Sat, May 19 2012
| TITLE: | Turbulence - A Vignette |
|---|---|
| AUTHOR: | Adela Torres |
| CATEGORY/TYPE: | Short Story, Humor |
| RATING/WARNINGS: | Gen |
| MAIN CHARACTERS: | Phileas Fogg, Rebecca Fogg, Jules Verne, Passepartout |
| DESCRIPTION: | Jules tries to write. |
| STATUS: | Complete |
The Aurora sailed majestically through the bright French skies.
This was not, Jules Verne reflected while bent over his diary, a particularly astounding piece of news. This was, in fact, all the Aurora had been doing for the last month, i.e., sailing majestically through the skies of some country or another, skies of an astounding variety of brightness and a no less astounding variety of unknown threats. They had been chased, shot at, sabotaged and nearly crashed, and they had, in turn, chased, shot at, sabotaged and blown up some expensive pieces of machinery belonging to several unofficially-not-very-friendly governments.
All in a day’s work, really. Well, a month’s.
And now they were on their way again, after a short respite in England and an even shorter stop at Paris, where Jules was lowered down to earth long enough for him to say hello to his friends, go to his garret, pick up a clean shirt and some pencils, pay the rent, and go up again. Not that Jules minded. He would gladly pay money not to live there.
The person responsible for this extended demolition trip was sitting primly to his right, sipping tea and reading a report: Rebecca Fogg — beautiful, intelligent, reckless — the one and only female field agent of the British Secret Service. The most extraordinary woman Jules had ever known. During this trip, he had seen her battle appalling odds, vanquish incredible obstacles, and thwart attempts on her life, all without losing her crooked smile and her fluid grace of movement. Now she looked the perfect lady, in her light green dress, drinking tea from a delicate china cup and reading… Well, reading ammunition manifestos, as a matter of fact. But the idea was there.
Behind Jules, out of his field of vision, Phileas Fogg was mercilessly murdering a The Times article with a few well-chosen scathing remarks. Verne pulled himself, reluctantly, from further thoughts on Rebecca’s virtues, closed his eyes, and tried to capture the exact cadence of Fogg’s voice. He needed to get his pattern of speech right for his novel.
Because he was writing a novel.
So far he had written a number of plays, none of which had been on stage long enough to see the Moon change phase. He had also drawn an incredible number of devices and contraptions that could be used either to make life easier, or to make life shorter, depending on who saw them first. Everybody around him went hoarse telling him that his mind was unique and that he held the key to the future, and immediately after they tried to kidnap him (like the League of Darkness, aptly named if ineptly lead), or rescue him (like Rebecca Fogg, her cousin and retired agent Phileas Fogg, and Fogg’s valet Jean Passepartout, an amazing engineer and an even more amazing pseudo-polyglot).
Forced to be objective, Jules had to admit that his creative efforts had brought him only either financial ruin or mortal danger so far. He was getting a trifle tired of the situation, and he had decided, therefore, that the solution was to write a novel.
But not any novel, no. After all, he’d spent the last year in the company of three extraordinary beings, on board the most beautiful dirigible airship in existence. To be precise, it was one of the only two dirigible airships in existence, but the beautiful bit was still true. He’d traveled the whole world and he’d seen things that most people only dreamed about. He figured he could put all that experience to use, and write something that would actually give him money. Wasn’t half the world trying to get a hold on him and his talent? Well, let his talent work for him, for once. Hence, the novel.
He had a great idea. He had millions of great ideas every day, that was the problem really, but in this case he thought he really had the perfect plot for a novel. And he had the perfect first chapter. He took his pen and wrote:
There was a large audience assembled on the fourteenth of
Fourteenth of… February? No, he wanted his heroes to travel to India, he needed some time for the preparations… Make it January. He dipped the pen in ink and continued,
There was a large audience assembled on the fourteenth of January
Now for the year, let’s see… Not too far away in the future, not too close either…
“Master Jules, are you wanting the cup of tea now?”
Jules blinked and came out of his calculations. The beaming, cheerful face of Passepartout smiled at him from a distance of four inches, offering him a strange device. It looked like a metallic bulb, with a slim tube poking out of it.
“What is this, Passepartout?”
“It’s my new invention! The Tea Warmificator Cup! See, the metal makes the heat go around and Passepartout’s special recipe for instant warm water is making the tea in the moment!”
Jules took the cup. It was warm to the touch.
“You slurp on this tube, see? It’s not open so the heat makes not escape,” the French valet said.
Jules had mentally given Passepartout a French nationality out of desperation. At least, French was the only language, of the dozen or so the man spoke, in which he seemed to be marginally coherent. His English was beyond hope, but after a year, they all were quite fluent in Passepartouian. Jules fiddled a little longer with the Tea Warmificator. He pursed his lips around the metal tube.
