called out, “Mr Fogg? Is everything all right?”