Captain Nemo_ The Fantastic History of a Dark Genius - Kevin J Anderson [71]
Verne could never afford to see such a production, though he longed to. Still, it was a wonderful time to be in Paris, the pinnacle of human civilization.
When the topic inevitably turned from literature to politics, Verne found the conversation tedious. He wandered out of the drawing room in search of something else to hold his attention . . . and perhaps more food. He wondered how much he could hide in his pockets. Hearing a harpsichord and singing upstairs, he trotted up a long, curving marble staircase, so polished and smooth that it was like walking on wet ice.
Dozens of people milled about below, most of whom Verne didn’t know. Their fashions dismayed him, their references to unrecognized names confused him, but he continued to wear a knowing smile and moved from one group to another before anyone could expose his ignorance.
As he hurried up the marble steps in his worn shoes, Verne slipped and grabbed for the stone banister to keep his balance. Missing it, he fell into a tumbling roll, just as an enormous man began to climb the stairs. Verne crashed into the mountainous, dark-skinned stranger, who caught him with a loud oof. They both tumbled backward like carts crashing in a crowded street, a flurry of legs and shoes.
While a few other party-goers tittered at the spectacle, Verne disentangled himself and mumbled his apologies, blushing as red as a sugarbeet with embarrassment. He kept his gaze downcast, flustered. “Excuse me, Monsieur! I stumbled. I couldn’t help myself.”
The big man laughed, and Verne raised his eyes, hoping he hadn’t bumbled into a person in a surly mood. A haughty man just might challenge a gangly young student to a duel, and then Jules Verne would have to demonstrate just how fast he could run.
The stranger was one of the fattest men Verne had ever seen. He had kinky black hair that showed a strong Negro heritage and dusky skin, though light enough in color to indicate mixed blood. His fingers were studded with rings and he sported a cravat pin worth more than Verne’s entire annual stipend. The man’s cheeks were like balloons, and his dark eyes sparkled with amusement at the incident.
“Oh, ho! I’m delighted that I could rescue you by forming a barricade of my girth, young Monsieur.” He patted the sheer volume of stomach barely contained within his straining waistcoat. “My only disappointment is that you’ve unsettled the delicious Nantes omelet I have just consumed.”
Verne brushed himself off, though the lint and tatters and faded spots in his clothes were not so easily whisked away. Trying not to appear such a buffoon, he remembered his mother’s secret recipe. “A Nantes omelet?” He scratched at the stubbly beard he had begun to grow in imitation of Paris literary fashion. Perhaps he could extend an appropriate apology. “You have not tasted the best omelet, Monsieur, because you have not yet eaten mine. I have a special recipe.”
The fat man laughed. “Ho! Well then, since I have saved your life from such a terrible fall, I insist that you cook me a sample. I trust that it will be every bit as delicious as you’ve led me to believe. I am quite a gourmand . . . as you can see.” He patted the barrel of his stomach, and it made a hollow, rumbling sound. “Would next Saturday do?”
Verne balked at what he had just suggested. He couldn’t invite this well-dressed and obviously wealthy man up to his dingy room. He didn’t have pans, ingredients, a dining table, china -- not even napkins. He wanted to jump down the stairs again, and this time perhaps he would mercifully break his neck.
The dark-skinned man, observing Verne’s distress, waved a pudgy hand to dismiss any concerns. “Young man, you need merely arrive at my chateau. I shall provide the cookware and supplies