Curiosity (4 page)

T
HE INTERLOPER WAS NOT ONE OF OUR
keepers—or “instructors,” as they preferred to be called; it was only Ezra. “Oh, Runaway,” said Duff wearily, as though they had been through this before, many times. “Why don't you just run away, before you get hurt?”

“Why don't you just let him be?” said Ezra.

“We're making him feel welcome. You wouldn't want us to ignore him, would you?”

“I don't believe he'd mind, would you, Rufus?”

“No,” I said.

“Shut up, Goofus.” Duff thrust his scowling face, which was showing signs of a beard, up close to Ezra's. “Since you like to escape so much, I'll give you a chance. Get out of here now, and you'll escape having your stupid knob knocked off.”

“I can take it,” said Ezra, then nodded toward me. “He can't. So why don't you—” He broke off as Duff raised a fist and clubbed him alongside the head. I expected Ezra to go down, but he only staggered a little, shook his head, and drove a fist into the bigger boy's gut. Duff doubled over, gasping for breath. I don't know whether or not Ezra would have finished him off, for the other three boys fell upon him, then, flailing at him with fists and feet.

Eventually one of the keepers came to break up the fight—if something so one-sided can be called a fight—and help Ezra to the infirmary. As the Quaker nurse tended to his cuts and abrasions, I sat by the bed and watched; it seemed to be all I was good for. Although, while Ezra was being beaten up by the big boys, I hadn't just knelt there in the dirt and watched. I'd closed my eyes.

When the nurse departed, I said, “Why did you do that?”

Ezra's lower lip was so swollen that the words came out sounding strange and slurred. “I couldn't stand to see them knock you around, that's all.”

“So instead, they knocked
you
around.”

“Like I said, I can take it. You can't.”

“They never would have beaten me up the way they did you.”

“Oh, so you'd have had me just stay out of it?”

“Yes.”

He glared at me for a moment, then laughed and shook his head; the movement made him wince. “I know you try to accept things with good grace, Rufus, but I reckon you're going a bit far. It don't mean you have to just give up. Sometimes you got to fight back.”

“Why?”

“
Why
? Because you can't let a blunderbuss like Duff just walk all over you, that's why!”

“You fought back, and he walked all over you anyway.”

Ezra stared at me, as if this were the stupidest thing he'd ever heard—or as if he'd just never thought about it before. He shook his head again and gazed up at the soot-stained ceiling. “I got to get out of this place.”

“Now?”

“No, you ninny. But soon. Duff already had it in for me; now he'll really be out for my blood. I got to think up a better escape plan.” He carefully turned his face to me. “You can come with me.” When I looked down at the floor, he said, “Oh, sorry; I forgot. You'd rather just stay here and take it all with good grace.”

By the time Ezra was released from the infirmary, he had a new escape strategy. “'Tis foolproof,” he whispered to me at supper. “You see, I hide next to one of the workshops till dark. When the police van comes in with a new crop of delinquents, I just grab a hold of the underside and let the coppers carry me to freedom. Nice touch of irony, ain't it?”

I wished him luck, and half wished that I had the strength and daring to join him. But even if I managed to break out, where would I go? It would be an easy matter for the authorities to find me and bring me back.

As it turned out, they brought Ezra back, too. Long after I was in bed, I was wakened by Brother Bunsen. “I thought thee would want to know, Brother Goodspeed. Thy friend has had an accident.”

“Ezra? What's happened?”

“Well, as best I can gather, he tried to escape by hanging underneath the police van. It must have hit a bump and shook him loose. One of the wheels ran over his arm.”

“Oh, Lud. Is it broken?”

“Worse than that. They've brought in a doctor. I expect he'll have to take it off.”

I gasped. “
Amputate
it, you mean? Can I go see him?”

Brother Bunsen shook his head. “'Twon't be a pretty sight.” This was before ether and chloroform, you know; the only thing a surgeon could do to make his patients suffer less was to cut as quickly as possible. “Perhaps thee may look in on him in a few days, when he's recovered some.”

I never got the chance to visit my unfortunate friend. The next afternoon, as I was winding bobbins with my hands and playing chess games in my head, one of the keepers appeared and escorted me to the superintendent's office. “What have I done?” I asked. “Am I to be punished?”

“I don't know,” said the man. “I was only told to fetch thee.”

Though I had never before seen the superintendent, I was well acquainted with the man who sat across the desk from him. “Hello, Rufus.”

“Monsieur Mulhouse! How did you find me?”