“How do you heat the water?” he asked indistinctly.
“Caustic soda.”
The Tea Warmificator hit the table and splashed some drops of corrosive tea over the varnished wood as Jules spluttered and wiped his lips furiously. A few crowded moments later, Jules sat down again, mollified by Passepartout’s explanations of a special reservoir at the bottom of the recipient in which the chemical reaction took place, quite isolated from the actual beverage (leaks notwithstanding). That, and a fresh — and orthodox — cup of tea, put him back in his normal state, ready to continue work.
Now, where was he? Ah, yes, the year…
There was a large audience assembled on the fourteenth of January, eighteen seventy-five,
Maybe too far away. He wanted his tale to be as close to the present as possible, allowing for some technological changes…
eighteen sixty-two,
There, that looked about right. Now, this took place in Russia, in some scientific institute… Name, name, it must have a name… How was that man called? Ah, Kugarin. The Kugarin Institute. It sounded nice.
Jules dipped his pen again.
“I say, Jules,” the sweet voice of Rebecca said by his ear. “Did you remember to bring that design from your garret? The spring gun one?”
“Ah, yes, Rebecca, I brought it,” Jules said, and opened his ledger, almost entirely full of his designs and projects. Two pages of notes on Roman Law sat forlornly in one partition, constituting the only proof of his theoretical status as a Law student. He extracted the requested diagram and handed it over to Rebecca, who thanked him with a dazzling smile and bent her flame-haired head to study it. Jules dipped the pen again.
Now, the Kugarin Institute. It’s in… Smolensko? No, too cold. St. Petersburg? Hmmm…
eighteen sixty-two, at the session of the Kugarin Institute in
“What does it say here?”
Jules blinked, pen poised over the page. Under his nose appeared the spring gun diagram and a delicate finger pointing at one of its parts.
“Um… ‘revolving’, I think”
“That’s what I thought. Your handwriting is sometimes hard to decipher, Jules.”
Fancy that, Jules thought, watching with dismay the huge drop of ink that had fallen on his page. He blotted it as best as he could, scratched it off carefully, and dipped the pen again, all the while thinking of locations for his Institute, a place full of earnest, devoted men of science…
In a voice best suited to direct a ship in the middle of a hurricane, Phileas Fogg said, “Rebecca, I’m afraid that Great-Uncle Augustus has passed away. His obituary is in The Times. Shall we go back and pay our respects?”
“That is last week’s news, Phileas. Uncle Augustus should be safely buried by now. Although from what I remember of him, he probably has been dead this last fifteen years, and they only noticed when they were doing the bicentennial cleaning at his club and removed the newspaper from over his face.”
“Well, naturally! That is, after all, the kind of privacy you can expect at the Reform Club.”
Jules, resigned to the interruption and the new inky stain in the page, took this dialogue in stride; in England a man could be considered ‘eccentric’ for the same behavior that, in any other place in the world, would earn him the reputation of a hopeless lunatic.
eighteen sixty-two, at the session of the Royal Geographical Society,
Where was the blasted place…?
“Fogg, what’s the address of the Royal Geographical Society?”
“Number three Waterloo Place, of course. Why on earth are you asking that here and now, Verne?”
“It’s nothing important,” Verne said, scribbling furiously. “That is in London, right?”
“Where else?”
Verne suppressed a smile and concentrated on his page again. Behind him, The Times rustled and lost its ironed perfection as Fogg folded it.
“What do you say to a bout of fencing, Verne?”
“Maybe later, if you don’t mind, Fogg. I am very busy now.”
“A young man like you needs lots of fresh air and exercise,” Fogg said, in what sounded to Jules like a rather avuncular tone. “You are always writing and drawing, Verne. You look pasty.”
Jules didn’t say aloud that the pastiness was a delayed reaction caused by the pent-up terror of their last adventures. He bent down purposefully over his work.
“So, what do you say, Verne? Some shooting outside, perhaps? Work on your aim? There are bound to be some birds nearby.”
Drawing a long, steadying breath as discreetly as he could, Verne turned to his friend with a gentle smile.
“A little bit later, by all means, Fogg. I’d just like to finish this up first.”
“Of course, of course! Carry on, then,” Fogg waved a hand and turned his attention to the book about Roman history he had been reading for the last week, and Verne sighed and bent his head over the page again.
“Jules, what is this word here?,” asked Rebecca.
The pen shook slightly in Verne’s hand as he examined the drawing again.
“Torque,” he said, curtly.
