17 In which various matters are dealt with during the crossing from Singapore to Hong Kong From that day on Passepartout and the detective met each other frequently, but the policeman was extremely guarded towards his companion and made no attempt to make him talk. On one or two occasions only did he catch sight of Mr Fogg, who was happy to remain in the main lounge of the Rangoon, either because he was keeping Mrs Aouda company or because he was playing whist, an unvarying part of his daily routine. Passepartout, for his part, had begun to think very hard about the strange coincidence that had resulted once again in Fix meeting up with his master during their travels and, all in all, that was hardly surprising. This gentleman, who was very friendly and certainly very obliging, who had turned up in Suez then embarked on the Mongolia and disembarked at Bombay, where he said he had to stay, who then showed up again on the Rangoon, on the way to Hong Kong, who in a word was following Mr Fogg step by step on his journey: all this really was something to think about. There was something strange, at the very least, about all these coincidental meetings. Who was this Fix after? Passepartout was ready to bet his oriental slippers – he had taken great care of them – that this Fix fellow would leave Hong Kong at the same time as them and probably by the same steamer. Passepartout could have gone on thinking for a hundred years and still not have guessed what business Fix was about. He would never have imagined that Phileas Fogg was being trailed by a detective all around the world like a common thief. But as it is only human nature to attempt to find an explanation for everything, this is how Passepartout, in a sudden flash of illumination, interpreted the fact of Fix’s permanent presence, and in all fairness his interpretation was perfectly plausible. According to him, then, Fix was, and could only be, a private investigator set on Mr Fogg’s trail by his colleagues from the Reform Club, in order to check that he followed the agreed route in his journey around the world. ‘It’s obvious! It’s obvious!’ the dear fellow repeated to himself, proud of how clever he was. ‘He’s a spy that these gentlemen have set on our trail. It’s just not fair! Mr Fogg is so upright and honourable. To have him spied on by a private investigator! Well, members of the Reform Club, you’re really going to pay for this!’ Passepartout, though he was delighted by his discovery, decided to say nothing about it to his master, in case the latter felt justifiably hurt at the way his opponents distrusted him. But he swore that he would take the mickey out of Fix when the opportunity arose, but discreetly and without showing that he was in the know. On the afternoon of Wednesday 30 October, the Rangoon entered the Strait of Malacca, which separates the Malaya peninsula from the island of Sumatra. The main island was hidden from view by very picturesque small islands with steeply sloping mountains. The next day, at four o’clock in the morning, the Rangoon, which was half a day ahead of schedule on the crossing put in at Singapore,1 in order to take on a new supply of coal. Phileas Fogg noted this gain in the plus column of his ledger and this time went ashore to accompany Mrs Aouda, who had indicated that she would like to look around for a few hours. Fix, who was suspicious of everything Fogg did, followed without being seen. Passepartout, for his part, laughing to himself at Fix’s antics, went off to do his usual shopping. The island of Singapore is not particularly large or impressive. It lacks mountains to make it attractive. However, there is a certain charm to its compactness. It resembles a park with fine roads going through it. A handsome carriage drawn by elegant horses specially brought from Australia transported Mrs Aouda and Phileas Fogg through groves of luxuriant palm trees and clove trees, the fruit of which comes from the blossom of the half-opened flower. Instead of the prickly hedges to be found in the countryside of Europe, here there were pepper bushes. Sago trees, large ferns with their magnificent fronds, gave variety to the tropical vegetation and the air was thick with the intense perfume of nutmeg trees, with their shiny green foliage. Hordes of lively, grinning monkeys roamed around the woods, and there were probably tigers, too, in the jungle. Anyone surprised at the idea that these terrifying carnivores had not been eliminated on such a relatively small island should realize that they come from Malacca, by swimming across the strait. After travelling around the countryside for a couple of hours, Mrs Aouda and her companion – who took little notice of what he saw – went back into the town, a large concentration of squat houses surrounded by delightful gardens in which grow mangosteens, pineapples and all the most delicious kinds of fruits. At ten o’clock they arrived back at the steamer, having been followed, without realizing it, by the inspector, who had also had to go to the expense of hiring a carriage. Passepartout was waiting for them on the deck of the Rangoon. The dear fellow had bought a few dozens mangosteens, the size of an average apple, dark brown on the outside and bright red inside. The white flesh melts between the lips and is a source of unique pleasure to the true connoisseur. Passepartout was only too pleased to present them to Mrs Aouda, who graciously accepted them. At eleven o’clock the Rangoon, having filled up with coal, slipped its moorings, and a few hours later the passengers lost sight of the high mountains of Malacca, whose forests are home to the finest tigers in the world. There are about 1,300 miles between Singapore and the island of Hong Kong, a small British possession separated from the Chinese mainland. Phileas Fogg needed to cover this distance in six days at the most in order to be in Hong Kong in time to catch the boat that was due to leave on 6 November for Yokohama, one of the main ports in Japan. The Rangoon was heavily loaded. A large number of passengers had boarded at Singapore, Indians, Singhalese, Chinese, Malays and Portuguese, most of whom were in the second-class accommodation. The weather, which had been generally fine up to then, changed as the moon entered its last quarter. The sea became rough. The wind sometimes got up, but very fortunately it was blowing from the southeast, which helped the steamer to go faster. When the wind was moderate the captain put up the sails. The Rangoon, which had the rigging of a brig, often sailed with its two topsails and its foresail, and its speed increased under the combined effect of steam and wind. And so it was that they followed the coastline of Annam and Cochin China2 on a choppy and very tiring sea. But the fault for this lay with the Rangoon rather than the sea and it was the steamer that the passengers, most of whom were seasick, should have blamed for their exhaustion. The truth is that the ships of the P&O line which sail the China Seas have a serious design fault. The ratio between their draught when laden and their depth has been wrongly calculated and as a result they lack stability in heavy seas. The volume of the ship that is enclosed and watertight is insufficient. The ships are ‘drowned’, to use the sailing term, and because of this lay-out, a few heavy waves washing over the deck are enough to slow them down. These ships are therefore far inferior – if not by their engines and their steam apparatus, then at least in their design – to the sorts of ships used by the French mail service, such as the Impératrice and the Cambodge. Whereas, according to the engineers’ calculations, the latter can take on board a weight of water equal to their own weight before sinking, the P&O ships, the Golconda, the Korea and lastly the Rangoon, could not take on board a sixth of their weight without going down. Thus, when the weather was bad, extreme caution was needed. It was sometimes necessary to heave to at low steam. The resulting loss of time did not seem to affect Phileas Fogg in the least, but Passepartout got extremely annoyed. At such times he blamed the captain, the chief engineer and the Company, and he cursed all those involved in transporting passengers. Perhaps, too, the thought of the gas bill he would have to pay back in Savile Row had something to do with his impatience. ‘Are you really in such a hurry to get to Hong Kong?’ the detective asked him one day. ‘Very much so,’ replied Passepartout. ‘Do you think Mr Fogg is in a rush to catch the steamer to Yokohama?’ ‘A terrible rush.’ ‘Do you really believe in this bizarre journey around the world?’ ‘Absolutely. What about you, Mr Fix?’ ‘Me? I don’t believe a word of it.’ ‘You’re a real jester,’ replied Passepartout, winking at him. This word gave the detective food for thought. The choice of the term worried him, though he wasn’t too sure why. Had the Frenchman seen through him? He wasn’t sure what to think. But how could Passepartout have realized that he was a detective when he had been careful to keep it secret? Nevertheless, when speaking to him like that, Passepartout must certainly have had something at the back of his mind. In the event, the dear fellow went even further another day. He just couldn’t help himself. He couldn’t hold his tongue. ‘Come on, Mr Fix,’ he said to his companion mischievously. ‘Is it true that after we get to Hong Kong we will no longer have the pleasure of your company?’ ‘Well,’ replied Mr Fix, looking rather embarrassed, ‘I’m not sure. Perhaps I …’ ‘Oh,’ said Passepartout, ‘if you were to stay with us, I would be delighted. Why on earth would an employee of P&O want to break off his journey? You were only going to Bombay and now you are almost in China. America’s not far away, and from America to Europe is no distance at all.’ Fix looked carefully at his fellow passenger, who had the friendliest of expressions on his face, and decided to laugh along with him. However, the latter, who was in good spirits, asked him if this job of his was ‘a good little earner’. ‘Yes and no,’ said Fix without batting an eyelid. ‘There are times when it is and times when it isn’t. But, as you will quite understand, it’s not me who’s paying for the trip.’ ‘Oh, I’m quite sure of that!’ exclaimed Passepartout, laughing even more. That was the end of the conversation. Fix went back to his cabin and began to think things over. It was obvious that he’d been found out. One way or another, the Frenchman had worked out that he was a detective. But had he warned his master? What was his role in all this? Was he an accomplice or not? The secret was out and the game was up. The detective spent a few difficult hours, sometimes believing that all was lost, sometimes hoping that Fogg was not aware of the situation, and in the end not knowing what to do next. However, after a while his mind became more settled and he decided that he would come clean with Passepartout. If it did not prove possible to arrest Fogg in Hong Kong and if Fogg was preparing to leave British soil once and for all, then he, Fix, would tell Passepartout everything. Either the servant was his master’s accomplice and Fogg knew everything – in which case the game was definitely up – or the servant had nothing to do with the theft – and then it would be to his advantage to give up on the thief. This, then, was the situation between the two men, while Phileas Fogg, for his part, sailed on, majestically indifferent. He continued on his scientifically calculated orbit around the world, without bothering about the asteroids gravitating around him. And yet in the vicinity there was – to use a term from astronomy – a ‘disturbing’ star, one that should have produced a certain amount of disturbance in the gentleman’s heart. But no. Mrs Aouda’s charm had no such effect, much to Passepartout’s surprise, and such disturbances, if they did exist, would have been more difficult to detect than those on Uranus that had led to the discovery of Neptune.3 Yes. This was an unfailing source of amazement to Passepartout, who read all that gratitude towards his master in the young woman’s eyes. It was clear that Phileas Fogg had what it took to be a hero, but certainly not what was needed to be a lover. As for concern about the success of the journey, he gave no sign of any. Passepartout, however, was constantly on tenterhooks. One day when he was leaning on the handrail of the engine room, he watched the powerful machinery race away from time to time as the boat pitched suddenly, making the propeller spin wildly clean out of the water. Steam then came pouring out of the valves, making the dear fellow very angry. ‘These valves aren’t properly weighted down,’ he exclaimed. ‘We aren’t going fast enough. That’s the English for you! If only it was an American boat. We might go up in smoke, but at least we’d be travelling faster!’ 18 In which Phileas Fogg, Passepartout and Fix all go about their business, but separately In the final days of the crossing the weather was quite bad. The wind became very strong, and because it was blowing from the north-west it slowed down the steamer’s progress. The Rangoon, because of its lack of stability, rolled heavily and the passengers were entitled to feel a certain resentment towards the high waves that were whipped up by the wind from the open sea and that made them feel sick. During 3 and 4 November there was quite a storm. Fierce gusts of wind lashed the sea. The Rangoon had to heave to for half a day, with its engine only ticking over so as to ride out the storm. All the sails had been furled, but even then the rigging whistled in the high wind. As can well be imagined, the speed of the steamer was considerably reduced, and it was reasonable to assume that the arrival time in Hong Kong would be twenty hours later than scheduled, or even more if the storm did not abate. Phileas Fogg observed this spectacle of a raging sea, which seemed to have been unleashed against him in particular, with his usual impassiveness. His expression showed no sign of anxiety, and yet a delay of twenty hours could put the whole journey in jeopardy by making him miss the departure of the steamer for Yokohama. But this man, who seemed totally imperturbable, felt neither impatience nor boredom. It really seemed as if the storm was part of his plan, that it had been taken into account. When discussing this setback with her companion, Mrs Aouda found him as calm as before. Fix didn’t see things in the same light. Far from it. This storm was exactly what he wanted. His satisfaction would have known no bounds if the Rangoon had been forced to run before the storm. Any delay like this suited him because it would force this man Fogg to spend a few days in Hong Kong. At last the weather, in the form of gusts and gales, was on his side. Admittedly he wasn’t well, but what did that matter! He lost count of the number of times he’d been sick, but when his body was writhing from the effects of seasickness his mind was revelling in an immense sense of satisfaction. As for Passepartout, it is easy to imagine what little effort he made to disguise his anger during this ordeal. Up until then everything had gone so well. Land and sea seemed at his master’s command. Steamers and railways obeyed him. Wind and steam united to further his progress. Was this the turning-point with things starting to go wrong? Passepartout was on tenterhooks, as if the £20,000 for the bet had come out of his own pocket. The storm got on his nerves, the gale infuriated him and he would happily have whipped the sea for its disobedience.1 Poor chap! Fix was careful to conceal from him his personal satisfaction and that was the sensible thing to do, because if Passepartout had sensed his secret enjoyment of the situation, Fix would have been in for it. Passepartout stayed outside on the Rangoon all the time the gale lasted. He wouldn’t have been able to remain below deck. He climbed aloft, to the surprise of the crew, and, with the agility of a monkey, helped out with everything. He constantly questioned the captain, the officers and the men, who couldn’t help laughing when they saw how put out the fellow was. Passepartout wanted to know how long the storm would last. So they told him to go and look at the barometer, which stubbornly refused to rise. Passepartout shook the barometer, but nothing had any effect, neither shaking it nor hurling insults at the irresponsible instrument. Finally the storm abated. The state of the sea changed during the day of 4 November. The wind shifted two points to the south and helped their progress again. Passepartout calmed down like the weather. It was possible to put back the topsails and the lower sails, and the Rangoon continued its journey at an impressive rate of knots. But it was not possible to make up all the time lost. The situation had to be accepted and land was not sighted until the 6th at five o’clock in the morning. The entry in Phileas Fogg’s travel plan gave the steamer’s date of arrival as the 5th, but the ship would not be there until the 6th. That meant that they would be twenty-four hours late and bound to miss the departure for Yokohama. At six o’clock the pilot came on board the Rangoon and took his place on the bridge in order to guide the ship through the approaches to the port of Hong Kong. Passepartout was dying to question this man and to ask him if the steamer for Yokohama had already left Hong Kong. But he didn’t dare to, preferring to retain a glimmer of hope until the last minute. He had confessed his concerns to Fix, who, the sly old fox that he was, attempted to console him by saying that all Mr Fogg had to do was to catch the next boat. This only made Passepartout even more angry. However, if Passepartout wasn’t so bold as to question the pilot, Mr Fogg, on the other hand, after looking in his Bradshaw, asked the said person in that calm way of his if he knew when there’d be a boat from Hong Kong to Yokohama. ‘Tomorrow, on the morning tide,’ replied the pilot. ‘Oh!’ said Mr Fogg without showing any sign of surprise. Passepartout, who was present at this exchange, would have liked to embrace the pilot, whereas Fix would have liked to wring his neck. ‘What’s the name of the steamer?’ asked Mr Fogg. ‘The Carnatic,’ replied the pilot. ‘But wasn’t it due to leave yesterday?’ ‘Yes, sir, but it needed repairs to one of its boilers, and so its departure has been put back until tomorrow.’ ‘Thank you,’ replied Mr Fogg, who with his machine-like walk went back down into the lounge of the Rangoon. As for Passepartout, he grabbed the pilot’s hand and shook it vigorously, saying, ‘Pilot, you really are a good man.’ The pilot no doubt never understood why his replies produced such a warm-hearted response. When the whistle sounded he went back to the bridge and guided the steamer in through the armada of junks, tankas,2 fishing boats and ships of all sorts that cluttered up the approaches to Hong Kong. By one o’clock the Rangoon had docked and the passengers were disembarking. In the event, it must be said that things really had worked out in Phileas Fogg’s favour. If it hadn’t been for the need to repair the boilers, the Carnatic would have left on 5 November and anyone travelling to Japan would have had an eight-day wait for the next steamer to leave. Admittedly Mr Fogg was twenty-four hours behind schedule, but this delay couldn’t have serious repercussions on the rest of the journey. As it happened, the steamer that did the crossing from Yokohama to San Francisco was a direct connection for the steamer from Hong Kong and it couldn’t leave before the latter had arrived. Of course, they would be twenty-four hours behind in reaching Yokohama, but it would be easy to make this time up during the twenty-two days it took to cross the Pacific. So Phileas Fogg was, give or take twentyfour hours, on schedule thirty-five days after leaving London. As the Carnatic was not due to leave until five o’clock the next morning, Mr Fogg had sixteen hours in front of him to sort out his affairs, those concerning Mrs Aouda, that is. As they got off the ship he offered the young woman his arm and escorted her to a palanquin. He asked the porters for the name of a hotel and they suggested the Club Hotel. The palanquin set off, with Passepartout following, and twenty minutes later it arrived at its destination. Phileas Fogg booked a suite for the young woman and saw to it that she had everything she wanted. Then he said to Mrs Aouda that he was going off immediately in search of this relative of hers, in whose safe-keeping he would leave her in Hong Kong. At the same time he told Passepartout to stay in the hotel until he came back, so that the young woman was not left on her own. The gentleman then had himself driven to the Stock Exchange, where everyone was sure to know someone as important as the Honourable Jejeeh, one of the richest businessmen in the city. The broker who Mr Fogg spoke to did indeed know the Parsee businessman. However, the latter had not lived in China for the past two years. After making his fortune he had settled in Europe – probably Holland, which was understandable given the large number of trading connections he had had with that country during his time as a businessman. Phileas Fogg went back to the Club Hotel. He immediately asked Mrs Aouda’s permission to go up to see her and, getting straight to the point, informed her that the Honourable Jejeeh no longer lived in Hong Kong and that he was probably in Holland. At first Mrs Aouda made no reply. She put her hand to her forehead and thought for a few moments. Then she said in that gentle voice of hers, ‘What should I do, Mr Fogg?’ ‘It’s quite simple,’ the gentleman replied. ‘Come to Europe.’ ‘But I can’t take advantage – ’ ‘You are not taking advantage and your presence will not harm my plans in the least … Passepartout?’ ‘Sir?’ replied Passpartout. ‘Go along to the Carnatic and reserve three cabins.’ Passepartout, delighted to be able to continue the journey in the company of the young woman, who was so considerate towards him, left the Club Hotel immediately. 