Curiosity (7 page)

T
HE HUGE OUTER SHOP WAS EMPTY OF
people. Ensconced in my smaller workroom, I had little sense of time, only an awareness of dark and light. Clearly it was late in the day and the workers had gone home.

Maelzel led me through a heavy door and into another vast room that held a variety of mechanical exhibits. Scattered among them were half a dozen people. Only when we were almost on top of one did I realize that it was an automaton, so lifelike did it seem. It was a beautiful woman, sitting at a writing desk with a pen in her hand and a sheet of paper before her; on the paper, in graceful, precise handwriting, were the words, “My Dear Friend, I am able to write these lines to you thanks to the cleverness of my creator, Johann Nepomuk Maelzel.”

“I never miss an opportunity to advertise,” said Maelzel.

“The automaton wrote that itself?
Her
self?”

“Of course. She is also able to write several short poems and draw two different pictures.”

“Really? That's incredible.”

“Yes, it is, isn't it? But these—” He led me to a pair of figures who stood perhaps eight or nine inches tall; they wore circus garb and were poised on a thin rope stretched between two miniature trees. “—these are my star performers. They do all the same sorts of acrobatics that a human rope dancer does. They are puppets, of course; if you look closely, you may see the silk threads that move their limbs.” The threads, which were nearly invisible, descended from the branches that arched over the dancers' heads. “There is no human operator; it is all mechanical.” Maelzel plucked the rope, and the figures sprang an inch or two into the air. “They will not be the stars much longer. When the Turk's resurrection is complete, he will steal the show, as he always has.”

“Does the audience believe that he runs by clockwork?”

“People believe what they wish to believe. I do not try to convince them of anything. I merely display the machine and let them make up their own minds.”

“No one has guessed the truth yet?”

Maelzel shrugged dismissively. “Many years ago, long before I owned the Turk, a scoundrel named Racknitz published a booklet, complete with illustrations, explaining his theory of how the famous automaton chess player worked.”

“Was he correct?”

“For the most part. But it was not proof; it was only a theory. In any case, his book faded into oblivion long ago, and the Turk still survives. In fact, he is in better shape than ever, thanks to a few improvements. You might even say that he is a whole new species of Turk.”

“What sort of improvements?”

“Well, for one thing, he now has a voice. Not to mention a new head. When we were still in France, my operator—who is no longer with us, obviously—knocked over the candle and set the felt on fire. It scorched the Turk's torso and melted his face.” He gave me a stern, almost threatening glance. “I trust that
you
will not be so clumsy.”

I tried to answer, but my throat seemed suddenly constricted and dry—a reaction to the phrase
no longer with us
, and what it implied. I swallowed hard and managed to say, “No.” I wanted to ask whether the operator he mentioned was the mysterious Mademoiselle Bouvier. If she had damaged the Turk, that might be reason enough for Maelzel to get rid of her—though hardly reason enough to do her in. I didn't ask, of course, for I was supposed to know nothing about the matter.

As we turned to leave, a door at the far end of the hall opened, and two figures entered. One was a youngish, stocky man with curly hair that framed an outsized head, half of which seemed to consist of forehead. Though I knew little about phrenology, I guessed that he would make an ideal subject; there was so much territory to explore. He wore an elegant velvet coat, a silk waistcoat, and a flamboyant striped cravat that blossomed all down his shirtfront.

He was pushing a wheelchair, which held a Negro woman so ancient and shriveled that she might have been a mummy. Her eyes were so clouded by cataracts, they resembled pearls. Their sightless gaze was nearly as unnerving as the Turk's. She seemed as inanimate as the Turk, too; only her claw-like right hand, which had long, curved fingernails, moved jerkily from time to time. I couldn't help wondering whether she was actually a living person, or just an especially well-crafted automaton.

Though she seemed incapable of speech, her caretaker certainly wasn't. His voice was as outsized as his head. “Good evening, Herr Maelzel! I hope business is good!”

“Thank you, Mr. Barnum,” said Maelzel. And in case you're wondering, yes, it was the same Mr. Barnum who has since earned fame and fortune by introducing to the world the Feejee Mermaid and Tom Thumb and Jenny Lind, the Swedish Nightingale. “Our box office has declined a little of late,” Maelzel went on, “but I expect that to change once the Turk is back in action. I see that you are drawing good crowds, sir.”

“I should say I am! In the few months that I have had her, Mrs. Heth's fame has spread far and wide! We recently received an offer to appear at Niblo's Garden in New York!”

I approached the figure in the wheelchair, curious as always, but careful to keep out of range of that claw-like hand. “What does she do?” I asked.

“Do? She doesn't need to
do
anything!”

“Then why do people pay to see her?”

Mr. Barnum gave a hearty laugh. “Who is this lad, Herr Maelzel? Does he always ask so many questions?”

“Yes, unfortunately,” said Maelzel. “He is no one, only a street urchin who did not have the price of admission. I felt sorry for him.”

“Well, whatever your name is—”

“It's Rufus.”

“Well, Rufus, you are looking at a genuine piece of American history! Mrs. Heth was the very nursemaid who coddled and swaddled the Father of Our Country!”

“General Washington?”

“Ah, he knows his history, this one!” said Mr. Barnum sarcastically. “Of course, General Washington!”

I'm sure you're thinking the very same thing I was thinking: George Washington was born in 1732, and this was 1835. “But—but she would have to be well over a hundred years old.”

