City of Light (10 page)

Peter led us down the carefully shoveled path to the intake canal—“three hundred feet wide and two thousand feet long and we can expand it whenever we need to,” he explained—and I imagined what the scene would be like if the powerhouses did take all the water. Most likely the machinery could never take every drop; a little would always escape, and we could ice-skate on what remained. What a joy that would be, to glide on skates to Canada and back. And although I shivered now in the unremitting wind, I could visualize the summer, when we would picnic on the precipice amid gentle rivulets and streams.

Suddenly a huge blast rocked the pathway beneath our feet. Gulls shrieked. The girls stopped and turned to me, immobilized, waiting for my reaction. Quickly I made myself impassive—that was always my trick to gain a moment to figure out what was going on, before giving them guidance. For my own guidance I turned to Peter. He was smiling, so I smiled too, and the girls relaxed. “Look,” he said, leaning against the canal railing and pointing to the river. “They’re using dynamite to break up the ice.”

Indeed, there were men walking on the ice at the mouth of the canal. They wielded poles and pickaxes, prodding and pushing at the ice to break it up before it entered the canal. As they worked, they jumped from ice floe to ice floe, hats pulled low over their faces.

“With Powerhouses One and Two, there was a mistake in the design,” Peter explained. “The sluices aren’t low enough to pull in water from below the ice, so the men have to keep the ice out of the canal, to stop the sluices from getting clogged. When Three and Four are on-line, you won’t see men doing a job like this. The new sluices are lower, with better gratings too.”

“What happens if someone out there slips and falls into the water?” Evelyn Byers asked with a thrilled shiver at the horror of it. “He could get caught in the current and be carried over the Falls. Or if the ice he was working on was already in the canal, he could get pulled into those sluices and sucked into the turbines!”

Peter simply looked at her without replying.

“Yes, and it happens all the time,” Maddie said angrily, stepping in front of her brother. “If you read the local paper you’d find out it happens at least once a week.”

“Now, now, Maddie,” Peter said, patting her shoulder. “Where would your friend see the local paper? Besides”—Peter turned to Evelyn, who looked more emboldened than hurt by Maddie’s outburst—“the men know the risks. They know exactly what could happen, at every moment. They try to be careful.” Peter stared at the men on the river. “Well, come on,” he said, rousing himself and chucking Maddie under the chin. “Let me show you one of the wonders of the world: the new tailrace for Powerhouses Three and Four.”

The sound of the wind filled the tunnel, its roar carrying away the echoes of our footsteps. Water seeped from the walls, puddling on the floor. Peter carried a lantern, which threw our shadows high against the curving brick walls. The tunnel was shaped like a horseshoe, the floor curving downward, the walls curving out and up, meeting in an arch high above our heads. Although Peter held up the lantern, we still could not see the ceiling.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” he whispered, exultant. “It’s made from masonry and concrete, lined with four layers of bricks. It’s made to be filled with water.” His voice was edged with wonder. “Once it’s filled, no one will ever see it again. Unless it has to be closed because of a problem. But I’m sure there’ll never be a problem. The design is too perfect. Every time I come down here I feel like I’ve got to get the memory of it inside me, to last forever.” Slowly he turned in a circle, holding the lantern high, transfixed, a look of longing and wistfulness on his face—in stark contrast to my girls, whose primary concern was their wet feet.

“Ugh,” said Evelyn, walking on tiptoe, trying to find a dry spot. “Why didn’t we get rain boots before coming down here?”

Peter laughed, the spell that had taken hold of him broken. “There are underground springs all through the surrounding rock. That’s why we get this seepage, until the tunnel is completely sealed.”

“That wasn’t my question,” Evelyn said morosely.

“Now, now, enough of that.” He shook her shoulder as if she were one of his sisters and she positively flushed, forgetting her wet feet altogether.

“This is the tailrace for Powerhouse Three,” Peter said. “Up ahead, it merges with the tailrace from Powerhouse Four to make a single tunnel. Come on, I want you to see the interlink.”

Evelyn hurried to his side. I smiled to myself as I gathered the others.

