The Map of the Sky (10 page)

And so, when the audience had left the hall, shaking their heads at the gibberish they’d heard, and Symmes, with the helpless air of a drowning man, began to collect the drawings he had used to illustrate his lecture, Reynolds approached the chubby-faced speaker, congratulated him on his lecture, and offered to help him gather up his things. The delighted lecturer accepted, eager to go on spouting his ideas to this unexpected listener that Fate had sent his way. Reynolds soon found out that after the captain had quit the army, he had spent ten years traveling around the country like a zealous preacher, proclaiming his theory from every kind of pulpit, greeted with either roars of laughter or pitying smiles.

“The evidence substantiating my theory is overwhelming,” Symmes declared as he took down the drawings he had placed on various easels. “What else causes hurricanes and tornados if not the air sucked into the polar openings? And why do thousands of tropical birds migrate north in winter?”

Reynolds saw these as rhetorical questions and let them dissolve like snowflakes. He was not sure whether Symmes was saying that the migrating birds flew into the polar openings in order to nest inside the Earth, or something completely different, but either way he did not care. He decided to nod enthusiastically, pretending to listen to Symmes’s grating voice while he feverishly examined the jumble of papers, maps, illustrations, and charts with which the captain tried to give his ideas some credence. Most of them looked like serious articles, many by scientists
of renown, and he regretted that the champion of all this eccentric knowledge was this clumsy, buffoonish little man. He imagined that he could give the project the veneer of credibility that was lacking from Symmes’s sideshow routine. Yes, Reynolds said to himself as he contemplated the drawings, perhaps the Hollow Earth theory was true after all.

“Not forgetting the numerous allusions in ancient myths to places in the Earth’s interior,” the captain added, studying the young man’s response. “Surely you have heard of Atlantis or the Kingdom of Agartha, my boy.”

Reynolds nodded absentmindedly: he had found Trevor Glynn’s drawings. He studied the annotations and intricate calculations jotted in the margins. They gave such an accurate account of the distances between the various deposits, the different access routes, the approximate quantities of minerals, and the geological and topographical data that it was easy to picture Glynn himself having charted the territory, strolling through those hidden caverns wielding a pencil. And Reynolds understood in a flash that this was not about believing or not, but simply about taking a chance or not. He decided there and then to take a chance on the Hollow Earth theory. He would believe in it in the same childish way he believed in God: if God turned out not to be true, the consequences of having believed in Him would no doubt be less terrible than if God did exist and Reynolds had declared himself an atheist. Even so, it was easier for Reynolds to believe in the Hollow Earth theory, for if he believed in anything at all, he believed in destiny, and it was destiny that had made him walk into the lecture hall that afternoon. He reflected about all of this, trying to blot out Symmes’s droning voice. If there was a world to discover, he was not going to waste time arguing over its existence. He would leave that to others; he had decided to take a chance on the Hollow Earth, and he would simply go to look for it. After all, the only thing he had to lose was his detestable life. And so it could be said that when he walked into a crowded lecture hall that afternoon, Reynolds discovered the hitherto elusive meaning of his life. And he had no choice but to embrace it with open arms.

Symmes’s voice interrupted his meditations.

“However,” he said, unsure whether this stranger deserved to be the beneficiary of his wisdom, of all the things he did not share with his audiences, “those are not the main reasons why I am sure the Earth is hollow.”

“Really?”

“No, it is purely a matter of thrift, my boy,” Symmes replied smugly. “Just as our bones are hollow, the idea of making the Earth hollow in order to save on materials cannot have escaped the attention of our Creator.”

Reynolds managed to conceal his scorn at such a stupid argument and instead put on the face of someone confronted with the indisputable proof that an entire civilization inhabited the center of the planet, an expression that, naturally enough, satisfied the ex–army officer’s expectations. The young man gave him a sidelong glance, which was not without compassion. He realized that, at least for the moment, if he wanted to carry out his plan, he would have to humor this ridiculous little man. Reynolds knew next to nothing about the Hollow Earth and could certainly benefit from Symmes’s knowledge and contacts, although he had already begun to sense the likely hazards of any association with him. At any rate, it was too soon to be thinking about that now. If later on it became necessary to rid himself of Symmes, he did not imagine it would be all that difficult.

