In the interim, Nemo dutifully designed reinforcements to weakening bridges or church steeples, and even outlined improvements to the expanding railway network. Though many of his innovative ideas were too strange to be accepted by formally trained engineers, Nemo did his best to find the most efficient way to accomplish each task. He recalled the inspirational words of Napoleon III: “March at the head of the ideas of your century, and those ideas will strengthen and sustain you; march behind them, and they will drag you after them; march against them, and they will overthrow you.”
Nemo marched to the rhythm of his own imagination, though often his work crews didn’t want to march at all. He slogged dripping out of the water and began to issue orders, already eager to face the challenge of the next job.
Nemo lived alone in a small room at the heart of Paris and often went to operas and the theatre, including several entertaining little farces that Jules Verne had written or staged. Sometimes, he made a point of meeting his redheaded friend, but their lives had diverged enough that the lost years became a gulf between them.
Verne himself had never yet managed to set foot outside of France. The struggling writer was enthralled by parties and literati, but Nemo preferred the silence of his own company to the posturing and naive “intelligentsia” who spouted opinions as if they were facts. The challenge of complex engineering projects was a better fuel to Nemo’s imagination. Though the Emperor’s architectural repairs did not make use of his full abilities, the work kept him busy—and this left his mind free to absorb anything else that interested him.
Nemo wandered through the palatial halls of the Louvre, studying magnificent works of art—most particularly the Mona Lisa, an exquisite portrait by Leonardo da Vinci, whose drawings and notebooks had so captivated him aboard the Coralie. He also loved to travel to Versailles to admire the architecture of the “palace that was a city” built by Louis XIV.
A single man with no social aspirations, Nemo’s tastes did not run to the extravagant. His greatest indulgence was to subscribe to the Parisian science magazines that young Jules Verne had shared with him so many years before. Nemo read voraciously to keep up with new scientific developments, reveling in the tales of explorers seeking wild paths across the globe. With only his memories of distant lands, he traveled in his mind, living vicariously through the other great men of the century.
He thought often of Caroline, though he didn’t dare see her more than once every month or two, when business took him back to Nantes. He longed for her and mourned the circumstances that had built a barrier between them. The two of them did, however, exchange a regular correspondence, and he read and reread every note she sent. He would smell the faint scent of her stationery, look at her brisk but delicate handwriting, and imagine her slender fingers holding the pen as she gathered her thoughts.
By now, her husband Captain Hatteras was almost certainly lost at sea . . . but Nemo would not pressure her to file for a death certificate, as Verne had suggested. He would wait and think about her, and when his longing grew too intense, Nemo plunged with greater vigor into his daily work.
After the interminable seven years had passed, things might change for the two of them. He and Caroline had waited for each other so long. . . .
One gloomy day in the Paris civil engineering offices, Baron Haussmann presented Nemo with a new assignment. The short-statured man had a cherubic face, and harried, bloodshot eyes. He spoke with a thick German accent. “I now require of you a supreme effort, Monsieur Nemo. It is my intention that you develop a plan for expanding the ancient, overburdened system of storm drains and sewers in Paris.” He handed the young engineer a thick roll of oversized papers. “These are the blueprints. Please study them meticulously.”
Nemo found it difficult to tap into his reservoir of enthusiasm for such a dreary job. But he took the blueprints, gave a formal nod to the powerful baron, and marched out of the government offices.
That evening, with the dizzying labyrinth of Parisian sewers hammering at his brain, Nemo sank into his reading chair with a cold meal of roast mutton at his side. He buried himself in his scientific magazines. A new issue of the proceedings from Britain’s Royal Geographic Society had arrived. Since the articles were all written in English, Nemo kept up his proficiency in the language.
For more than a century, the exploration of darkest Africa had been an obsession of European explorers. Nemo had read with great interest the memoirs of James Bruce, a big-shouldered and tempestuous Scotsman who had traveled through Ethiopia and discovered the source of the Blue Nile in 1771. He also studied the 1799 journals of Mungo Park, who explored the interior of Africa and perished under a native attack on the Niger River.
