Oculitis Nemo
Written for Nanni.
Nemo is a man made of shadows, the kind of shadows that play darkly across the sand on the bottom of the sea when the light filters down through the water.
Aronnax thinks of him almost always in Latin, though his Latin is bad and he suspects it's disrespectful. One oughtn't to think of important men in bad Latin. He frets--he feels a fool, an utter fool--and draws Octopus joubini in his day journal, small thin twisting arms covered with spots and blotches, ruffled with suckers on the bottoms, and big eyes, black and golden, wise and secret-keeping. The Octopus joubini becomes Oculus joubini, Oculeus nemo, and suddenly his drawings--so precise, very good, very lifelike! his colleagues at the museum used to say--are of Nemo, studying him like a scientific discovery Aronnax doesn't understand. He draws the details, fine hands, dark eyes, the mouth that is both hard and sad, the straight neck, dark curling beard that suits Nemo's dignity and yet makes him resemble a wild creature. He draws them all so carefully, just like his Octopus joubini.
Once he labelled the drawing, with little arrows and little Latin words, pointing out where the muscles would be under the skin, where the bones would be, dissecting the face with his little Latin words. As soon as he had done it, he crumpled it up. If bad Latin is disrespectful, labelling a man who seems more than a man as though he were a scientific specimen is far worse.
Still, he doesn't stop drawing. His Oculeus nemo becomes Oculissimus nemo, and there are days when he wants to bury his face in his two hands in despair. He does not understand the man. He does not understand, and he wants desperately to. Nemo is kind to him, often quite kind, but so reserved and dark, so quiet, that Aronnax still isn't sure whether he is hated or loved or merely tolerated. Perhaps he is of no consequence at all to a man who does not call himself civilised, to a man who would sink ships full of innocent people without a second thought.
Aronnax pauses. Are they innocens or inanitas, agnae aut anguisculi? How does he know that Nemo has no second thoughts? How does he know that Nemo does not secretly feel burned all over by the pain of anguish and remorse? It sounds silly, it sounds melodramatic, of course, but--how does he know? How does he know anything?
He can't read the mind of his Oculissimus nemo, who has over the last few days become Oscillum nemo because he will not answer Aronnax's new questions, the ones about his secrets, the ones about himself. Is it so terrible that he will not say? Aronnax can't stop wondering, can't stop wanting to know, and he knows that the questions make Nemo's dark eyes darken still more with annoyance, but he must ask.
Nemo is a man made of shadows, umbrosus viri. Cogitatum turbulentus habeo, thinks Aronnax, and stares in frustration through the windows of the salon, where the fish swim by, where he has seen cramp-fishes and sea-horses and little sharks, where he has seen Octopus joubini sometimes. When he thinks of Nemo, it is in Latin; and though he has time, sometimes, to be happy and think of what he sees through those windows and of his specimens and the thousand and one things he's now discovered; despite that, he mostly thinks of Nemo. The bad Latin is crowding in his head, sounding wrong but remaining unstoppable. It won't go away. He tries to make himself laugh by imagining Livy or Vergil listening to him, wincing, covering their antique Roman ears and complaining loudly about the lack of proper declensions and cases which agree and the misuse of the verbs which he can only conjugate in the present tense. He tries to make himself laugh, and often he does provoke a smile, but soon he's thinking of Nemo again.
As the weeks pass, his thoughts change again, but he suspects that it is only a natural progression. When there is a man whom he admires so much--when there is a man he so quietly longs to understand as he longs to understand Nemo, it is perhaps easily anticipated that his Oscillum nemo becomes Osculum nemo and he spends most of the night in the salon, staring out at the swimming creatures. His eyes grow sad and tired, and Conseil politely suggests that if master doesn't think him impertinent, perhaps he ought to sleep more. If master is tired, he, Conseil, will watch for interesting new species. He is really not bad at it, if monsieur pleases--after all, he has been studying for a long time. Sometimes he studies in secret, and he knows perhaps enough to take on monsieur's tasks for a few days, if monsieur will sleep.
Aronnax is not so worn out that he doesn't know when secrets are being told to him, and he clasps and presses Conseil's hands, gentle and fond. Of course, Conseil needn't worry. He is very proud, however, of Conseil's diligence! Studying on his own? Someday, soon, they must work together, for now that he knows this there are things he assuredly wants Conseil's opinion on.
