Curiosity (22 page)

I
HAD NEVER HAD A MOTHER BEFORE; I
didn't know how to behave toward her. So I did what I've always done—I asked a lot of questions. Well, not all at once. I was still as weak as the watered-down wine they fed me, and I couldn't concentrate for more than a few minutes before drifting off, so I had to be content with one question and one reply at a time. As a result, I reconstructed my mother's story the same way I did Jacques's—by collecting pieces and assembling them into a complete picture.

My grandparents had committed her to that very institution, the Friends' Asylum for the Insane. To avoid having any scandal attached to the Raybold family name, they registered her under the alias of Mrs. Fisher. Thanks to the kind and attentive care she got, her condition steadily improved; after only a few months, she was able to return home—to the Raybold home, I mean, not ours. Her parents believed that, if she went back to my father, she would surely descend into depression again, so they kept her a virtual prisoner. They hired a companion for her, a formidable figure named Miss Armstrong, who was more like a jailer. My mother tried more than once to escape, but each time Miss Armstrong brought her back, and each time the amount of freedom they allowed her became less and less.

Finally she grew so despondent and so desperate that she took a razor to her wrist. I'm not sure whether she actually meant to do herself in, or whether it was merely a means of getting herself sent back to the Friends' Asylum. That was the one question I didn't ask her.

It was at this point that her parents sent my father the false report of her death. They convinced my mother, in turn, that
I
had died—not much of a stretch, considering how sickly I was—and that my father had given up on her—also an easy thing to believe, since he had made no contact with her.

She languished in that hospital for years, alternating between bouts of the deepest melancholy and periods in which she seemed quite normal. But even in her most hopeful moments, she refused to return to the prison of her parents' home. The hospital was happy enough to keep her, as long as the Raybolds paid the bill.

And then—apparently around the same time my father published his fateful tome—both my mother's parents contracted cholera and died; that was the end of the money, and the end of their control over her. She had herself released from the hospital, rented out the Raybold estate, and had been living on the considerable income from it ever since.

“Why didn't you come to the Parsonage?”

“I did. It just took a while to get up the nerve. After all, I believed that Tobias wanted nothing to do with me, and I thought that you were . . . Well, by the time I finally found the courage, you were gone.”

“Then it
was
you I saw, haunting the place like a ghost.”

She gave a wan smile. “I'm sorry I ran off. I had no idea at that point who you were. It wasn't until I followed you about for a while that things began to fall into place.” She leaned over and kissed my forehead. “That's enough for now. You get some rest.”

“You, too,” I said, and heaved a weary sigh. “It's hard work, coming back from the dead.”

“Yes,” she said. “It certainly is.”

When I could muster enough strength to sit up, my mother brought in a chess set, which gave us a sort of common ground on which to meet and get acquainted. Earlier, I criticized novelists who assure us that, when a fever breaks, the patient is out of danger. Well, those same novelists would have us believe that, though a mother and child have been separated since birth, it doesn't matter; the moment they are reunited they will instantly love and understand each other. I wish that were true. But sharing the same experiences is just as important as sharing the same blood, and after being on different paths for so long, it was awkward trying to walk side by side.

“I thought that if I played you while you're down and out,” she said, “I might stand a chance of winning.”

“The first time we played, you won,” I reminded her.

“Only because you let me.”

“How did you know it was me operating the Turk?”

She shrugged. “A mother's intuition.” The phrase brought to mind Virginia, who once spoke of “woman's intuition.” My face must have betrayed me, for my mother said, “What's wrong?”

“Nothing. Just a little pain in my chest.”

“Do you want to stop playing?”

“No, no. Not when I'm winning. How did you
really
know?”

She gave me an exasperated look. “You ask a lot of questions.”

“So I've been told.” We played in silence for a few minutes, and then I tried again. “So, how did you really know?”

“Know what?”

“About the Turk.”

She sighed in resignation. “I didn't. Not until I had a talk with Mr. Mulhouse.”

“Mulhouse? You
know
him?”

“I've met him. Twice, in fact. Once in Philadelphia and once in Richmond.”

“He's in
Richmond
?”

“He arrived a few days after you left. Maelzel needed someone to run his machine, and Mulhouse needed the work.”

“So he told you where to find me?”

“Yes. For all his faults, Mr. Mulhouse is a gentleman, and no gentleman would keep a boy and his mother apart.”

“And he told you the Turk's secret?”

“Not in so many words. But he let a few hints drop. Laudanum tends to loosen a person's tongue.” With a smile of satisfaction, she captured one of my rooks.

“Where did you learn to play chess?” I asked.