And so, the very next day, Reynolds sold his shares in the
Spectator,
the Wilmington newspaper of which he was editor, and, free as a bird, joined Symmes in his crusade, adopting the ex–army man’s dream as though it were his own. They spent almost a year traveling around the country like a pair of evangelists heralding a weird and wonderful world that lay undiscovered, although, thanks to Reynolds’s skillful improvements, their arguments were far better thought out and more engaging. However, time after time Symmes’s ravings and eccentricities thwarted Reynolds’s efforts to make their project credible, for he was incapable
of sticking to the agreed formula, or, in any case, of keeping his mouth shut. Even so, the would-be explorer tried not to give in to his despair and concentrated on carrying out the alternative plan he had elaborated behind his companion’s back. He soon knew everything there was to know about the various Hollow Earth theories and was able to distinguish which ones the public would find most appealing and easy to digest and which would interest the powerful officials whom he was intent on seducing. Encouraged by his progress, Reynolds busied himself furiously for several months, sending missives to his fellow journalists, arranging meetings with politicians, calling in every favor owed him, leaving no stone unturned in his search for funding. Gradually he succeeded in making people in different circles begin to speak of the Hollow Earth as a scientific theory, perhaps one whose inconsistencies still raised a few eyebrows, but which was certainly respectable enough not to be greeted with the usual hoots of laughter. Provided Symmes did not turn up and ruin everything, naturally.

One evening, while Symmes was celebrating what he considered his latest triumph, and Reynolds his latest act of sabotage, Reynolds finally accepted that the ex–army officer had a serious problem with alcohol. As usual, they had spent the day revealing the mysteries of the Hollow Earth to anyone who cared to listen, and now, with several beers in front of them, it was time to show each other the far simpler workings of their minds. Or at least that is what Symmes liked to engage in at the end of their evening repast, while his companion listened with a mixture of compassion and exasperation. For the past few nights, as the drink loosened Symmes’s tongue, Reynolds had watched him become more and more bogged down in the miasma of his own illusions, which he soon labeled delusions. Symmes appeared to him increasingly pathetic, but also an increasing threat to Reynolds’s plans. Symmes had imagined the subterranean world in the minutest detail, and the result was a kind of utopian sanctuary where happiness was in the very air and there were none of the torments that plagued men on the Earth’s surface. In short, a
world where it was impossible not to be happy, whose marvels Symmes described to him night after night with the feverish look of a man about to die, with his gaze already fixed on the joys of Heaven.

However, the night in question, which started out like any other, took a turn that allowed Reynolds to understand the full extent of his companion’s insanity. Leaning sideways precariously in his chair, tankard in hand, his speech slurred, Symmes admitted that the reason he was able to imagine so clearly what the subterranean world looked like, and why he was so adamant that what was beneath their feet was exactly as he had described it and not otherwise, was because he had been there himself. The ex–army officer’s sudden revelation naturally took Reynolds by surprise, and he listened in astonishment to Symmes’s fantastical account of how he had traveled to the center of the Earth.

Unfortunately, to tell it in the same amount of detail as Symmes did would distract from our main story, so I shall limit myself to stating briefly that the alleged event took place in 1814 during the war against the British. The regiment under Symmes’s command had been ambushed, and it soon became clear to officers and men alike that there was no sense in giving or obeying orders, that it was each man for himself. Pursued by two British soldiers, Symmes hid in a cave he came across. After wandering deep inside it for hours, he discovered a small staircase that appeared to lead to the center of the Earth. Descending it, he had found a beautiful domed city straight out of
The Thousand and One Nights,
as was the story he was now telling the stunned Reynolds. This included a romance with a beautiful princess of the realm, a palace mutiny, a revolution, and finally a hasty escape that left behind the aforementioned princess dying of love. And as Symmes ended his story, weeping bitter tears for the loss of his beloved Litina, princess of the subterranean kingdom of Milmor, Reynolds felt a sickening shiver run down his spine: he realized he had to get rid of the little fellow as soon as possible or he would never be able to achieve his goal. But that was easier said than done, for Symmes, despite his pathetic behavior, also had sudden flashes of inspiration, and during one of these had made them both
sign a declaration that they would travel together to the center of the Earth, prohibiting either of them from embarking upon such a venture alone, unless one party predeceased the other. Now that he knew how difficult the little man was to handle, Reynolds could not help kicking himself for having signed it.