“Ah, that’s it, of course. I knew it couldn’t be ‘tongue’. It didn’t make sense, even for something in one of your designs,” Rebecca said in a satisfied tone, making a note in the margin. Jules stabbed the inkpot with his pen and bent almost double over his work.
Royal Geographical Society, Number three Waterloo Place, London. The President, Sir
A name for the President… Sir… what? Philip? Philemon? Philemon Blockhead? No, let’s see… Philemon Blunt? Bother? Botheringay?
“Oh, look at you, Jules… Don’t slouch like that, sit straight, for goodness’ sake! You really should go out with Phileas, get some fresh air,” Rebecca said, as she rose from her chair and looked out through the Aurora’s panoramic windows. “It’s a fine morning to be out.”
The pen trembled in Jules’s hand and he bit his tongue, hard, to avoid a catastrophe. At that delicate moment, a clinking sound preceded the appearance of Passepartout, pushing his very own patented and unbelievably dangerous tea cart.
“Jules! I am finding a way to make the Tea Warmificator included in the tea cart! Want to help Passepartout with the leaking problem of the sodium?”
“Oh, leave the man alone, Passepartout, what he needs is some air and exercise, not a day locked away in your workshop.”
“Yes, Jules, maybe some fencing as Phileas said before, what do you say?”
“Passepartout didn’t wanting to molest you, Jules! If you want, we do other things, yes?”
“Maybe Verne and I can attack you at the same time, Rebecca, so you can practice,” Fogg said in a loud voice to cover Rebecca’s stifled laughter.
“Did I say something funning?”
“Passepartout, please take that hellish contraption out of here. Or better, extinguish it: it’s smoking.”
“That is being just the soda lye reaction, master.”
“For God’s sake, man, what have you done now? Have you turned into a blasted soap maker? Verne, do talk some sense into him.”
“Leave Passepartout alone, Phileas. Let’s go fetch the swords, all right? Are you coming, Jules?”
The sustained silence of the fourth party in this little scene gave the other three pause. They all turned towards the writer, who was sitting very stiffly, holding in one hand a broken pen. Or maybe a bitten-through pen. He turned to them, very pale, and spoke softly:
“Dear Rebecca, Fogg, Passepartout: you know I hold you in the greatest respect and admiration. I have never met more wonderful and accomplished people in my life. But, you see, I’m trying to write here. I’m actually trying to shape all that’s crazy and horrible and chaotic in my life into some sort of story that people would like to read, thus improving my rather desperate financial situation.”
Jules rose up slowly. His friends watched him, mesmerized.
“And,” he continued, “I’m finding it a very difficult task, since all of you insist on interrupting me every… single… minute! Is it too much to ask for a few hours of peace and quiet on this dirigible? Can’t a man sit and, and, and write a little something without being pestered about caustic teas, torques, and bloody blasted fencing lessons? Passepartout, tell me, would it hurt you, tell me, for once in your life, just once… Would it hurt you to read the damned diagram before actually building the, the… the whatever it is you’re building, God help us? And you!” he turned to Fogg, who took a surprised step back, “How can you possibly think my idea of… of amusement is to freeze myself half to death while I pummel my shoulder with the recoil of that… thing, that hunting gun of yours!? And you, Rebecca, you are wonderful and… and more wonderful and all that, but kindly go analyze my drawings somewhere else, and in silence! Go pick up a technical manual for a change, or, even better, you and the rest of the world could try and start having visions of your own and leave mine alone for a change, thank you very much!!”
There was a pause when Verne stopped to catch his breath in the almost absolute silence of the cabin. The Aurora’s engines hummed softly and a little sadly.
“All I want,” Jules said, again in a soft, mild voice, “is to work in peace for a little while. I do apologize for losing my temper. Please excuse me.”
Verne sat down again and, picking another pen, dipped it in ink and started writing. In the silence, Passepartout’s tea cart started making merry bubbling noises.
“I, er… will be fixing the tea cart, then,” the valet said, and disappeared at a respectable gallop towards his workshop.
“Um. Yes, well… I could use a walk around the outer deck… Will you come with me…? Phileas?”
“What? Oh… Yes. Yes, of course. By all means. Outside, jolly good idea, yes. If you will excuse us, Verne…”
Phileas disappeared with alacrity through the door; Rebecca seemed indecisive.
“Jules, I’m so sorry to have…” A long arm came from outside and whisked her out. Jules was left alone in the cabin.
“That’s more like it,” he murmured fiercely, writing in the blessed silence. After a long while, he dropped the pen, read what he had written, smiled, and turned to the top of the page.
“A title, now… Well, let’s be obvious.”
He took the pen again and wrote clearly, at the top of the first page:
Five Weeks In A Dirigible
END