19 Where Passepartout takes too keen an interest in his master and what that leads to Hong Kong is only a small island, ceded to Great Britain by the Treaty of Nanking1 after the war of 1842. Within the space of a few years the colonizing spirit of the British was responsible for the building of a large town and the creation of a port, Victoria Harbour. The island is situated at the mouth of the Canton River and only sixty miles separate it from the Portuguese possession of Macao, which stands on the opposite bank. It was inevitable that Hong Kong would be the victorious rival of Macao as a trading centre,2 and now most Chinese goods for export transit via the British possession. Docks, hospitals, wharves, warehouses, a Gothic cathedral, a government house and tarmacked roads all give the visitor the impression that a typical busy town in the south-east of England has been transported halfway across the globe and has landed here in China, almost at the antipodes. So Passepartout, with his hands in his pockets, went along to Victoria Harbour, watching on his way the palanquins, the sailpowered wheelbarrows, still popular in the Celestial Empire,3 and this whole crowd of Chinese, Japanese and Europeans thronging the streets. Give or take a few differences, the dear fellow found it was like walking through Bombay, Calcutta or Singapore. The English have left a trail of similar cities around the world. Passepartout reached Victoria Harbour. There, at the mouth of the Canton River, he saw a heaving mass of ships from all over the world, English, French, American, Dutch, warships and trading vessels, Japanese or Chinese boats, junks, sampans, tankas and even flowerboats that looked like gardens floating on water. As he walked around, Passepartout noticed that some of the native inhabitants were dressed in yellow, all of them very elderly. After going into a barbershop to have a Chinese-style shave, he was told by the local barber, who spoke quite good English, that these elderly men were at least eighty years old, and from that age on they were given the privilege of wearing yellow, the imperial colour. Passepartout found this very amusing, without quite knowing why. Once his beard was shaved he went along to the quay from where the Carnatic was due to depart and there he caught sight of Fix, who was walking up and down, which didn’t surprise him. However, the inspector’s face bore the sign of severe disappointment. ‘Good!’ thought Passepartout. ‘Things must be going badly for those gentlemen members of the Reform Club.’ So he went up to Fix with a broad smile, pretending not to notice his companion’s look of annoyance. The detective really had every reason to curse the appalling bad luck that dogged him. There was still no sign of the warrant. It was obvious that the warrant was still on its way and could only reach him if he stayed put for a few days. Since Hong Kong was indeed the last British territory on the route, this Fogg fellow would get away once and for all unless he found some way of keeping him here. ‘Well then, Mr Fix, have you made up your mind to come to America with us?’ asked Passepartout. ‘Yes,’ replied Fix, gritting his teeth. ‘Now, now!’ exclaimed Passepartout, in a joyful burst of laughter. ‘I was sure you wouldn’t be able to let us go off like that on our own. Come and book your seat. Come on!’ So the two men went into the shipping office and booked cabins for four people. But the employee pointed out that as the repairs to the Carnatic had been completed, the steamer would be leaving that evening at eight o’clock and not the following morning, as had been announced. ‘Very good!’ replied Passepartout. ‘That will suit my master. I’ll go and tell him.’ At that moment Fix decided on an extreme course of action. He would tell Passepartout everything. It was perhaps the only way to keep Phileas Fogg in Hong Kong for a few more days. After they had left the office Fix offered to take his companion for a drink in a nearby tavern. Passepartout had time, so he accepted Fix’s invitation. There was a tavern fronting on to the quayside. It looked inviting and both men went in. There was a large, well-decorated room, at the back of which stood a camp-bed, scattered with cushions. On the bed a number of men were stretched out, asleep. Thirty or so customers were in the main room sitting at small rattan tables. Some of them were downing pints of English beer, ale or porter, others flagons of spirits, gin or brandy. In addition most of them were smoking long pipes made of red clay, stuffed with small pellets of opium mixed with attar of roses. Then, from time to time, some helpless smoker collapsed under the table and the barmen would take him by the head and feet and carry him on to the campbed near a fellow smoker. About twenty of these drunkards were thus laid out side by side, in an advanced state of drugged stupor. Fix and Passepartout realized that they had walked into a den frequented by the drugged, emaciated, stupefied wretches to whom England sells annually for its commercial gain more than £11,000,000 of that fateful drug called opium. What a terrible source of wealth, one derived from exploiting one of the most deadly of human vices! The Chinese government has attempted to tackle this problem by introducing strict laws, but to no avail. The use of opium has spread from the upper classes, for whom it was at first exclusively reserved, to the lower classes, and since then its disastrous effects have proved unstoppable. Opium is smoked everywhere and at any time in the Middle Kingdom. Both men and women are addicted to this deplorable habit and once they have become used to taking the drug they cannot go without it without experiencing severe stomach pains. A heavy opium smoker may smoke as many as eight pipes a day but will die within five years. Their search for a drink had, then, led Fix and Passepartout into one of the many dens of this type that have sprung up even in Hong Kong. Passepartout didn’t have any money, but he was happy to accept his companion’s offer of a drink, though he insisted on returning the compliment at the right time and place. They ordered two bottles of port, which the Frenchman proved very keen on, whereas Fix was more circumspect and observed his companion very carefully. They talked about this and that and especially about Fix’s brilliant idea of travelling with them on the Carnatic. After this mention of the Carnatic, which was due to leave several hours earlier than planned, Passepartout got to his feet, now that the bottles were empty, in order to go off to inform his master of the situation. Fix held him back. ‘Just a moment,’ he said. ‘What do you want, Mr Fix?’ ‘I need to speak to you about some serious matters.’ ‘Serious matters!’ exclaimed Passepartout as he drank up a few drops that had remained at the bottom of his glass. ‘Well, we’ll discuss them tomorrow. I don’t have time today.’ ‘Stay a minute,’ replied Fix. ‘It’s about your master.’ At the mention of this word Passepartout looked carefully at the expression on Fix’s face. He had a strange look, Passepartout thought. He sat down again. ‘So what exactly have you got to say to me?’ he asked. Fix put his hand on his companion’s arm and whispered, ‘Have you worked out who I am?’ ‘I should say so,’ said Passepartout, smiling. ‘In that case I’m going to come clean with you …’ ‘Now that I already know everything, old chum! Well, so much for that! On the other hand, why not? But before you do so, let me just tell you that these gentlemen from the club have been wasting their money.’ ‘Wasting their money?’ said Fix. ‘It’s easy for you to talk. You obviously don’t have any idea of the amount of money involved.’ ‘But I certainly do,’ replied Passepartout. ‘£20,000!’ ‘£55,000!’ continued Fix, squeezing the Frenchman’s hand. ‘What!’ exclaimed Passepartout. ‘Fancy Mr Fogg daring to go so far! £55,000! Well, that’s all the more reason not to lose a second,’ he said as he got to his feet again. ‘£55,000,’ Fix went on, forcing Passepartout to sit down again after ordering another flagon of brandy. ‘And if I’m successful I earn a reward of £2,000. Would you fancy £500, if you agree to help me?’ ‘To help you?’ cried out Passepartout, whose eyes were popping out of his head. ‘Yes, to help me keep this Fogg fellow in Hong Kong for a few days.’ ‘Hey!’ said Passepartout. ‘What are you talking about? What? Not only do these gentlemen have my master followed, and doubt his honesty, but they also want to put obstacles in his path! I feel ashamed for them.’ ‘Hang on. What do you mean?’ asked Fix. ‘I mean that it’s completely unacceptable behaviour. You might as well strip Mr Fogg of his belongings and take the money out of his pocket.’ ‘Well, that’s exactly what we expect it to come to.’ ‘But it’s a trap!’ exclaimed Passepartout, excited by the effects of the brandy that Fix was serving him and that he was drinking without realizing it. ‘A real trap, set by so-called gentlemen and colleagues!’ Fix was beginning to lose track. ‘Call them colleagues!’ shouted Passepartout. ‘Members of the Reform Club! Remember this, Mr Fix. My master is an honourable man and when he’s made a bet he intends to win it fairly.’ ‘But who do you think I am?’ asked Fix, looking straight at Passepartout. ‘I’ll tell you, all right. You’re a private investigator for the members of the Reform Club, given the job of checking up on the route my master’s taking. It’s a disgrace! So, although I guessed what you were some time ago, I’ve been careful not to tell Mr Fogg.’ ‘He doesn’t know anything about this, does he?’ Fix asked sharply. ‘Nothing,’ replied Passepartout downing another glass of brandy. The police inspector scratched his forehead. He waited before going on. What was he to do? Passepartout’s mistake seemed genuine, but it made his plan more difficult. It was obvious that this fellow was speaking in complete good faith and that he wasn’t his master’s accomplice – something which Fix might have feared. ‘Well,’ he said to himself, ‘if he’s not his accomplice he’ll be prepared to help me.’ The detective had come to a second decision. In any case, he had no time to lose. Phileas Fogg had to be arrested in Hong Kong at all costs. ‘Listen,’ said Fix curtly, ‘listen to me carefully. I’m not what you think. I’m not a private detective for the members of the Reform Club.’ ‘Huh!’ said Passepartout, looking at him mockingly. ‘I’m a police inspector, working for the Metropolitan Police.’ ‘You … A police inspector!’ ‘Yes, and I can prove it. Here’s my commission.’ With that, the detective took a piece of paper from his wallet and showed to his companion a commission signed by the head of the Metropolitan Police. Passepartout was dumbfounded and unable to say a word. ‘Mr Fogg’s bet is just a front, which you’ve fallen for, you and his colleagues from the Reform Club, because it was important for him to make you his accomplices without you realizing it.’ ‘But why?’ cried out Passepartout. ‘Listen. On 28 September a theft involving £55,000 was committed at the Bank of England by an individual whom we have a description of. That description fits exactly this man Fogg.’ ‘Come off it!’ exclaimed Passepartout, banging the table with his hefty fist. ‘My master is the most honest man in the world.’ ‘How can you tell?’ replied Fix. ‘You don’t even know him. You started to work for him the day you set off and he left in a considerable hurry with a madcap excuse, without any luggage, and taking with him a large amount of money in banknotes. And you still maintain that he’s an honest man!’ ‘I do. I do,’ the poor fellow repeated, like a machine. ‘Do you want to be arrested as his accomplice, then?’ Passepartout had his head in his hands. He was unrecognizable. He didn’t dare look at the police inspector. Phileas Fogg, a thief? The very man who had rescued Mrs Aouda, a good and a generous man? And yet there was no denying the evidence against him. Passepartout tried to brush aside the suspicions that were creeping into his mind. He refused to believe his master was guilty. ‘Well then, what do you want from me?’ he said to the policeman with a supreme effort of self-restraint. ‘Just this,’ replied Fix. ‘I’ve trailed this fellow Fogg all this way, but I still haven’t received the arrest warrant that I’ve requested from London. I need you to help me to keep him in Hong Kong.’ ‘What! You want me to –’ ‘And then I’ll give you a share of the £2,000 reward put up by the Bank of England.’ ‘Never,’ replied Passepartout, who wanted to get up but fell back down, feeling both his wits and his strength deserting him at the same time. ‘Mr Fix,’ he stammered, ‘even if everything you say is true … even if my master was the thief you’re after … which I don’t believe for a moment … I’ve worked for him … I still work for him … I know how kind and generous he is … Betray him … never … no, not for all the money in the world. Where I come from, that’s just not the sort of thing people go in for …’ ‘So you refuse?’ ‘I refuse.’ ‘Let’s just forget everything I’ve said,’ replied Fix, ‘and have a drink.’ ‘Yes. Let’s have a drink.’ Passepartout was feeling the effects of the alcohol more and more. Fix realized that he needed to separate him from his master at all costs and wanted to finish the job off. On the table were a few pipes, stuffed with opium. Fix slipped one into Passepartout’s hand and the latter took it, put it in his mouth, lit it, took a few puffs and fell back, his mind befuddled by the drug. ‘At last,’ said Fix, seeing Passepartout senseless. ‘This man Fogg won’t find out in time about the departure of the Carnatic, and even if he does leave at least it’ll be without this wretched Frenchman.’ Then he paid the bill and walked out. 20 In which Fix comes into direct contact with Phileas Fogg While events were taking place in the opium den with potentially disastrous consequences for his future plans, Mr Fogg was accompanying Mrs Aouda around the streets of the English quarter. Since Mrs Aouda had accepted his offer of being taken to Europe he had had to think of the detailed preparations necessary for such a long trip. It was just about acceptable for an Englishman like himself to travel around the world with only one bag, but it was unthinkable for a woman to undertake such a journey like that. Hence the need to buy clothes and other items necessary for the journey. Mr Fogg performed this task with his usual composure and, in response to all the apologies or protestations of the young widow, who was embarrassed by so much care and attention, he invariably replied, ‘It’s good for my journey. It’s part of my plan.’ When they had bought what was needed, Mr Fogg and the young woman returned to the hotel and enjoyed a splendid meal served in the restaurant. Then Mrs Aouda, who was feeling rather tired, went up to her suite after giving her imperturbable saviour a typically English handshake. The honourable gentleman, for his part, spent the whole evening engrossed in The Times and the Illustrated London News. If he had been the sort of man who was capable of expressing surprise, that is how he would have reacted at not seeing his servant at bedtime. But since he knew that the steamer for Yokohama wasn’t due to leave until the following morning, he didn’t seem particularly concerned. The next day Passepartout failed to turn up when Mr Fogg rang for him. No one can say what went through the honourable gentleman’s mind when he learnt that his servant hadn’t returned to the hotel. Mr Fogg merely picked up his bag, informed Mrs Aouda and ordered a palanquin. It was then eight o’clock, and high tide, which the Carnatic had to take advantage of to get through the channels, was due for half past nine. When the palanquin arrived in front of the hotel Mr Fogg and Mrs Aouda got into this comfortable means of transport and their luggage followed behind in a wheelbarrow. Half an hour later the travellers arrived at the quayside, and it was there that Mr Fogg was told that the Carnatic had left the previous day. Mr Fogg, who had been expecting to find both the steamer and his servant waiting for him, was now in the position of having to do without both. But there was no sign of disappointment visible on his face, and when Mrs Aouda looked at him anxiously he merely replied, ‘It’s just a minor problem, madam, nothing more.’ At that moment a figure who had been watching him intently came up to him. It was Inspector Fix, who greeted him and said, ‘Are you not, sir, like me, one of the passengers from the Rangoon, which arrived yesterday?’ ‘Yes, sir,’ replied Mr Fogg coldly, ‘but I do not have the honour of –’ ‘Excuse me, but I was expecting to find your servant here.’ ‘Do you know where he is, sir?’ asked the young woman eagerly. ‘What!’ answered Fix, pretending to be surprised. ‘Isn’t he with you?’ ‘No,’ said Mrs Aouda. ‘He hasn’t reappeared since yesterday evening. Could he have gone off on the Carnatic without us?’ ‘Without you, madam?’ replied the detective. ‘Pardon me for asking, but were you intending to catch this steamer?’ ‘Yes, sir.’ ‘So was I and, as you can see, I’m very disappointed. The Carnatic had finished its repairs, and it left Hong Kong twelve hours early without informing anyone. Now we’ll have to wait a whole week until the next sailing!’ As he said the words ‘a whole week’ Fix felt his heart leap for joy. A whole week. Fogg held up for a whole week in Hong Kong. That would be enough time for the warrant to arrive. At last luck was on the side of the representative of the law. It is easy to imagine, then, the hammer blow he received when he heard Phileas Fogg say in his calm voice, ‘But the Carnatic’s not the only boat, I believe, in Hong Kong harbour.’ And so, with Mrs Aouda at his arm, he went off towards the docks in search of a boat that was ready for departure. A dumbfounded Fix followed him. It was as if he was bound to this man by an unseen thread. Nevertheless, it looked as if luck, which had served Phileas Fogg so well up to then, really had deserted him now. For three hours he went all around the port, prepared if necessary to charter a vessel to take him to Yokohama, but all he could see were ships loading and unloading which were not therefore ready to sail. Fix began to hope again. However, Mr Fogg was not in the least put out and he was intent on continuing his efforts, even if he had to go as far afield as Macao, when a sailor came up to him in the outer harbour. ‘Is your honour after a boat?’ the sailor said to him, taking his cap off. ‘Do you have a boat ready to sail?’ asked Mr Fogg. ‘Yes, your honour, a pilot boat, number 43, the best of the whole lot.’ ‘Is it fast?’ ‘Between eight and nine knots, as near as makes no difference. Do you want to see it?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Your honour couldn’t ask for more. Is it for a boat trip?’ ‘No, for a voyage.’ ‘A voyage?’ ‘Are you prepared to take me to Yokohama?’ The sailor couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. He just stood there, aghast. ‘Your honour must be joking!’ he said. ‘No. I’ve missed the Carnatic and I must be in Yokohama by the 14th at the latest, to catch the steamer for San Francisco.’ ‘Sorry,’ replied the sailor, ‘but it’s impossible.’ ‘I’m offering you £100 a day and a bonus of £200 if you get me there on time.’ ‘Are you serious?’ asked the sailor. ‘Deadly serious,’ replied Mr Fogg. The pilot stepped away. He looked at the sea, obviously torn between the desire to earn a huge amount of money and the fear of venturing so far. Fix was on tenterhooks. Meanwhile Fogg turned towards Mrs Aouda and asked her, ‘Does this frighten you, madam?’ ‘Not if I’m with you, Mr Fogg,’ the young woman replied. The pilot went up to the gentleman once more and started fidgeting with his cap. ‘Well then, pilot?’ said Mr Fogg. ‘Well then, your honour,’ replied the pilot, ‘I can’t take the risk, either with my men, myself, or you on such a long crossing in a boat that weighs hardly twenty tons, and especially at this time of year. In any case, we wouldn’t arrive in time because it’s 1,650 miles from Hong Kong to Yokohama.’ ‘Only 1,600,’ said Mr Fogg. ‘Makes no difference.’ Fix breathed again. ‘But,’ added the pilot, ‘maybe we can come to some other arrangement.’ Fix held his breath. ‘How?’ asked Phileas Fogg. ‘By going to Nagasaki, in the far south of Japan, 1,100 miles away, or to Shanghai, which is 800 miles from Hong Kong. If we went the second way we could stay close to the Chinese coast, which would be a considerable advantage, especially as the currents run north.’ ‘Pilot,’ said Phileas Fogg, ‘it’s from Yokohama, not Shanghai or Nagasaki, that I’ve got to catch the American mail boat.’ ‘Why?’ replied the pilot. ‘The steamer for San Francisco doesn’t start from Yokohama. It puts in at Yokohama and Nagasaki, but its home port is Shanghai.’ ‘Are you sure what you’re saying is correct?’ ‘Yes, I am.’ ‘So when does the steamer leave Shanghai?’ ‘On the 11th at seven in the morning. So we’ve got four days ahead of us. Four days makes ninety-six hours and at an average rate of eight knots if all goes well, with the wind staying in the south-west and a calm sea, we can cover the 800 miles between here and Shanghai.’ ‘When could you set sail?’ ‘In an hour. The time it takes to get provisions on board and the ship under sail.’ ‘Consider it a deal … Are you the skipper of this boat?’ ‘Yes, John Bunsby, the skipper of the Tankadère.’ ‘Do you want a deposit?’ ‘If you would be so kind, your honour.’ ‘Here’s an advance of £200. Sir,’ he added, turning towards Fix, ‘if you would like to avail yourself of the opportunity …’ ‘Sir,’ Fix replied without flinching, ‘I was about to ask you this favour.’ ‘Good. In half an hour we’ll be on board.’ ‘But the poor fellow …’ said Mrs Aouda, who was very concerned about Passepartout’s disappearance. ‘I shall do all I can for him,’ replied Phileas Fogg. And so, while Fix went towards the pilot boat in a jittery, feverish and furious state, the other two headed for the main police station in Hong Kong. When they got there Phileas Fogg gave a description of Passepartout and left enough money to cover the cost of his repatriation. He went through the same formalities at the French consulate and then the palanquin took the travellers back to the outer harbour, after previously stopping at the hotel to pick up the luggage. Three o’clock struck. The pilot boat number 43, with its crew on board and supplies loaded, was ready to set sail. The Tankadère was an attractive little schooner of twenty tons, long in the beam, with fine bows and elegant lines. It looked like a racing yacht. Its shiny brass fittings, its galvanized-iron features and its spotless white deck showed that skipper John Bunsby was determined to look after it properly. Its two masts leaned slightly backwards. It carried a spanker, a mizen, a forestay, a jib and topsails and was rigged to take full advantage of a following wind. It clearly had an excellent turn of speed, and it had in fact won several prizes in pilotboat competitions. The crew of the Tankadère consisted of John Bunsby and four seamen. They were the sort of fearless sailors ready to go out whatever the weather to bring ships in to port and were very familiar with the conditions. John Bunsby was a man of about forty-five, sturdy, weatherbeaten, keen-eyed, energetic-looking, steady as a rock and in full control of the situation. He could inspire confidence in the most timid of people. Phileas Fogg and Mrs Aouda went on board. Fix was already there. The rear hatch of the schooner led down into a square cabin, containing bunks recessed into the walls and a round-shaped sofa. In the middle stood a table lit by a hurricane lamp. The accommodation was small but clean. ‘I’m sorry I have nothing better to offer you,’ said Mr Fogg to Fix, who bowed without making any reply. The police inspector felt a sort of humiliation at being the recipient of this fellow Fogg’s kindness like this. ‘One thing’s sure,’ he thought, ‘he’s a very polite crook, but he’s a crook all the same.’ At ten past three the sails were hoisted. The Union Jack was flying from the schooner’s gaff. The passengers were sitting out on deck. Mr Fogg and Mrs Aouda gave a last look at the quayside in case Passepartout had reappeared. Fix was feeling somewhat apprehensive, because there was still a chance that the unfortunate chap he had treated so shabbily might show up and that would have led to an argument in which Fix would have been the likely loser. But the Frenchman did not turn up, and doubtless the overpowering effects of the drug had still not worn off. At last the skipper reached the open sea and, as it caught the wind in its spanker, foresail and jibs, the Tankadère leapt forward over the waves. 21 Where the skipper of the Tankadère is in serious danger of losing a £200 bonus To attempt an 800-mile voyage on a vessel weighing twenty tons was a hazardous undertaking, and particularly at that time of year. The China Seas are generally rough and subject to frequent heavy squalls, especially at the time of the equinoxes, and it was still early November. It would obviously have been to the pilot’s advantage to take his passengers as far as Yokohama, because he was being paid by the day. But it would have been reckless of him to attempt such a crossing in the prevailing conditions, and even going up to Shanghai was already a bold, not to say foolhardy, thing to do. However, John Bunsby had every faith in his Tankadère, which rose to the waves like a seagull, and perhaps he was right to be confident. As the day came to a close, the Tankadère navigated its way through the treacherous channels around Hong Kong, performing admirably, whatever the setting of the sails, whether going close to the wind or with the wind behind it. ‘It goes without saying, captain,’ said Phileas Fogg just as the schooner was heading for the open sea, ‘that time is of the essence.’ ‘Your honour may rely on me,’ replied John Bunsby. ‘As far as the sails are concerned, we’ve put out everything the wind will allow. Our topsails wouldn’t be any help at all. They would only slow us down.’ ‘You’re the expert, captain, not me, and I have every trust in you.’ Phileas Fogg, his back straight, his legs apart, and firm on his feet like a seasoned sailor, looked unflinchingly out at the stormy sea. The young woman, who was sitting at the stern, felt moved as, in the gathering dusk, she gazed out over this dark ocean that she was braving on such a frail craft. Above her head spread the sails that carried it through space as if they were great wings. The schooner, lifted up by the wind, seemed to be flying through the air. Night came. The moon was entering its first quarter and its faint light would soon be extinguished by the mist on the horizon. Clouds were blowing in from the east and were already filling part of the sky. The captain had set up his navigation lights – a necessary precaution in these busy waters where vessels were making for port. Collisions between ships were quite common, and at the speed the schooner was travelling it would have broken up on the slightest impact. Fix was daydreaming at the fore of the vessel. He kept to himself, since he knew that Fogg was not very talkative by nature. In any case, he strongly disliked talking to this man, whose help he had accepted. He was also thinking about the future. It seemed certain to him that Fogg would not stop in Yokohama and that he would immediately catch the steamer for San Francisco in order to get to America, whose vastness would ensure that he was safe and beyond the reach of the law. Phileas Fogg’s plan seemed to him to be perfectly straightforward. Instead of leaving England for the United States, like any ordinary criminal, this man Fogg had gone the long way round and crossed three quarters of the globe in order to have a better chance of getting to America where he would quietly get through all the Bank’s money once the police were off his trail. But what would Fix do once he was in the United States? Would he give up on his man? No way. Until he received the extradition papers he wouldn’t let Fogg out of his sight. It was his duty and he would see things through to the bitter end. In any case, one thing had worked in his favour: Passepartout was no longer there to help his master, and, above all, after the secrets Fix had already given away, it was vital that master and servant should not see each other ever again. Phileas Fogg was also thinking about his servant, who had disappeared in such mysterious circumstances. All things considered, he thought it still quite possible that as a result of some misunderstanding the poor fellow might have got on board the Carnatic at the last minute. Mrs Aouda was of the same opinion, and she greatly missed this trusty servant, to whom she owed so much. It was possible, therefore, that they might meet up with him again in Yokohama, and it would be easy to find out if he had got there on the Carnatic. At about ten o’clock the wind began to freshen. It would have perhaps been safer to reef the sails, but the captain, after carefully considering the look of the sky, decided to leave them as they were. In any case, the Tankadère was a very stable vessel with a good draught and the sails could be taken down quickly in the event of a squall. At midnight Phileas Fogg and Mrs Aouda went down to the cabin. Fix had got there before them and was stretched out on one of the bunks. As for the captain and his men, they stayed out on deck all night. By sunrise the following morning, 8 November, the schooner had done more than a hundred miles. The log,1 which was frequently dropped into the water, showed that the average speed was between eight and nine knots. The Tankadère had slack in its sails, which were all out, and with this setting it could reach its maximum speed. If the wind held, all would be well. For the whole of that day the Tankadère stayed close to the coast, where the currents were favourable. The coast was no more than five miles away on the port quarter and its irregular outline could sometimes be seen through breaks in the fog. As the wind was coming from the land, the sea was less rough for that very reason. This was fortunate for the schooner, because vessels of low tonnage are particularly affected by the swell, which cuts down their speed or, to use a nautical term, ‘kills’ them. Around midday the wind slackened a little and shifted southeast. The pilot put up the topsails, but two hours later he had to bring them down because the wind was freshening again. Mr Fogg and the young woman, who very fortunately were not susceptible to seasickness, had a healthy appetite for the rations aboard. Fix was invited to share their meal and had to accept, well aware that his stomach, like a boat, needed some form of ballast, but he found it galling. He felt it somehow disloyal to be travelling at this man’s expense and to eat his provisions. Nevertheless, eat is what he did, even if it was really more of a snack than a meal. When they’d finished eating, however, he thought it necessary to take this man Fogg to one side and say to him, ‘Sir …’ This ‘sir’ really stuck in his gullet and he had to restrain himself not to take this ‘sir’ by the scruff of the neck! ‘Sir, you have been so kind as to offer me a place on board. But, although my means are much more modest than your own, I do intend to pay my way –’ ‘Don’t mention it, sir,’ replied Mr Fogg. ‘But I insist –’ ‘No, sir,’ repeated Fogg in a tone of voice that allowed no further discussion. ‘It comes under the running costs.’ Fix bowed. He could hardly breathe and so he went to lie down at the fore of the schooner, and didn’t say a word for the rest of the evening. Meanwhile the boat was making rapid progress. John Bunsby was feeling very optimistic. Several times he said to Mr Fogg that they would arrive in good time. Mr Fogg merely replied that that was what he expected. In any case the whole crew of the little schooner were doing their utmost. The prospect of a bonus spurred these good fellows on. And so every single rope was carefully tightened, every sail was vigorously hoisted taut, and the helmsman was careful to ensure the vessel did not veer off course. The standard of sailing couldn’t have been any higher in a Royal Yacht Club regatta. By the evening the pilot could tell from the log that they had covered 220 miles since Hong Kong and Phileas Fogg had grounds for hoping that when he arrived in Yokohama he would still be on schedule. If this proved to be the case, the first serious setback he had encountered since leaving London would probably not have any harmful effect. During the night, towards the early hours of the morning, the Tankadère was well on its way through the Fokien Strait, which separates the large island of Formosa2 from the mainland of China, and it was now crossing the Tropic of Cancer. The sea was very difficult in this strait, which was full of eddies formed by different currents meeting. The schooner laboured a lot. The choppy waves slowed down its progress. It became almost impossible to stand up on deck. At daybreak the wind freshened further. The sky gave signs of a gale coming. In addition, the barometer showed that a change of atmospheric pressure was in the offing. Its day time readings were irregular and the mercury oscillated unpredictably. Towards the south-east they could see a heavy swell developing, which suggested that a storm was brewing. The previous evening the sun had set against a red mist, in an ocean glowing like fire. The captain spent a long time examining the lowering sky and mumbling unintelligibly to himself. A little later, finding himself next to his passenger, he whispered to him: ‘Can I tell your honour the truth?’ ‘Of course,’ replied Phileas Fogg. ‘Well, we’re in for a storm.’ ‘Is it coming from the north or the south?’ was all Mr Fogg wanted to know. ‘From the south. Look. There’s a typhoon on the way.’ ‘I don’t mind about a typhoon if it’s from the south. It’ll help us on our way,’ replied Mr Fogg. ‘If that’s how you take it, then it’s fine by me,’ retorted the captain. John Bunsby’s predictions proved only too accurate. At an earlier time of year the typhoon, would, in the words of a famous meteorologist, have spent itself in a spectacular electrical display, but now at the winter equinox it was likely that it would turn out to be extremely violent. The captain took every advance precaution. He had all the schooner’s sails furled and the yards brought down on deck. The topmasts were struck and the boom taken in. The hatches were securely battened down, so that not a drop of water could get into the vessel’s hull. A single triangular sail, a storm-jib of strong canvas, was hoisted as a foretop stay-sail, to enable the schooner to stay stern to the wind. Then all they could do was wait. John Bunsby had urged the passengers to go down into the cabin, but to be cooped up in such a confined space with hardly any air and shaken about by the swell was not a very appealing prospect. Neither Mr Fogg, nor Mrs Aouda, nor even Mr Fix agreed to leave the deck. Towards eight o’clock a squall of rain and gusting wind hit the ship. Even with the small amount of sail it had out the Tankadère was tossed about like a feather in this indescribably strong wind. To say that it was four times the speed of a locomotive going at full steam would be an understatement. So, for the whole of that day, the vessel headed north, swept along by the monstrous waves but fortunately going at the same speed as them. Many times it was almost engulfed by one of these mountains of water that reared up behind it, but the captain’s deft touch at the helm prevented disaster. The passengers were sometimes soaked by spray but reacted stoically. Fix was grumbling away, it was true, but the intrepid Mrs Aouda kept her eyes firmly fixed on her companion, whose composure she couldn’t help admiring, and proved herself worthy of him as she stood by his side to face the storm. As for Phileas Fogg himself, he made it look as if the typhoon had been part of his plan. Up until then the Tankadère had been sailing north, but towards evening, as was to be feared, the wind veered threequarters and blew instead from the north-west. The schooner, now broadsides on to the waves, was severely tossed around. The waves struck with a violence that would have been terrifying for anyone who did not realize how securely the different parts of a boat are put together. As night came the storm grew even stronger. Seeing the darkness descend and with it the gale increase, John Bunsby became extremely worried. He wondered if the time had come to put into port and consulted his crew. After consulting them John Bunsby went up to Phileas Fogg and said to him: ‘Your honour, I think it would be advisable to put in at one of the ports along the coast.’ ‘I think so, too,’ replied Phileas Fogg. ‘Right,’ said the captain, ‘but which one?’ ‘I only know of one,’ Mr Fogg answered calmly. ‘And that one is …’ ‘Shanghai.’ For a few moments the captain did not understand what this reply meant, the obstinacy and tenacity it contained. Then he exclaimed, ‘Well then, yes. Your honour is right. Shanghai it is!’ So the Tankadère stayed determinedly on course to the north. It was a truly terrifying night. It was a miracle that the little schooner didn’t capsize. Twice it was swamped by the waves and everything would have been swept overboard if the lashings hadn’t held. Mrs Aouda was exhausted, but she didn’t make the slightest complaint. On more than one occasion Mr Fogg had to rush towards her to protect her from the violence of the waves. Daylight returned. The storm was still raging fiercely. However, the wind fell back to the south-east. This improved things and the Tankadère could again make headway over this stormy sea, whose waves came up against those produced by the new direction of the wind. The resulting clash of opposing swells would have crushed a less sturdily built vessel. From time to time they could glimpse the coastline through breaks in the mist, but there wasn’t a ship in sight. The Tankadère was the only one out at sea. By midday there were signs that it was becoming calm again and, as the sun went down, these signs became clearer. The storm was short-lived because of its very intensity. The passengers, who were by now absolutely exhausted, were able to eat a little and have some rest. The night was relatively peaceful. The captain was able to unfurl his sails partially. The vessel was travelling at considerable speed. By dawn of the following day, 11 November, John Bunsby could tell from looking at the coastline that they were about a hundred miles from Shanghai. There were a hundred miles to go and only one day left. Mr Fogg had to be in Shanghai by that very evening if he was to catch the steamer leaving for Yokohama. Without the storm, which had made him lose several hours, he wouldn’t still have been thirty miles from the port. The wind slackened noticeably, but fortunately the sea fell at the same time. The schooner unfurled all its sails. The topsails, staysails and foretop staysails were all out and the sea was foaming beneath the stem of the ship. By midday the Tankadère was only about forty-five miles from Shanghai. It had six hours left to reach the port before the steamer for Yokohama departed. There was great anxiety on board. They wanted to arrive at all costs. All of them – with the exception of Phileas Fogg – felt their hearts pounding with impatience. The little schooner needed to keep up its rate of nine knots, but the wind kept on slackening. The breeze blew fitfully, with unpredictable gusts coming off the coast. Once they had passed, the sea immediately became calm. However, the vessel was very light and its tall sails, made from very fine cloth, captured the wayward breezes so well that, with the help of the current, John Bunsby calculated that it was only ten miles to the Shanghai River, though the town itself is situated at least twelve miles above the mouth. By seven o’clock they were still three miles from Shanghai. The captain let out a crude expletive. He was bound to forfeit the £200 bonus. He looked at Mr Fogg. Mr Fogg was impassive and yet his whole fortune was at stake at that very moment. At that moment also a long black tapering shape, accompanied by a plume of smoke, appeared on the waterline. It was the American steamer, which was leaving on schedule. ‘Damn it!’ exclaimed John Bunsby, pushing away the helm in a gesture of despair. ‘Send a signal,’ was all Phileas Fogg said. A small brass cannon was lying on the foredeck of the Tankadère. Its purpose was to send signals when visibility was poor. So the cannon was loaded to the muzzle, but just when the captain was going to fire it Mr Fogg said, ‘Put the flag at half mast.’ The flag was duly lowered. It was a distress signal and it was to be hoped that on seeing it the American steamer would change course momentarily and make towards the vessel. ‘Fire,’ said Mr Fogg. And a blast from the small brass cannon rang out. 22 Where Passepartout comes to realize that, even on the other side of the world, it is sensible to have some money in your pocket After leaving Hong Kong on 7 November at half past six in the evening, the Carnatic headed at full steam for Japan. It was carrying a full load of goods and passengers. Two cabins at the aft remained empty. They were the ones booked in the name of Mr Phileas Fogg. The next morning, the crew at the fore of the ship were presented with rather a strange sight, a half-dazed passenger, unsteady on his feet and totally dishevelled, who was emerging from the second class hatchway and staggering across to a pile of spare masts, which he sat down on. This passenger was none other than Passepartout. What had happened was as follows: A few moments after Fix had walked out of the opium den, two attendants had picked up Passepartout, who had fallen into a deep sleep, and laid him out on the bed reserved for the smokers. But three hours later, Passepartout, haunted even in his nightmares by a single idea, woke up struggling against the stupefying effects of the drug. The thought of a duty unfulfilled roused him from his torpor. He left this bed for addicts and, clinging to the walls, falling then getting up again, but all the time driven by a sort of irresistible impulse, he staggered out of the opium den, shouting as if still in a dream, ‘The Carnatic, the Carnatic!’ The Carnatic was there with its steam up, ready to depart. Passepartout only had a few steps to take. He rushed up the gangway, crossed on to the fore of the ship and fell down senseless, just as the Carnatic was slipping its moorings. Used as they were to this sort of spectacle, a few of the sailors took the poor fellow down to a second-class cabin, and Passepartout didn’t wake up until the following morning, by which time they were 150 miles off the Chinese coast. This, then, is how that morning Passepartout came to on the deck of the Carnatic, filling his lungs with fresh sea breeze. The pure air sobered him up. He tried to collect his thoughts, but it was not easy. Still, in the end he remembered what had happened the previous evening, the secrets Fix had let him in on, the opium den, etc. ‘It’s obvious,’ he said to himself, ‘that I must have got horribly drunk! What will Mr Fogg have to say about it? In any case, I didn’t miss the boat and that’s the main thing.’ Then, with Fix in mind, he said to himself, ‘Well, I hope that’s the last we ever hear of him and that after the suggestions he made to me he hasn’t had the nerve to follow us on the Carnatic. A police inspector, a detective on the trail of my master, who’s accused of robbing the Bank of England! Come off it! If Mr Fogg’s a thief, then I’m a murderer!’ Should Passepartout tell all this to his master? Was it right to explain to him Fix’s role in this business? Wouldn’t it be better to wait until they got to London to tell him that an inspector from the Metropolitan Police had trailed him all the way around the world, so that they could laugh about it together? Yes, that must be it. In any case, it was something to think about. The most urgent thing was to meet up with Mr Fogg and present his apologies for his unspeakable behaviour. So Passepartout got up. The sea was rough and the steamer was rolling heavily. The worthy fellow, who was still not very steady on his feet, made his way as best he could to the rear of the ship. On the deck he could see no one resembling either his master or Mrs Aouda. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Mrs Aouda must still be asleep now. Mr Fogg, for his part, will have found himself a whist partner and true to form …’ With this, Passepartout went into the lounge. Mr Fogg wasn’t there. There was only one thing left for it: to ask the purser which was Mr Fogg’s cabin. The purser replied that there was no passenger of that name. ‘Excuse me,’ said Passepartout, not taking no for an answer. ‘He’s a tall gentleman, stand-offish, not very communicative, accompanied by a young lady –’ ‘There isn’t a young lady aboard,’ replied the purser. ‘What’s more, here is the passenger list. You can look at it for yourself.’ Passepartout looked at the list. His master’s name wasn’t on it. He was completely dazed. Then an idea flashed through his mind. ‘Wait a minute. I am on the Carnatic, aren’t I?’ he let out. ‘Yes,’ replied the purser. ‘On the way to Yokohama?’ ‘Absolutely.’ For a moment Passepartout had thought that he was on the wrong ship. But if he really was on the Carnatic, then it was definite that his master wasn’t. Passepartout collapsed into an armchair. It was a bolt from the blue. Then suddenly in a flash everything became clear to him. He remembered that the Carnatic’s departure had been brought forward, that he was supposed to inform his master, and that he hadn’t done so. It was his fault that Mr Fogg and Mrs Aouda were not on the boat! It was his fault certainly, but even more it was the fault of that double-crosser who had got him drunk in order to separate him from his master and to keep Mr Fogg in Hong Kong. At last he understood the police inspector’s game. And now his master was without doubt financially ruined, he had lost his bet, been arrested and perhaps imprisoned … Passepartout was beside himself at the thought of all this. If ever he came across that man Fix again, he really would have a score to settle. In the end, after his initial feeling of dejection, Passepart out recovered his composure and considered the situation. It was certainly not enviable. The Frenchman was on his way to Japan. He would get there all right but how would he get back? His pockets were empty. He didn’t have a shilling, not even a penny. On the other hand, his passage and his food on board had already been paid for. So he had five or six days to make up his mind about what to do. It would be impossible to describe how much he ate and drank during the crossing. He ate for his master, for Mrs Aouda and for himself. He ate as if Japan, the country he was heading for was a desert island, totally devoid of anything edible. On the 13th the Carnatic entered Yokohama harbour on the morning tide. Yokohama is an important stopping-off point in the Pacific, used by all the steamers that transport mail and passengers between North America, China, Japan and Malaya. Yokohama is situated in Tokyo Bay, quite close to that enormous town, which is the second capital of the Japanese empire and where the Shogun1 used to live in the days when this title of civil emperor existed. Tokyo is also the rival of Kyoto, the great city where the Mikado, the holy emperor descended from the gods, lives. The Carnatic docked in Yokohama, near the jetties of the port and the customs sheds, amid a large number of ships from all over the world. Passepartout set foot in the mysterious Land of the Rising Sun without the slightest enthusiasm. He had nothing better to do than trust his luck and wander around the streets of the city. Passepartout found himself to begin with in a truly Europeanstyle city, with houses with low façades, decorated with verandas beneath which spread elegant colonnades. Its streets, squares, docks and wharves covered the whole area between the Treaty Promontory and the river. There, as in Hong Kong or Calcutta, was as warming mass of people of all races, Americans, English, Chinese and Dutch, merchants prepared to buy and sell anything under the sun. Amid all these a French person would have looked as much of an outsider as if he’d been abandoned among savages. Passepartout had one possible solution: to seek the help of the French or British consulates in Yokohama. However, he was reluctant to tell his story because it was so closely connected to his master’s, and before having to resort to this he wanted to explore all the other options. So, after going through the European quarter without anything positive turning up he went into the Japanese quarter, determined if necessary to carry on as far as Tokyo. This native part of Yokohama is called Benten, after the name of a goddess of the sea worshipped on the neighbouring islands. It contained wonderful avenues of fir trees and cedars, sacred doorways with strange architectural forms, bridges hidden amid bamboo and reeds, temples sheltering under the immense and melancholy cover of ancient cedars, monasteries in the depths of which Buddhist priests and the followers of Confucius veg-etated.2 The unending streets were crowded with groups of children with rosy complexions and red cheeks. These youngsters, who looked as if they were cut-outs from a Japanese screen, were playing among short-legged poodles and yellowish cats that had no tails and were very lazy and affectionate. The streets were teeming with people and there was an incessant coming and going: bonzes3 going past in procession monotonously striking their drums and tambourines, yakunin, customs and police officers, with lacquerincrusted pointed hats, carrying two sabres in their belts,4 soldiers dressed in blue cotton uniforms with white stripes and armed with percussion guns; men from the Mikado’s guard with their tight-fitting silk doublets, chain-mail tunics and coats of mail, and many other soldiers of various ranks because the military profession is as highly regarded in Japan as it is looked down on in China. Then came mendicant friars, pilgrims in long robes, ordinary civilians, with sleek, jet-black hair, large heads, long torsos and thin legs, short in stature, with complexions varying in colour from the darkest shades of copper to dull white, but never as yellow as that of the Chinese, from whom the Japanese differ considerably. Finally, among the carriages, the palanquins, the horses, the porters, the windpowered wheelbarrows, the norimons with their lacquered sides, the comfortable cangos, proper litters made of bamboo,5 could be seen some plain-looking women. They walked around taking small steps with their tiny feet, wearing canvas shoes, straw sandals or elaborately carved wooden clogs. They had slanting eyes, flattened breasts and blackened teeth, as was the fashion of the day, but they wore with great elegance the national dress, the kimono, a sort of combination of dressing gown and silk sash, with a wide belt that opened out behind into an elaborate bow, a design that modern Parisian women seem to have borrowed from the Japanese. Passepartout spent a few hours walking among this colourful crowd, looking as he went at the strange and expensive-looking shops, the bazaars crammed with flashy items of Japanese jewellery, the eatinghouses decorated with streamers and banners, which he couldn’t afford to go into, and the tea-houses that serve the hot, sweet-smelling liquid by the cupful, along with sake, an alcoholic drink made from fermenting rice, and the comfortable smoking dens, where they smoke a very fine kind of tobacco and not opium, whose use is practically unknown in Japan. Then Passepartout found himself in the countryside, surrounded by immense rice fields. Here camellias the size not of shrubs but trees provided a brilliant display with flowers that showed their fading colours and exuded fading fragrances, and inside bamboo enclosures were cherry trees, plum trees and apple trees, which the inhabitants grow more for their blossom than their fruit and which are protected by fierce-looking scarecrows and noisy whirligigs from the beaks of sparrows, pigeons, crows and other ravenous birds. There was not a single majestic cedar without its great eagle, not a single weeping willow without a heron sheltering in its foliage, balancing melancholically on one leg. Finally there were everywhere rooks, ducks, sparrow-hawks, wild geese and a large number of the type of crane the Japanese call ‘lordships’, which are for them symbols of longevity and happiness. As he wandered around like this, Passepartout noticed some violets growing among the grass. ‘Good,’ he said, ‘here’s my supper.’ But after smelling them he thought they had no fragrance. ‘No luck,’ he said to himself. Admittedly the trusty fellow had taken the precaution of having a hearty meal before leaving the Carnatic, but after a day’s walk, he felt pretty hungry. He had been quick to notice that there was absolutely no mutton, goat or pork on the stands of the local butchers, and because he knew that it was against their religion to kill cattle, which were used only for agricultural purposes, he had come to the conclusion that meat was very scarce in Japan. He was quite right about this but if he couldn’t eat butcher’s meat his stomach would have made do quite happily with a joint or two of wild boar or deer, a few partridges or quails, some poultry or fish, which together with rice make up the staple diet of the Japanese. However, he had to make the best of things and so he put off until the next day the question of finding something to eat. Night came. Passepartout returned to the native quarter and wandered about the streets amid the multicoloured lanterns, watching the groups of travelling acrobats perform their amazing tricks and the outdoor astrologers getting crowds of people to gather around their telescopes. Then he saw the harbour again, sparkling with the lights of fishermen, who attracted the fish by the glow of their burning torches. Finally the streets emptied. The crowd gave way to the yakunin on their rounds. These officers, in their magnificent uniforms and surrounded by their retinue, looked like ambassadors, and each time he encountered one of these splendid-looking patrols Passepartout joked to himself, ‘Here we go. Another Japanese delegation off to Europe.’6 23 In which Passepartout grows an exceedingly long nose The following day an exhausted, starving Passepartout said to himself that he had to have something to eat at all costs, and the sooner the better. He did have the option of selling his watch, but he would rather have died of hunger. Now was the ideal opportunity for the dear fellow to use the loud if not harmonious voice with which nature had endowed him. He knew a few French and English popular songs and he made up his mind to try them out. The Japanese must certainly be keen on music since they did everything to the accompaniment of cymbals, drums and tambourines, and they were bound to appreciate the talents of a European virtuoso. However, it was perhaps too early in the morning to organize a concert and the music lovers, if awakened unexpectedly, might not have shown themselves too grateful for the privilege. Passepartout decided therefore to wait a few hours, but as he walked around the thought struck him that he looked too well dressed for a travelling musician, so he had the idea of exchanging his clothes for a get-up more in keeping with his position. In addition this exchange would produce a small profit, which he could immediately put to use to satisfy his appetite. Once he had taken this decision, all that remained was for him to put it into practice. After a considerable amount of searching he eventually found a local second-hand dealer, to whom he made his proposal. The second-hand dealer liked the European clothes and soon Passepartout left the shop wearing old Japanese robes and a sort of ribbed turban, which had faded over time. But in exchange he had a few silver coins jangling in his pocket. ‘Good,’ he thought, ‘I’ll just pretend to myself that it’s carnival time.’ Passepartout’s first concern, now that he had been ‘Japanesed’, was to go into a modest-looking tea-house, and there he ate chicken leftovers and a few handfuls of rice like a man who didn’t know where his next meal was coming from. ‘Now,’ he said to himself after his hearty meal, ‘the main thing is to keep a cool head. I no longer have the option of selling this get-up for an even more Japanese-looking one. So I’ll have to devise the quickest means I can of getting out of the Land of the Rising Sun, which I won’t have very fond memories of.’ Passepartout then had the idea of going to see the steamers due to leave for America. He was planning to offer his services as a cook or servant, and wanted in return only his food and passage. Once he’d reached San Francisco he’d see about sorting out his other problems. The main thing was to get across the 4,700 miles of Pacific Ocean that lay between Japan and the New World. Passepartout was not the type who would let an idea go to waste and so he headed for Yokohama harbour. But the closer he got to the docks, the more his plan, which had looked so simple on the spur of the moment, seemed impractical. Why would they need a cook or servant on board an American steamer, and how would anyone trust him in his present get-up? What recommendations or references did he have? Just as these thoughts were going through his mind, he noticed quite by accident a huge poster that a sort of clown was carrying through the streets of Yokohama. The poster, written in English, read as follows: THE JAPANESE ACROBATICS TROUPE OF THE HONOURABLE WILLIAM BATULCAR LAST PERFORMANCES Before their departure for the United States of America OF THE LONG-NOSES-LONG-NOSES DEDICATED TO THE GOD TENGU1 Great Attraction! ‘The United States of America!’ exclaimed Passepartout. ‘That’s right up my street!’ He followed the sandwichman and by doing so soon found himself back in the Japanese quarter. Fifteen minutes later he stopped in front of a large square building decorated on top with several garlands of streamers. On the outside wall was a painting, lacking all sense of perspective but with gaudy colours, showing a large group of jugglers. It was the establishment belonging to the Honourable Batulcar, an American showman who was the director of a troupe of tumblers, jugglers, clowns, acrobats, tight-rope walkers and gymnasts who, according to the poster, were giving their last performances before leaving the Land of the Rising Sun for the United States. Passepartout entered the colonnade in front of the building and asked for Mr Batulcar. Mr Batulcar appeared in person. ‘What do you want?’ he said to Passepartout, taking him at first for a native. ‘Do you need a servant?’ asked Passepartout. ‘A servant!’ exclaimed the showman, stroking the bushy grey beard under his chin. ‘I’ve got two of them, obedient and trusty. They’ve never left me and they work for nothing provided I feed them. There they are,’ he added, pointing to his two sturdy arms, scored by veins as thick as the strings of a double-bass. ‘So I can’t be of any use to you, can I?’ ‘None at all.’ ‘Damn! It would’ve been really convenient for me to travel with you.’ ‘Well, well,’ said the Honourable Batulcar. ‘If you’re Japanese, then I’m a monkey. Why are you wearing that get-up?’ ‘You wear what you can get hold of.’ ‘That’s true. Are you French?’ ‘Yes, I am. A Parisian through and through.’ ‘Well in that case you must know how to pull funny faces.’ ‘Wait a minute,’ replied Passepartout, annoyed at this reaction to the discovery of his nationality. ‘We French people may know how to make funny faces, but no more so than you Americans.’ ‘Fair enough. Well, if I don’t take you on as a servant, I can take you on as a clown. Do you understand, my dear fellow? In France they use foreigners to make people laugh and abroad they use Frenchmen.’ ‘Oh!’ ‘Are you strong, by the way?’ ‘Especially after I’ve had a good meal.’ ‘Can you sing?’ ‘Yes,’ answered Passepartout, who in the past had taken part in some street concerts. ‘But can you sing upside down, spinning a top on the sole of your left foot and balancing a sword on the sole of your right foot?’ ‘You bet,’ replied Passepartout, with memories of the first tricks he performed in his youth coming back to him. ‘That’s what it’s all about,’ said the Honourable Batulcar. The deal was done there and then. At last Passepartout had found himself a job. He’d been taken on as a dogsbody in the famous Japanese troupe. It was a bit demeaning, but it meant that within a week he would be on his way to San Francisco. The performance, loudly advertised by the Honourable Batulcar, was to begin at three o’clock, and soon the noisy instruments of a Japanese orchestra, drums and tam-tams were blaring away at the door. Understandably, Passepartout hadn’t been able to prepare for the performance, but he was supposed to lend the support of his sturdy shoulders to the famous act known as ‘the human pyramid’ performed by the Long-Noses of the god Tengu. This ‘great attraction’ was the climax of the whole show. By three o’clock, the audience had filled the huge building. Europeans and Asians, Chinese and Japanese, men, women and children rushed in to occupy the narrow benches and the boxes opposite the stage. The musicians had come inside and the complete orchestra, with gongs, tam-tams, castanets, flutes, tambourines and bass drums, was playing away for all it was worth. It was the usual sort of acrobatic display, but it must be admitted that the Japanese have the best balancing acts in the world. One of the performers, equipped with his fan and small pieces of paper, gracefully imitated the movement of butterflies and flowers. Another, using the sweet-smelling smoke from his pipe, traced a rapid series of blue-coloured words in the air, spelling out compliments to the audience. Another juggled with lighted candles, which he extinguished one by one as they passed in front of his lips and then relit one from the other without interrupting for a moment his wonderful feat of juggling. Another managed to make spinning-tops perform the most amazing figures. In his hands these whirring machines seemed to take on a life of their own in their unending girations. They ran along pipe-stems, sabre blades and wires as thin as wisps of hair, which stretched from one side of the stage to the other. They went around the rims of large crystal vases, climbed up bamboo ladders and then scattered to every corner, producing strange sound effects by the combination of their different tones. The jugglers juggled with them and they spun in the air. They threw them up like shuttlecocks by means of wooden rackets and they continued to spin. They stuffed them in their pockets and when they took them out the tops were still spinning – until the moment when, at the release of a spring, they burst out into a dazzling firework display. There is no need here to describe the astonishing acts performed by the acrobats and gymnasts of the troupe. The tricks they did with a ladder, pole, ball, barrels, etc., were carried out with remarkable precision. But the main attraction was the appearance of the Long- Noses, an astonishing balancing act that has not yet been seen in Europe. The Long-Noses made up a special corporation dedicated to the god Tengu. Dressed like heralds in the Middle Ages, they wore on their shoulders a magnificent pair of wings. But their most distinctive feature was a long nose and in particular the use they put it to. Their noses were made of bamboo and were about five, six or even ten feet long, some straight, others curved, some smooth, others knobbly. These firmly fixed appendages were in fact what they used for all their balancing acts. A dozen or so of these followers of Tengu lay on their backs and their companions sported themselves on their noses, which stuck up in the air like lightning conductors, leaping about and vaulting from one tothe other, performing the most extraordinary tricks. The show was to end with a special performance of the human pyramid, in which about fifty Long-Noses were supposed to represent the Car of Juggernaut. But, instead of forming this pyramid by standing on one another’s shoulders, the Honourable Batulcar’s artistes were to be linked to one another only by their noses. As it happened, one of those who formed the base of the cart had left the troupe and, since all that was needed was to be strong and agile, Passepartout had been chosen to replace him. Admittedly, the dear fellow felt rather sorry for himself after putting on his medieval costume, decorated with multicoloured wings, and a six-foot-long nose that was fixed on to his face. It all reminded him too much of his youth. But in the end this nose was his livelihood, so he put up with it. Passepartout came on stage and went to stand with the other performers who were to make the base of the Car of Juggernaut. They all lay down on the floor with their noses pointing upwards. A second group of performers got into position on top of their long appendages, a third group formed another layer, then a fourth group, and with these noses that only touched one another at the ends they built up a human structure that soon reached almost up to the ceiling of the theatre. By now, the applause was getting louder and louder and the instruments in the orchestra were blasting out when suddenly the pyramid wobbled, lost its balance, one of the noses at the base disappeared and the whole structure came tumbling down like a pack of cards. The cause of it all was Passepartout, who abandoned his post, got across the floodlights without even using his wings, climbed up to the right-hand gallery and then threw himself down at the feet of someone in the audience, shouting, ‘Oh, my master, my master!’ ‘Is it you?’ ‘Yes, it’s me!’ ‘Well, in that case let’s get to the steamer, my fellow!’ Mr Fogg, Mrs Aouda, who was accompanying him, and Passepartout had rushed along the corridors and out of the building. But there they came upon a furious Honourable Batulcar, who was asking for compensation for the ‘breakage’. Mr Fogg calmed him down by stuffing some banknotes into his hand. And so, at half past six, just when the ship was about to leave, Mr Fogg and Mrs Aouda set foot on the American steamer, followed by Passepartout with his wings on his back and a six-foot-long nose that he hadn’t yet been able to remove from his face.