When Twain arrived at Verne's villa pulling the seal on his formerly white coat, Verne was on the second floor landing, sitting with pen and paper, working on a dark novel about Paris, thinking about how old he felt, the loss of his wife and children, who had gone off to live somewhere in France with the explorer Phileas Fogg.
The dirty bastard.
Verne tried to concentrate on his work.
He had submitted pages of his novel to his editor, but the editor had been appalled. Much too noir for them, lacked the glitter of his other novels, and they felt his readers would be disappointed.
It certainly was a dark book, and not optimistic in the least, but the thing was, Verne wasn't feeling too optimistic right then, and the novel reflected that. He felt he had fallen into a trap of writing only what many were now calling children's adventure stories. He longed to reach deeper and write darker. He wished he had his children back, and his wife had a hot croissant up her ass, and Fogg had one too. Neither croissant buttered, and both day old and stiff.
He did have his experiments, his plans for devices that he worked on from time to time, and they had of course made some impact on the world, but so far their use and knowledge of them were restricted primarily to himself and his servant, Passepartout, and to a handful of rich associates; the devices were far too expensive to give away, and patents had to be protected.
He was thinking about these things as he pondered his maligned manuscript with distracted concentration, so when he saw his old friend Samuel, Mark Twain to the world, he was surprised and heartened to have a break from his work and editorial troubles, as well as curious to discover what his bedraggled friend was pulling on top of his coat.
Downstairs, Verne met Twain in the front yard and saw what he had. When Verne spoke English, his French accent was noticeable, but not too heavy. He had been practicing his English for some time, and had learned much about American colloquialism from the works of Twain, though he still had the occasional French phrasing. When he spoke to his friend, he called him by his real name, Samuel.
When Twain saw Verne, he smiled. "Jules."
"My friend, Samuel. You have a seal on your coat."
"Yes, I do."
"He is dead, monsieur?"
"No, he's not. He's been bitten by sharks, but he's alive. See that metal hat. It's bolted to his head. Fixed that way. Look at that stuff around his neck. What do you make of it?"
"I make nothing of it. Shall we put him in the barn?"
In the barn, Verne used a hand pump and water hose to wash down the seal, then examined his wounds. "We'll need someone who can sew good stitches. I'll make a call."
When Verne left, Twain made the seal as comfortable as possible, saw a large canvas draped over a large form. At the bottom of the canvas, he could see something shiny. He wondered what was beneath the canvas, and under ordinary circumstance, might have taken a look, but he didn't wish to leave the injured seal, and besides, his age had caught up with him a bit. Now that he had gotten comfortable, sitting on the ground, he didn't want to get up unless it was absolutely necessary.
Verne went to the house, cranked the phone and spoke in Spanish. When he came back to the barn, Twain was holding the seal's head up, giving him a drink from a water dipper.
"That is strange," said Vern. "He takes that like a man."
The seal raised its flipper, and working its thumb against the skin of the appendage, made a snapping sound.
"Well, I will be, how is it you Americans say? I be damn."
"Close enough."
The seal tapped the pad on its chest, took hold of the pen.
"My God," Twain said. "He wants writing paper."
"That is not possible."
The seal snapped both thumbs against his flippers and made a kind of whistling sound with his mouth, then slapped both flippers against the pad and took hold of the pencil with one thumb and flipper and made a writing motion.
"Now I've seen it all," Verne said.
"Not if he actually writes something, you haven't."
Verne ran to the house, procured paper and a better pencil. When he returned with the writing materials, the seal sat up on its hind end, folding its flipper-tipped tail beneath it, cocked its back against the water pump, placed the glasses on its nose, took the writing supplies and wrote in big block letters.
MY NAME IS NED. I WAS THE BOON COMPANION OF BUFFALO BILL CODY, WHO WAS EATEN BY SHARKS. I WAS INJURED BY SHARKS. I LIKE SLOW SWIMS AND BIG LIVE FISH AND SOMETIMES A BEACH BALL TO BALANCE ON MY NOSE, THOUGH I KNOW IT'S IMMATURE.
I DO NOT LIKE SHARKS.
I DO LIKE FISH. DID I MENTION THAT?
"Holy shit," Twain said. "A goddamn note-writing seal."
The seal continued to write, passing along pages as he filled them in his large block printing.
HERE IS MY STORY. I WAS MADE BY A MAN NAMED DOCTOR MOMO. HE LIVED ON AN ISLAND. I SPENT MUCH OF MY TIME WITH CAPTAIN BEMO ON THE NAUGHTY LASS. ONCE I WAS A REGULAR SEAL. NOW I AM SPECIAL.
"Holy Mother of God, give Jesus the apple," Verne said. "I wrote a novel based on this very interesting man, Captain Bemo. Not all true, a novel mind you, with name changes, but with much biographical detail. This is amazing. This seal claims to have known the real Captain Bemo, on which my Nemo is based. I have also heard of this Momo. A scientist. About half crazy was the rumor. H. G. Wells has written a story about him. He calls him Moreau."
"Let him write, Jules," Twain said.