We had been alone in the tunnel, but as we approached the interlink we heard voices, growing louder, and saw the crossed shadows thrown by dozens of lanterns. Men were moving through the interlink and down the main tunnel. There was an animal stench in the air, explained when we saw a mule pulling a cart of bricks.

And then the interlink opened before us, vaults and archways wide and soaring, architecture and engineering melding into an extraordinary creation. I was filled with amazement. So this was what artists meant when they spoke of the sublime. Meanwhile men put on rain gear, gathered tools, ate lunch, rested. The interlink seemed nearly as wide as a town square. There were more than a few Negroes among the laborers; Tom was known for paying high wages and hiring without regard to race, but as we walked further into the interlink, I saw that, among other jobs, the Negroes alone were responsible for the dozen or so mules that were stabled to one side, baled hay piled high.

The workmen gazed at my girls frankly and made certain gestures which caused their eyes to widen. Joking in languages I couldn’t understand, the men began blowing kisses at the girls. We shouldn’t be here, I realized, but Peter was oblivious to the situation.

“The men are going a mile down,” he said excitedly, pointing toward the main tunnel. “To the outlet, where we’re doing the final work. We’re hoping everything will be done by the time President McKinley visits in September, when he comes for the exposition, and then he can personally throw the lever that will put Powerhouse Three on-line, and—”

“Ladies, good morning, forgive me for not joining you sooner.”

We turned, and there was Thomas Sinclair striding into the interlink with no regard for wet feet. He held a lantern, and in the crisscrossing shadows he seemed taller than the rest of us. His suit was impeccably cut, his hair perfectly combed. All conversation stopped, replaced by a murmured “’Morning, Mr. Sinclair, ’morning, sir.”

“Good morning, everyone, thank you,” he said, turning to the group at large like an actor basking in applause. He looked sincerely happy, and although the men now moved more briskly toward their work, several couldn’t conceal an indulgent smile when they passed him, as if he were a roguish child and they were proud of him. In a way he was their representative: the one among them who had made good. Even so, I could see how, in this environment power surrounded Tom like an almost visible aura. He could afford to be charming and boyish; he could afford to elicit genuine affection from his employees, because there remained something ineffable in his manner that would prevent anyone from ever challenging his authority. Watching the faces of his workmen, I saw that they’d do anything he asked of them; the only question was, how much would he ask of them? Would he ask any one of them to commit murder? Had he?

“Well, then, Peter,” he said, “let us escort these fine ladies upstairs, shall we?”

“Yes, sir, I’m—” Peter looked abashed, only now realizing that he’d been imprudent.

“Come along.” With a pleasant smile Tom spread his arms as if to gather us up like ducklings. He ushered us back the way we’d come, not in any hurry, with Peter looking increasingly concerned and Tom looking absolutely relaxed but gazing away from us, into the middle distance, as though to render us invisible to the stares of passing workmen.

When we were in the isolation of the tunnel, Tom joined me at the end of the line, slowing his pace until we were separated from the others. “Good morning, Miss Barrett,” he said evenly. Of course he would address me formally when I was with my students. “I hope you’ll forgive Peter’s enthusiasm in bringing you to a place that even your ladies most likely found inappropriate.”

“Not at all. They were perfectly comfortable, particularly in the admiration of your employees.”

“Yes, I thought they would enjoy that best.”

“Peter wanted us to see the tunnel,” I said in his defense. “He thought it was important. He called it one of the wonders of the world.” In the lantern shadows, I couldn’t read Tom’s expression. “And it is. One of the wonders of the world.”

Tom turned to me, his face entering the light. Slowly, a puzzled surprise came into his eyes, as if he were seeing me for the first time. Seeing me, not Margaret’s friend, not Grace’s godmother. His look disquieted me. He raised his hand and almost touched my cheek but instead took my arm as if to protect me, from what I did not know.

I have relived what happened next again and again. Not so much during the day, when there is enough around me to fill my attention, but when I lie in bed at night and close my eyes—that’s when the scene comes back, the moment-by-moment unraveling of it. Again and again I feel the urge to run to help, although my arms would have been useless. Sometimes, if I drift into sleep with the scene still in my mind, I see something that never happened: myself, there beneath the steel casing. Trapped. Screaming. Myself, watching myself in a detached, naive agony that asks, how has this come to pass?

