Chapter 2 – A Ghost of the Night
There is a great advantage to be had in already knowing that which people are trying to explain to you. I listened only enough to answer intelligently when required, but mostly I watched Mina. She had changed little, if at all, since I last saw her five years ago. If anything, she seemed more amiable and more certain of herself than ever. I was hoping to reach a private agreement with her as to the price of my involvement in this 'League' when M made his dramatic appearance.
I would have appreciated his flair for the theatric more if it had not wreaked such havoc on my library. Still, it had been ages since I had gotten a chance to display my swordsmanship and it warmed my heart to hear Mina's cry of dismay as one of M's hirelings attempted to dispatch me. Bullets, in my opinion, have added nothing to the sport of warfare. Anyone can point a gun at someone, though it is a good idea to fire only at those actually harmed by bullets. Once again, I wondered what exactly was behind this quest of M's that he had retained such novice help. As it was, my suit was utterly ruined, both by the bullets and by the hand of my attacker as he died at my feet. Fortunately, I had long made it a habit to own at least three of any flattering garb. The destruction of that particularly smart bit of tailoring did result in a most amusing attempt by Mina to watch, while not seeming to do so, as I changed into a shirt and vest. Quatermain and Sawyer returned, unsuccessful, from their pursuit of M and conversation once more turned to my potential participation with the League.
Little did I realize the most exciting event of the evening was yet to come. Witnessing Mina's swift turnabout on M's remaining agent was, stimulating, to say the least. I was not the only one captivated by this display of her true nature. All the gentlemen eyed her with a curious blend of caution and interest. I, however, was not pleased to note the look of frank admiration by the young American. Nor the way he squirmed at the sudden tightness of his trousers. I had suspected Mina was not as she seemed during our months together but never did I suspect this. Nosferatu, Vampyre—why, what civilized man would believe in a child's fairytale creature? Yet there she was, demurely dabbing the blood from her face. Her unusual attributes made her all the more fascinating to me and explained more than a few things that had puzzled me. I doubt the other gentleman realize how close we came to further bloodshed that evening when that colonial pup wormed his way into their ranks, seeming none too eager to convince me to join them. Never have I seen such revoltingly obvious courtship but Mina seemed only amused. Recognizing my opportunity for further negotiations was lost, I agreed at once. What choice did I have? I was compelled to join them, both to regain possession of my painting and to keep an eye on this Sawyer.
During dinner, aboard Nemo's Freudian nightmare of a ship, she was quite subdued. The others were still uncomfortable around her, made more so by the show she was making of eating dainty bites of food, which we now knew was not nearly as appealing as her fellow diners. Sitting beside her, I tried to keep her distracted with pleasant, trivial conversation but the tension was still there. As the main course was being cleared, she set aside her napkin and addressed the group.
"Please excuse me. I think I will retire for the evening. Captain Nemo, now that we are out at sea and above water again, would it be possible for me to step out for a bit of air?"
Nemo smiled and gave her directions to the observation deck. I quickly stood, pulling her chair out for her. As she stood, the other gentlemen rose obligingly. Aware of the eyes on her, she straightened and, with a smile and nod to the company, swept out. Watching her go, there was something in that walk that called to mind the first time I ever saw her.
She had been walking down a street in a most unseemly neighborhood at a positively scandalous hour. Her carriage drew my attention like a match struck suddenly in a dim room. There was a power and purpose in her stride and a challenge in the sure tilt of her head. As she came closer, the gaslights revealed the drab, shabby costume of some menial labourer, perhaps a charwoman. But surely this was no charwoman – pale skin radiant and a flash of auburn peeking from beneath the ugliest monstrosity ever to call itself a hat, striding defiantly through the dark. She crossed in front of my carriage and quickly turned down a narrow side alley.
Was it a premonition or merely the tingle of recognition I felt as she looked toward me, hidden deep in the shadowy interior of the hansom, that burned that moment into my memory? Perhaps it was the shock of seeing, in person and undeniably real, one whom I had come to believe was a fantasy. I leapt from the cab, running into the alley I had seen her enter, but it was empty. She was gone, like a ghost of the night, and I could only trust that my senses had not deceived me. She was real, not some ephemeral invention of a deluded mind. She was real and, in that moment I realized, I despised her.
Novelists are adept at pinpointing the beginning – selecting a moment and saying with certainty 'Here it began; here began the love, the hate, the whole of the tale' (1). Creating fiction, dealing in untruths, gives an unfair advantage and I have not their talent for neatly arranging the chaotic mélange of events we call life into a neat timeline of cause and effect. Yet if forced to select a moment to mark as the genesis, it would not have been that night, watching a bit of corporeal ether cross a street, but rather an unremarkable evening a few months earlier in, of all places, a humble flat in the East End.
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(1) While not a direct quote, the philosophy is heavily inspired by the opening pages of Graham Greene's wonderful novel, The End of the Affair.