He imagines that he hasn't soothed Conseil's concern; but he did make him smile. The dear boy never seems very excited or very dismayed, but Aronnax suspects that Conseil is both flattered at his words and mournful for his rumpled, exhausted look. Ned has noticed too, and is making dour comments about the benefits of fresh air and real food, of being able to sleep on land again, though Aronnax laughs and shrugs him off: It's nothing, my dear Ned, I'm merely too interested in my work to go to bed at a reasonable hour.
Even Nemo says something. An Occulo nemo, he says,-- Professor, you aren't well.
Aronnax laughs again. He's merely tired, he says. Nothing a good night's sleep won't cure.
In that case, Nemo suggests, he ought to sleep.
Aronnax protests. He's too busy. There are too many things to see. He's been hoping to catch sight of a certain kind of miniature shark that lives in this part of the ocean, but no one knows its habits, so he doesn't know at what time of the day it feeds. He must keep a vigilant watch for it.
Nemo surveys him darkly, then drops his eyes to his own hands. He turns them over. He looks up again. He purses his lips for a moment behind the dark beard. A moment later, the sliding blinds have covered the windows and the salon is dark.
The Professor is tired, Nemo says, in answer to Aronnax's indignant noise of surprise. When the windows are closed, there is nothing to tempt him. He may as well go to sleep now.
Perhaps being so tired has confused Aronnax, for he hardly remembers retiring to his cabin and getting into bed, although he does remember making his Occulo nemo into Occallesco nemo and protesting in his head for the few moments before he fell asleep, unable to keep his mind focused and his eyes open. He does remember feeling completely wretched.
When he awakes again, however, he is not so tired, and things make more sense. He sees that in a way it was kind of Nemo to send him to bed. He can see the dark purple marks under his eyes now and understands that he caused them, that they are a bad sign and that he must prevent them. He thinks of Nemo, Ocellus nemo, and hides his hot forehead in the pillow, and wonders whether Ned is right, and he needs to walk on land again. He had thought that he would never need to, never again, that everything in the world which he would ever desire was beneath the ocean, in this place, here for him. Perhaps, though, he has been too long out of the sun, out of the air. He can hardly remember what a dog is like. He knows what they are. They were in France; there were always strays hanging about the museum enticed by the fishy things that went in and out during the week--they were in America, and Canada, and Europe--but he can only vaguely recall them. Something as ordinary as a dog. They have cold noses and large eyes, Aronnax thinks. They bark. This is absurd.
He remains in his room for several hours. Suddenly, someone knocks, and he calls for the someone to come in.
I have brought you a Parexocoetus brachypterus, Nemo announces. It is regretful that you should have missed the specimen you were trying to observe two days ago (you have slept for a long time, Professor), and as Janthinus was taking out the nets to-day and discovered a rare specimen in its own right, I kept one for you.
Aronnax is not altogether sure why he is overcome with this shaky feeling, or why his tired eyes are burning--why he feels as though he must laugh and weep and cry out at the madness of it all--but he smiles at Nemo. He thanks him graciously. He takes the Parexocoetus brachypterus, and spreads out its purplish wet wings, lightly spotted, like the top half of a butterfly. He exclaims, and he fetches out his day journal to draw in its pages, for he may never see a creature like this again.
As he is drawing, Nemo leans slightly forward, gazing intently at his hands as he works, studying the quick movements of the pencil. Nemo's face is a masterpiece, fascinatingly creased, wonderfully made, with the dark eyes and the dark eyebrows, moulded into an expression of interest, concentration, but full of other hidden things that have been there so long that no other expression can erase them; the quiet anger, the quiet sadness, the quiet stony look around the mouth.
At once, quickly, Aronnax is turning the page and shielding his work slightly, drawing in the greatest detail possibly the Oculitus nemo--for he may never see a creature like this again.
As he works, he shakes his head slightly to himself. He had considered leaving, even for a moment, merely on account of a dog! He is indeed a fool, indeed, indeed.
He will never think of leaving the Nautilus again. He is too enraptured by this shadow, playing darkly across the ocean floor like the sunlight filtering through the water.
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