Now, Nemo read a speech given at the Royal Geographical Society by an eccentric and vociferous—and possibly learned—doctor of biology named Samuel Fergusson. In an uproarious lecture to the Society, Dr. Fergusson had proposed the preposterous yet intriguing scheme of taking a hydrogen balloon from the east coast of Africa across the unexplored continent all the way to its western shores. Other travelers tramped through clogged jungles and fever-ridden swamps, tried to navigate crocodile-infested rivers or negotiate foaming cataracts. Fergusson’s idea, on the other hand, was to drift calmly over the African landscape, as if taking a quiet carriage ride.
The Royal Society had sponsored other expeditions, with the British government adding supplemental funding. Unfortunately, Fergusson’s ideas seemed just a bit too unorthodox for the conservative members of the club, and they refused to finance the doctor’s proposal. They allowed quite generous grants to numerous other expeditions, making certain that the world was explored and investigated to the fullest extent possible. The Society sent out veritable armies of scientists and collectors to the four corners of the globe.
But not Samuel Fergusson.
Not in the doctor’s favor was the evidence that two of his other “innovative” (or “crackpot”) designs had failed to get off the ground, after the Society had funded them, and the members in control of the treasury did not want to waste further money on Fergusson’s ideas. His remarkable balloon design would not likely progress beyond a scheme on paper.
While sitting in his room, ignoring the dull blueprints of Paris sewers and storm drains, Nemo thought the explorer’s idea had merit, despite his apparent arrogance and blustery personality. As he reread the article, excitement grew within him. But when he studied the diagram for Fergusson’s balloon, he realized it would never work.
As planned, the balloon would not have enough carrying capacity for supplies, scientific instruments, and passengers. The vessel would never make it across the continent, but would instead sink into uncharted areas. Nemo had no doubt that if Fergusson persisted in this plan, he would never be heard of again.
Unless the balloon could be modified . . .
Nemo shrugged off all thoughts of Parisian sewers and set to work with pen and paper, making calculations, incorporating his own ideas. He did not sleep, but still felt more refreshed and alive than he had in many months.
III
Standing in front of an imposing door covered with peeling black paint, Nemo rang the English explorer’s bell in the middle of the afternoon. He was still breathless but filled with ideas. He had never been to London before.
“I request an audience with Dr. Samuel Fergusson, please.” Nemo stood straight-backed and unwavering on the doorstep. He had spent his savings on a passage across the English Channel, then took a train into London, where he’d had no difficulty finding the doctor’s address.
The gaunt manservant scowled, assessing the young man. He had a high forehead and drooping eyes as gray as winter clouds. His mouth drew together in a pinched frown like a flowerbud shriveling in the sun. “And might I inquire as to your business, sir? You sound . . . French.”
Nemo blurted out the sentence he had rehearsed, though his English was still a bit rough. “The doctor’s proposed balloon design will not work. I have a better
idea to share with him.”
Skeptical, the manservant stepped back into the foyer and closed the door, leaving the young man to stand on the street. While he waited, Nemo checked his clothes and smoothed his dark hair, making certain he did not appear to be a wild-eyed madman. He tucked his rolled drawings neatly under one arm, as if they were weapons.
When the door was flung open again, Nemo looked up to see a long-legged man with hazel eyes, bushy dark eyebrows, and a ridiculously huge black mustache that balanced like a canoe upon his lip.
“Whatever is the meaning of this, eh?” Fergusson said, like a roaring lion. “How could you possibly know whether or not my balloon will work? Indeed, I have spent hours on the design, and I missed nothing.”
Nemo held up his rolls of sketches and designs. “Allow me to show you why, Monsieur.” Without waiting for permission, he pushed past the doctor and marched down the corridor, following daylight to the large windows in a drawing room. There, he found a writing desk at which Fergusson had been compiling notes and a list. Nemo unrolled his blueprint on the flat surface.
“Why, I don’t even know you, sir!” Fergusson hovered behind him. “This is highly irregular.”