“And a good command of mathematics as well! Yes, my boy, Mrs. Heth has attained the almost Biblical age of eight score and one! And yet her memory is as that of the proverbial elephant!” Mr. Barnum seemed to be speaking not to me, but to some imaginary crowd of curiosity-seekers. “Not only can she can relate in astonishing detail events from the earliest years of the life of our first president, she can sing several traditional hymns!”

Right on cue, the old woman opened her toothless mouth and began to sing, in a throaty and tremulous but surprisingly melodious voice:

“Welcome, sweet day of rest

That saw the Lord arise.

Welcome to this reviving breast

And these rejoicing eyes.”

Mr. Barnum gently patted her shriveled shoulder and shouted into her ear, “Not now, dear! Save your strength for the paying customers!” He turned to Maelzel. “I actually came in here for a reason, but I've forgotten what it was! I believe Mrs. Heth's memory is better than mine! Oh, yes! I meant to ask whether you plan to open your exhibition in the evenings!”

“No, I am afraid the attendance does not warrant it. As I said, the Turk's return will change that.”

“And when will that be, do you think?”

“Two weeks. Perhaps three.”

“I haven't seen the machine at work yet, but I understand it's quite astounding!” Mr. Barnum leaned in closer and said in a voice that anyone else would have considered loud, but that I suppose he considered subdued, “I hear its movements are controlled by magnetic force. Is that true?”

Maelzel gave him a rather peevish smile. “Is it true that Mrs. Heth is one hundred and sixty-one years old?”

Barnum let out another hearty laugh. “Ah, I take your meaning, sir! We all have our trade secrets, eh? Be careful of that boy, though!”

Maelzel frowned. “Why do you say that?”

“Well, it's obvious that he is possessed of a keen and inquiring mind! If you let him hang about for long, he'll ferret out all your secrets! Rufus, my lad, we'll be doing an evening performance! Why don't you come and watch? Tell them Phineas T. Barnum said to let you in at no charge whatsoever!”

When he was gone, Maelzel shook his head. “I am certain he will make a great success in this business. The public must surely realize that Mrs. Heth is a hoax, yet they still pay money to see her.”

“I'd like to see her. He said I wouldn't have to pay.”

Maelzel snorted scornfully. “
Ach!
You don't suppose he offered out of the kindness of his heart, do you? He wants to interrogate you, to see whether he may learn anything.”

“Why would he think I know anything? You told him I was a street urchin.”

“Yes, and he told you that woman was George Washington's nurse.
Nein
. We cannot take any chances. For the time being, you will remain well out of sight.”

And so I returned to my hidey-hole. As we passed through Maelzel's office, I eyed the half-dozen books that were strewn about. If I was to be confined to a cell, like my father, a book would be welcome company. I was not exactly bored; I could always play chess inside my mind or inside the Turk. But I did long for a little variety. I spotted a volume titled
Elements of Phrenology.
“May I borrow that book?”

Maelzel's plucked eyebrows rose. “You have an interest in phrenology?”

“I have an interest in everything.”

He considered a moment, then handed me the book, which was open to a line drawing of a bald man. His scalp was made up of several dozen various-shaped patches, as though, like Dr. Frankenstein's creation, he'd been pieced together from odd scraps. In the margins, Maelzel had scrawled a number of illegible notes. “Be very sure you do not damage this, or drop food on it, or anything of the sort. I paid nearly three dollars for it.”

I was tempted to ask how much he had paid for me, but I didn't. Nor did I ask whether it was permissible to scribble in the margins, as he had.

Between putting a new finish on the cabinet and putting the Turk through his paces, I was busy for most of the daylight hours. I had lost track of the days of the week, or even what month it was, but I believe it must have July or August, and the days were long. Each night, before I fell into an exhausted sleep, I managed to read for half an hour or so by the light of the Turk's candle; Jacques didn't seem to mind my using it, as long as I took it out of the cabinet.

When I was inside the Turk, we nearly always left the doors open. Jacques was afraid that, if we used the candle, I might knock it over and cause another conflagration. “Have you thought of getting a Carcel lamp?” I asked. I had learned that, if I was careful, I could break the silence rule now and again without being struck or told to shut my
grande gueule
.

He stared at me, and for a moment I thought I had overstepped my bounds. But then he returned to his work without making any reply. A trace of puzzlement in his gaze made me suspect that he had never heard of a Carcel lamp, which was a little odd, since it was a French invention. The lamps weren't widely used in America, but for some reason we'd had one in the library of the Parsonage. “They're a lot safer,” I ventured. “And they don't give off as much smoke.”

Jacques spat a glob of tobacco juice into the box of sawdust at his feet. “
You
will
be a lot safer,” he grumbled, “if you do not talk so much.” But later that day as he was leaving for the Oyster Cellar, he said grumpily, “What did you call that
maudit
lamp? A parcel?”

“Carcel.
Comme les mots francais
car
et
celle.”

He blinked at me in surprise.
“Tu parles francais?”

“
Un peu
.”

“Why have you never told me this?”

“Because,” I said. “You told me to keep my
grande gueule
shut.”

One corner of his usually grim mouth twitched and turned up, ever so slightly. If I hadn't known better, I might have taken it for the beginning of a smile.

He was gone for at least two hours. When he returned, he was even more ill-tempered than usual; he seemed to have more trouble walking than usual, too, as if he'd pulled a tendon or turned an ankle. He propped his crutch against the worktable and sank heavily onto his stool. “Don't be expecting any supper,” he growled, “for I haven't brought any.”

“Why? Have I done something wrong?”

“You sent me on a . . . how do you say? A goose chase? No one has heard of such a thing as a
car-celle
lamp. From now on, you obey the rule: no speaking—in English
or
in French—unless I tell you to.
Compris?
”