It was more money than Twain expected to receive for the books, so he bought some figs, a skin of water, and boarded the ferry to Spain. It took most of the day, and the sea was choppy. Twain lost his figs and water early on, throwing them up in a brown stream over the side.
As he leaned over the railing, watched the water churn below, he considered losing himself as well, but gradually came to his senses. He realized that he was feeling better as the wine wore off, realized too this was the first time in six months he had been truly sober.
It wasn't a great feeling, but it really wasn't that bad either.
Upon arriving on the coast of Spain, he and the passengers, as well as a dozen goats and a cage of chickens, disembarked. It felt good to be on solid ground, and after buying some coffee in a little outdoor cafe, fending off a half dozen souvenir peddlers and a fat Spanish whore who wanted to sell him a quickie, or for half the price, squeeze him off between her legs, he decided to splurge another coin and catch a cart ride to where Verne was staying, working on yet another successful novel.
Twain envied Verne. He seemed able to write at any time and under any circumstance. As of late, all he could think about was the death of his wife, Olivia, and the death of his daughters. Susy by disease, Jean, drowned in a tub while having a fit, and Clara, married and gone from him, living somewhere in Europe, a place unbeknownst to him since beginning his wanderings. He hoped her life was good. He hoped he would find her again someday. He hoped even more that some of his old self would return to him, like a lost dog, worn out and tired, looking for a familiar bed, a currycomb, a pat on the head, and a good meal.
As the cart clattered along, Twain noted the beautiful coast. Perhaps this was the key to Verne's success. A beautiful view. The Casbah was interesting and exciting in its own way, but it wasn't beautiful, and too much excitement and noise did not a good writer make. Here you had the ocean and the shoreline with natural white sand, and there were the rocks upon which the ocean foamed, and way out beyond that fine blue water, a thin brown strip that was Africa, the coast of Morocco from which he had come.
As they neared Verne's residence, Twain stopped the driver, paid him, and in spite of his old aching bones, decided to walk along the coast and wind his way to where Verne lived in a beautiful villa on a rise of white rocks overlooking the sea.
As he walked along the beach, his bag slung over his shoulder, Twain discovered a strange thing. A large black shape with something shiny attached to it lay near the ocean on the sand. At first he couldn't place what it was. It appeared to be an oilskin bag with something metal hanging out of one end, but upon closer examination he was amazed to discover it was a seal. A seal with a metal object, a box, fastened to its head. There were a number of deep red cuts in the seal's body, and a chunk had been taken out of one flipper by what were obviously some very nasty teeth.
Shark teeth, Twain figured.
Twain bent over the seal, nudged it with his foot. The seal opened one eye.
Very slowly the seal rolled over. Twain saw there was a cord around his neck, and fastened to that was a writing tablet without paper, and a stubby pencil. There was also a chain around the seal's neck, and from that hung a pair of sand-sprinkled spectacles.
He discovered there was another thing even more amazing than a seal with a metal cap, pad and pencil, and reading glasses about its neck.
There were little thumbs growing from its flippers.