Back on the main level of Powerhouse 3, Tom led us to the closest exit, but the doorway was blocked by a huge piece of machinery being wheeled in on temporary railroad tracks.

“The other side then, ladies.” Tom led the way down the length of the powerhouse, which seemed as long as a big-city railroad platform and was filled with construction debris: ladders, piles of tiles, discarded equipment, the remnants of wooden scaffolding. The unfinished generators rose beside us, each seeming about two stories high and as broad as a small house. Laborers clambered over and around them. The men wore overalls, or baggy trousers with two shirts and a vest for warmth, and cloth caps. Many smoked long-stemmed pipes while they worked. As we passed, each man paused for a moment to touch his cap and murmur the now familiar greeting, “’Morning, Mr. Sinclair.” Tom called out to many by name, exchanging quick jokes.

When we neared the end of the powerhouse, we realized that something extraordinary was taking place, and we stopped to watch. I stood next to Tom, Maddie and Peter beside us, the girls arrayed behind. A crane, attached to tracks along the wall, high up near the ceiling, was poised over the tenth generator. The crane chain held a huge, hollow generator casing, its top covered with a tarpaulin. The casing was being lowered on top of the generator, although the process had just begun. If the generators were about two stories tall, then the casing was being held about four stories above our heads. Looking up, watching the casing slightly sway, I felt vulnerable and afraid. Tom and Peter took the situation in stride, however, so I tried to emulate them. The crane operator leaned out of the pulpit (as Tom called it) and watched what was taking place beneath him, making changes to the crane position. About ten men stood below, around the generator base, waiting to guide the casing into place.

What was truly extraordinary was the work of another man, who stood atop the casing itself, as high and confident as a flying trapeze artist at the circus—except he wore no safety harness, and there was no net beneath him. Holding the chain, he called directions to the crane operator while simultaneously using the weight of his own body to ease the casing into position, taking a few steps one way, a few steps another way, making subtle adjustments. Astride that massive casing, he looked like an ancient hero, Hercules perhaps, taming a monster.

“This is the new generator my chief engineer, Karl Speyer, was working on before he died,” Tom explained. There was a catch in his voice—from regret or guilt, I couldn’t tell. “It produces four times more electricity than the others, with the same amount of water. I wish he was here to see this.” He sighed. “Well, it will have to serve as his memorial, along with the others we’re building from his plans.”

Suddenly, the casing swayed as the crane shifted too far to the right. Everyone gasped. But the man gripping the chain simply shouted a few choice words to the operator, who gave a good-natured shrug. Relaxing, the other workmen laughed, glancing first at Tom to gauge his reaction. He was smiling too.

“Isn’t that Rolf up there?” Squinting to see better, Maddie took a step forward.

“Yes, I think it is,” Peter said. He placed a hand lightly on her shoulder to stop her from going closer.

Maddie turned to me, her eyes alight. “Rolf was a friend of my father’s,” she explained. “They used to play chess together. He lives near us.”

The first hint of what was to come was an aching sound like a deep, slow groan. With that groan, the chain ever so gradually began to slip from its ties; gently, as if its moves were choreographed—a dance of metal and men—until abruptly the casing angled steeply to one side. Rolf gripped the chain above him with the strength and confidence of the god he was. For a long moment he swayed. Then the chain began to slip through its bounds. He struggled to climb it, to reach the steadiness of the crane itself, but as the chain cascaded through its ties, Rolf cascaded with it, desperately trying to pull himself up until all at once the chain ended.

And then, like a scientific experiment on gravity, the chain and the casing and the man began to fall, coming toward us, closer and closer, until all appeared to reach the floor at the same moment. The man expelled his breath in a long “ahhhh” as he landed on his right shoulder, his head hitting the dirty floor like an afterthought. The long, slithering chain rattled around him. The casing hit on its edge, making a hollow, reverberating
ping
. Then it began to fall over. Toward the chain. Toward the man. In that millisecond, the man might have rolled over and escaped. In that millisecond, someone might have reached for him and pulled him to safety. But he was dazed. We were all dazed. And perhaps the millisecond only seemed that long, as it burst into eternity.