I HELPED BEMO AND MOMO DO RESEARCH. I WAS ABLE TO DO THIS BECAUSE DOCTOR MOMO ENHANCED MY ALREADY CONSIDERABLE INTELLIGENCE WITH THIS DEVICE YOU SEE ON MY HEAD. HE DID THINGS TO MY BRAIN. AMPLIFIED IT. THE DEVICE COVERS MY BRAIN, PROTECTS IT. MOMO BECAME STRANGE. HE GRAFTED A HORSE PENIS ONTO HIMSELF. HE MADE PEOPLE OUT OF ANIMALS AND PIECES OF FLESH. BUFFALO BILL, WILD BILL HICKOK, ANNIE OAKLEY AND SITTING BULL ALL CAME TO MOMO'S ISLAND, HAVING CRASHED IN THE SEA. BUFFALO BILL WAS ONLY A HEAD. IT WAS IN A JAR POWERED BY BATTERIES AND SOME KIND OF LIQUID. THEY HAD THE FRANKENSTEIN MONSTER WITH THEM. THERE WAS A TIN MAN WHO WORKED FOR DOCTOR MOMO. HE AND THE MONSTER FELL IN LOVE. I THINK THEY MAY HAVE DROWNED ON THE NAUGHTY LASS, AS DID WILD BILL HICKOK AND ANNIE OAKLEY, AND I SUPPOSE SITTING BULL AND A WOMAN MOMO MADE NAMED CAT. BUFFALO BILL'S HEAD WAS EATEN BY SHARKS. I WAS BITTEN BY SHARKS. I SURE COULD USE SOME FISH.
"What happened to Momo and Bemo?" Verne asked.
Ned shook his head, wrote: I DO NOT KNOW. I THINK THEY ARE DEAD. MOMO'S BOAT RAMMED THE NAUGHTY LASS AND SUNK IT, I THINK. HE WAS PROBABLY ON BOARD. THE ONLY WAY HE COULD HAVE LIVED IS IF HE COULD LIVE IN PIECES, LIKE A PUZZLE. DO YOU LIKE THE DIME NOVELS ABOUT BUFFALO BILL CODY? DO YOU HAVE ANY FISH?
"I don't have any fish," Twain said, "but I do like the novels about Buffalo Bill. Can't say they are well written, but they are entertaining. Ned, I am Samuel Clemens, though I go by the name Mark Twain as well, which is the name I write under. This is Jules Verne."
Ned stiffened. His whiskers wiggled. He slapped his flippers together. He snatched up the pencil, wrote:
AFTER THE ADVENTURES OF BUFFALO BILL AND THE DIME NOVELS, I LIKE YOU TWO BEST. ABOUT THE SAME, ACTUALLY. I HAVE READ HUCK FINN AND TOM SAWYER, AND I HAVE READ JOURNEY TO THE CENTER OF THE EARTH, FROM THE EARTH TO THE MOON, AND IF YOU WILL FORGIVE ME, I TRIED TO READ YOUR STORY ABOUT BEMO. HE WAS NOTHING LIKE THAT. HE WAS QUITE SHY, ACTUALLY. HE DID DO MUCH THAT YOU WROTE ABOUT, BUT NOT ALL OF IT. MIND YOU, I WASN'T THERE DURING ALL THOSE EVENTS, BUT I DID HAVE THE LUXURY OF KNOWING THE MAN.
HE HAD GAS PROBLEMS. THAT'S ANOTHER FACT NOT WELL KNOWN. YOU MIGHT WANT TO WRITE THAT DOWN IN CASE YOU DO A REVISED VERSION OF YOUR BOOK. SEALS DON'T REALLY MIND THAT, HOWEVER. REMEMBER. WE EAT RAW FISH. AND, OF COURSE, FISH EAT US. SHARKS TRIED TO EAT ME. I TRIED TO SAVE THE HEAD OF BUFFALO BILL . . . DID I SAY I DO NOT LIKE SHARKS AND THAT I WOULD LIKE SOME FISH?
"Yes," Verne said, "you did. And I read something about Buffalo Bill being a living head powered by batteries. Some kind of accident. Saved by a scientist, some such thing . . . And I remember reading in the papers about part of the Wild West Show being lost over the Pacific ocean. I think this little seal is telling the truth, Samuel."
Ned slapped a flipper on the ground. Hard.
He wrote: OF COURSE I AM. DO I LOOK LIKE A LIAR TO YOU?
The man Verne had called arrived and stitched up Ned to the sound of grunts and squeals while Verne and Twain held the poor seal. Once, Ned was able to snatch up the pencil and paper Verne had provided. He wrote: WHERE'S THE ANESTHESIA? WANT IT. GOT TO HAVE IT. WANT IT BAD. TELL THIS HORRIBLE MAN TO GET OFF OF ME AND TAKE HIS NEEDLES WITH HIM. OH, YOU ASSHOLES.
Twain wrestled the pencil and paper away from Ned, said, "Sorry, Ned. For your own good."
"My God," the veterinarian said in French. "He writes."
"Yes he does," Twain said, being able to understand French well enough. "And neatly."
"How is that possible?" asked the vet.
"It's a trick." Twain said.
"With mirrors and such?" the veterinarian asked.
Twain looked at Vern. They both looked at the vet.
Verne said, "Of course. Mirrors."