“Your idea to cross Africa in a balloon is also highly irregular,” Nemo pointed out. “And it is brilliant.”
“Brilliant, eh? Yes, yes it is. But because of my, er, unfortunate track record with similar balloon designs, the Society chooses to fund more conventional expeditions. I shall never get the chance.”
“Your balloon designs are flawed, as I will demonstrate. You, of all people, Dr. Fergusson, should listen to an unorthodox concept. I would hate to see your expedition fail because of several miscalculations that could have been avoided. I suspect that your earlier test flights failed for the same reasons.”
“But what sort of . . . miscalculations can you mean?” He stroked his thick mustache like a man petting an unlucky cat. “Indeed, I cannot deny that my earlier balloons were disasters, eh?”
Nemo pointed to the columns of numbers, and the flustered doctor scanned them, pretending to redo the math in his head. “You’ll need five weeks in a balloon to traverse Africa, Monsieur. As is apparent here”—he jabbed a finger at his calculations—“even under favorable winds, you will not have enough flotation for three weeks. Your hydrogen gas will not last for the duration necessary to cross such a distance. Even if the Society had seen fit to fund your expedition, you would have crashed in the middle of the continent.”
“Yes, yes, I see now. Perhaps they were wiser to fund traditional overland treks instead, considering. . . .” Fergusson nodded, intent. His indignation forgotten, he stared at Nemo’s drawing instead. “Indeed.”
“My new balloon design will, on the other hand, succeed.” Nemo squared his shoulders. “I am confident of it.”
Fergusson tapped the sketch with his forefinger. “You appear to have two balloons?”
Nemo nodded. “One inside the other, with a valve so that gases communicate from the inner sphere to the outer sphere. I have also developed a mechanism that can heat and recondense the hydrogen gas to increase our buoyancy.”
“And the purpose for that is?” Fergusson raised his bushy black eyebrows. He sounded testy now, but Nemo could tell it was only an act. The man was intrigued by the innovative design, and somewhat abashed at the clear mistakes he had made with his own proposal.
“For maneuverability,” Nemo said. “In previous travel by balloon, one has been at the mercy of the winds. However, aeronautical studies have proven that the winds blow in different directions at different altitudes. Therefore, we must simply seek a height at which the winds will blow us on our westward course.”
“Our course? We? What do you mean, we?”
“I intend to come along, Doctor, since the design is mine.” Nemo’s gaze was calm and unshakeable. “Is that so much to ask?”
“An international expedition, you say? English and French? My, that would cause quite a scandal.” Then Fergusson’s excitement deflated. The long-legged man stepped away from the writing desk. He shook his head. “Alas, it is a moot point now, my friend.”
“Why? The design is quite practicable,” Nemo insisted. “I know it can take us across Africa.”
Fergusson tugged on his enormous mustache, as if trying to remove it from his lip. “No, young man. The problem is with the Royal Geographical Society. They have sent out their quota of explorers already for the coming year. This afternoon they denied my second appeal for expedition funding, and therefore there will be no balloon trip. Unless you have a private fortune of your own, eh?” The doctor chuckled. “And that much I doubt, from your appearance.”
Flushed with embarrassment and disappointment, Nemo realized the brashness of his scheme to come here. He should not have bothered the scientist. His new balloon design must have thrown salt on the would-be explorer’s wounds.
“I apologize for taking your time, Monsieur.” Nemo gathered his drawings and backed out of the drawing room. “If circumstances should change, allow me to give you my name and address so that you can contact me.”
Fergusson nodded, his thick brows knitting together. “Most certainly, my friend. I admire your verve—and audacity. Reminds me of your Napoleon Bonaparte, eh? Of course, he was defeated in the end, as well.”
Nemo took his leave of the Fergusson residence and of London, and returned to his dreary job reconfiguring the sewers of Paris.
Two months later, when the post delivered an exuberant letter from Dr. Samuel Fergusson, Nemo read it in his open doorway with great perplexity.