“It was part of my therapy.”

“They taught you well,” I said.

And then I took her queen.

It was another two weeks before I got back on my feet. Even then I was short of breath and weak in the knees. The muscles in my back had weakened, too, and I stoically strapped myself into the torture device again. Thank goodness one thing, at least, had gotten stronger—the bond between my mother and me.

She had been occupying a single room in a boardinghouse, but now she took more spacious lodgings and brought me there to live. She was not entirely well, any more than I was; she still suffered from melancholia, and often retreated to her room. Her doctor recommended a change of scene; when I was able to travel, we sailed for Europe. We did a sort of Knight's Tour of the Continent, globe-trotting from one chess tournament to another and never landing in the same place twice. I didn't win any tournaments, but I did win a fair amount of money from players who overestimated their own skill and underestimated mine.

When we returned to Philadelphia in the fall of 1838, I learned from Mr. Peach at the Chess Club that Maelzel's automata and dioramas were being auctioned off.

“Why? Has he gone bankrupt?”

“Worse than that. He died. And your friend Mulhouse as well.”

“Both of them? How?”

“Yellow fever, is what I heard. They were putting on an exhibition down in Mexico. Or was it Panama? Someplace tropical and unhealthy, anyway.”

I later found out that it was, in fact, Cuba. I'm afraid I didn't mourn Maelzel very much, but Mulhouse's passing did sadden me. In a very trying time, he was the nearest thing I had to a friend.

I attended the auction, and was tempted to bid on the Turk, but our European jaunt had left us short of funds. He was bought for four hundred dollars by a Dr. John Mitchell—who, as curious and coincidental as it may seem, had once been physician to none other than Edgar Allan Poe, when the poet was living in Philadelphia.

Unfortunately for Dr. Mitchell, poor Otto had lost his air of mystery, thanks to Poe's exposé. What's more, the doctor never managed to find anyone who could operate the Turk properly. Eventually, he donated the machine to Dunn's Chinese Museum, a popular Philadelphia attraction. Since my story is so rife with coincidence, you will not be surprised to learn that the museum's owner was the very same Mr. Dunn who had stuck me in the House of Refuge.

Though a Turk may be considered more or less Oriental, Otto never quite fit in there. I often considered stopping by and paying my compliments to him, but I didn't really care to stir up memories of my miserable apprenticeship. Then, in 1843, I learned that Mr. Dunn was moving his museum from Philadelphia to London. Knowing that I might not have another chance, I decided to look in on Otto, for old times' sake.

I wished I hadn't. He was, as they say, but a shadow of his former self. Mechanically, he seemed sound enough, and though the cabinet was a little the worse for wear, it had been recently polished. But his garments were faded and worn, and his chessboard had been replaced by one with squares that contained letters of the alphabet and numbers, plus a few words. A copper speaking tube projected from the top of the cabinet. Around Otto's neck hung a sign that read:

A gaggle of giggling children from a nearby girls' school were gathered around, gawking, but they apparently had no money. “Excuse me, ladies,” I said, and, stepping forward, deposited a half dime in the slot indicated. Otto lifted his head and his dark eyes stared, as unsettlingly as ever, into mine. He seemed surprised to see me, but no doubt I was only imagining it.

Apparently Mr. Dunn had found someone capable of operating the machine, at least well enough to spell out a few words. The Turk's hand rose from its resting place and moved, with only a little hesitation, to the word
Bonjour.
A gasp went up from the little girls.
“Bonjour,”
I said, into the speaking tube. “Are you ready for my question?”

The Turk's finger selected the square that read
Oui
.

“
Bon
.
Est-ce que vous jouez aux échecs encore
?” Do you still play chess?

This time the Turk paused for a long moment before responding. And then, one letter at a time, he picked out a word:
P. O. R. C. E. L. E. T. ?

“Oui. C'est moi.”

The girls, who had lost interest by now, darted off like a flock of sparrows. The Turk moved his hand to spell out another word:
B. A. C. K. ?

“Yes, I'm back. Oh, you mean how
is
my back?”

Oui.

“A little stiff from time to time, but straight as a die. Well, almost. How's yours? From sitting in there, I mean.”

M. A. L.

“I know the feeling. I suppose you've removed your legs, in order to fit in there better?”

Oui.

“You're keeping the Turk in shape, I see. Do you ever let him play chess?”

A pause, then:
T. O. O. M. A. N. Y. Q.—

“I know, I know. But that's what you're here for, isn't it, Swami? To answer questions?”

Another pause, in which I could almost feel the sullenness.
Oui.