In the days that followed, not a moment went by when he did not wonder how he might get rid of Symmes. His companion was steadily drinking more, even during the day, and particularly before the lectures, as though he thought it would improve his oratory. And Reynolds was in a continual state of anxiety, fearful that Symmes would choose one of their meetings or lectures to reveal his idiotic personal story to the world, turning them into the laughingstock of the country. The only solution Reynolds could think of, since doing away with Symmes personally was out of the question, even for an amoral being such as he, was to limit the damage as much as possible. He began to arrange meetings behind Symmes’s back and even encouraged him to drink more during the day, in order to keep him in a state of compliant semiconsciousness. This enabled him to go alone to the lectures, leaving Symmes asleep in his hotel room.

And then, one day, the opportunity he had been waiting for finally arrived. Reynolds was in the middle of a meeting with two senators in his hotel room when Symmes suddenly turned up in his underwear, drunk as a lord, and, kneeling before the two illustrious gentlemen, begged them to sponsor the project, to give his friend and him some money. He explained that at that very moment beneath their feet was a beautiful lovesick princess, whose sighs they could hear if they put their ears to the carpet, and what in life was worth fighting for more than true love? Thereupon, he collapsed at their feet and began snoring peacefully. Reynolds watched him with a look of disgust. He apologized cursorily and bade farewell to the two senators, who were still stunned by the grotesque apparition. Once alone in the room with Symmes, Reynolds studied him closely for a few moments, his look of revulsion giving way to a sinister smile. Did he have the guts to do it? If he allowed this
opportunity to slip away, he might never have another one, he concluded. And so, avoiding thinking about the real significance of his actions, he went round opening all the windows with the diligence of a servant airing the room. They were in Boston, in the middle of a particularly harsh winter. An icy wind began to whip the curtains, while a torrent of dancing snowflakes invaded the room, flecking the carpet and the rest of the floor with white patches. After making sure everything was going according to plan, Reynolds left Symmes sprawled half naked on the floor, exposed to the raging storm, and, after telling reception he was not to be disturbed on any account, he went to sleep in Symmes’s room. And it has to be said that Reynolds had no trouble falling asleep, undisturbed by the possible consequences of his actions. The following morning he returned to his room and found Symmes still unconscious, although a few yards from where he had left him, as though at some point during the night he had woken up and tried to drag himself over to the bed in search of shelter. His face had turned a bluish purple, his skin was burning, and he had difficulty breathing, emitting a noise like a death rattle or the sound of a trombone muted with damp cloths. Reynolds quickly carried Symmes back to his own room, where he laid him out on the bed. Then he called the doctor, who took one look at him and diagnosed pneumonia.

The patient never fully regained consciousness. For four days he perspired, writhed around on the bed wracked with fever, and called loudly for Litina. On the eve of his final day on Earth, which had subjected him to so many humiliations, Symmes opened his eyes and found Reynolds, who had not strayed from his bedside for a moment. The ex–army officer managed a hoarse whisper. All my efforts have been in vain, he told Reynolds. Litina will never know I was the victim of a conspiracy, that I truly loved her and have gone on loving her ever since I fled her world. Reynolds watched him, his heart brimming with a compassion that was as remarkable as it was profound for a life that could have ended with dignity had it not been cut short by madness. Almost instinctively, he clasped the dying man’s hand and vowed to him, in that room reeking
of medicines and mortality, that he would reach the center of the Earth if it was the last thing he did and pass on Symmes’s message to Litina. As a final gesture, Symmes was able to muster a smile of gratitude; moments later his eyes glazed over, and his mouth opened in a desperate attempt to breathe in air that was no longer his. Reynolds discovered that the saddest thing in the world is to see a man die wearing the forlorn expression of someone who has failed to fulfill his dreams.