“Yes, my friend! Indeed, this is a most exciting time for us,” the Englishman wrote. “I admit that your proposed terms took me by surprise. They are unorthodox, to say the least, and I needed to adjust my mental state to accept them. But why not, eh? The spirit of exploration requires us to open our minds to all things. Very well, young Nemo—as soon as arrangements can be made, we shall all be off to Africa.”
Nemo read the note again with a pounding heart, but he could not fathom Fergusson’s meaning. Had the Royal Geographical Society changed its mind, considering Nemo’s modified balloon design? How had the explorer obtained the finances necessary for such an expedition? Nemo had assessed the costs of constructing his balloon-within-a-balloon, and he knew it would not come cheap.
His head was full of questions, yet it would take time for the post to carry a letter across the channel to London—and Nemo was mad with curiosity. However, before he could compose a note listing his questions, he heard a tentative rapping on his door. Nemo answered the knock to find Caroline standing there in sensible traveling clothes with a small valise at her side. “I hope you were sincere in your wish to travel across Africa, André.”
Caroline removed her gloves as she smiled at him. “I have read your letters again and again—the ones in which you tell me of your ideas and your discussions with this Englishman Fergusson? I know this dream has attached itself to your heart.”
“Yes, of course,” Nemo said, “but—”
“So I wrote to your Dr. Fergusson, and I guaranteed him funding for his supplies, his balloon, and his entire expedition. Both my husband Captain Hatteras and Aronnax, Merchant have fortunes to invest. This expedition will honor my husband’s lifelong ambitions of exploration. You will accompany the doctor, of course, because this must be your triumph as well as his.”
Nemo could not contain his excitement. “Were those the terms Dr. Fergusson refers to? That I must accompany him?”
Caroline gave him a mischievous smile, reminding him of the coy young woman he had fallen in love with back in Ile Feydeau. But her bright blue eyes had an entirely different sparkle now. “I made my offer contingent upon several conditions. You are not the only one who longs to break free of a dull life here in France, André.”
Nemo blinked at her, already sure of what she was going to say.
“The other condition is that I undertake this expedition with you and Dr. Fe
rgusson.”
IV
The British and French press had a field day with Dr. Fergusson’s preposterous but wonderfully dramatic scheme to cross Africa in a balloon. Jules Verne read about Nemo’s involvement in the daily Paris newspapers even before his dark-haired friend came to see him.
Nemo sent a note asking Verne to meet him that Saturday on the steps of the Louvre. An unsettled Verne went to France’s magnificent art museum to hear what Nemo had to say in person . . . and to try to talk him out of the madness, if at all possible.
A light rain and gray skies had deterred the usual crowds, but people still milled about on the sidewalks and grounds, seeking shelter inside. A mushroom forest of umbrellas sprouted on the street corners, like what Nemo had described finding at the center of the Earth.
The dark-haired young man stood on the steps, smiling at Verne’s approach. As Verne closed his umbrella and shook off the moisture, he saw that Nemo was wet, his long dark hair drenched, his clothes soaked. Verne raised his eyebrows. “I expected a man so accustomed to the hardships of survival to come prepared with an umbrella against the rain.”
Nemo gave Verne a friendly embrace. “A man so accustomed to the hardships of survival does not mind a little moisture.”
They passed under the white arches and entered the enormous museum. Verne had seen the exhibits many times before, often in the company of his artistic friends who spent more time criticizing than enjoying the artwork itself. Verne usually kept his opinions to himself, not understanding the complaints.
Together, the two men strolled past paintings of Napoleon Bonaparte, glorified portrayals of the French Revolution, bucolic landscapes, flowers, portraits of forgotten noblemen. In a casual voice that quickly heated with enthusiasm, Nemo laid out his case for the balloon trip, not surprised that his friend was already familiar with the details. Verne grew uncomfortable listening to every sentence, but he could see the fire in Nemo’s eyes, the passion he had for this excursion, just like he’d shown when talking about his scheme to walk underwater. Nothing would ever sway Nemo once he’d made up his mind.
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