“It was not easy. When you did not keep our appointment, I consulted the gentlemen at the Chess Club. None of them knew where you lived. But nothing stays secret for long in a city of this size.” Before all the immigration, you know, Philadelphia's population was less than half what it is now. “One just has to ask the right people. It seems that the keeper at the debtors' prison is the brother-in-law of the constable who arrested you.”

“So,” said the superintendent, “thee will take responsibility for the child, Brother Schlumberger?”

“I shall watch over him like a brother, Brother. I promise you that he will sin no more.”

And just like that, I was free to go. As we rode in a hired cab back to the city, I said, “Why did he call you . . . whatever he called you?”

“Schlumberger? Because that is my name.”

“You said it was Mulhouse.”

“
Mais non;
I said they
call
me that, after the town in France where I was born.” His throat was clearly irritated again, as it had been when we played chess. He retrieved his packet of lozenges and took one.

After a time, I said, “I didn't steal that watch, you know.”

“I never imagined you did. What became of the money you won from me?”

“They took it. I was going to buy bedding and food for my father.”

“No matter. You'll have a chance to earn more.”

“You mean I may still have the job?”

“If it were up to me, you would. But we shall have to convince Maelzel.”

“What will I be expected to do?”

The Frenchman gave me a wry smile. “Why, to play chess, of course.”

That's all he would tell me; for the rest of the ride, I was left to wonder what lay in store for me. I knew that top players, including the great Philidor, were sometimes paid by chess clubs to be a sort of resident chess master. But I couldn't imagine any club hiring a scrawny and socially inept twelve-year-old. Though I had plenty of skill, I had precious little experience.

Maelzel's headquarters occupied nearly the entire first floor of Masonic Hall. It was obvious at a glance that the place was no chess club. It looked more like a factory. Half a dozen men in work clothes and carpenter's aprons were engaged in a bewildering variety of tasks: One was carving what looked like a doll or marionette. Another was chiseling teeth into a wooden gear a foot in diameter. A third was constructing a miniature house, laying bricks the size of split peas. Next to him was a fellow crafting a wagon so small it could have been pulled by snails.

On the back wall hung a sheet of linen some four feet high and ten feet long, on which two men were painting a landscape as true to life as a daguerreotype—though of course the daguerreotype hadn't been invented yet. These odd activities stirred my curiosity, and I might have stood there gaping for a long while, but Mulhouse led me across the sawdust- and shavings-strewn floor and into an office with a large glass window that gave a clear view of the whole workshop. The desk was cluttered with books and drawings and clay models and dirty cups and overflowing ashtrays, but no one sat there.

On one wall of the office was a heavy door; Mulhouse approached it and knocked—not as you or I would knock, but in a certain pattern: three raps, then a pause, three more, then a pause, then two more. After a moment, a little panel in the door opened and I saw dark eyes peering out. “Oh, it is you,” said a voice. The door opened slightly—not enough for me to see inside the room—and a man emerged, swiftly pulled it shut behind him, and locked it.

This, I supposed, must be Maelzel. As I've said, when you're young it's hard to judge an adult's age, but I suppose he must have been sixty or so. His hairline had receded considerably; the remaining hair—which was worn long, in the manner of men who wanted to appear artistic—showed no trace of gray. No doubt he dyed it with silver nitrate and henna, but I didn't know about such things then; I noticed only that it seemed unnaturally black.

I later learned that, when he made public appearances, he wore a corset to contain his ample belly, but at the moment it was contained only by a carpenter's apron, like those worn by the workmen. Otherwise, he was dressed like a gentleman, in a brown linen jacket and trousers. His face had an aristocratic look, too, with a long nose that was nearly as straight and sharp as a knife; his arched eyebrows, which looked as if they'd been plucked, were raised in surprise.

“What have we here, Mulhouse? You said you would bring me a chess player, not a street urchin.” He had a European accent, too, but it was heavier and more guttural than Mulhouse's.

Mulhouse smiled smugly. “Ah, Johann. You, of all people, should know better than to let appearances deceive you. The boy may look a bit shabby, but I assure you, his chess playing is not.”

“Have you played against him?”

“Of course. I am not a fool.”

“That is debatable.” The man approached me and, to my astonishment, placed both hands on my head and began exploring my scalp, much the way the keepers at the House of Refuge had when they were looking for lice. Alarmed, I glanced at Mulhouse. He smiled slightly and gave me a reassuring nod.

After a full minute of massaging my skull with his blunt fingers, Maelzel said, “Hmm. His organ of Locality is well developed; so are those representing Order and Calculation. A good sign.” The fingers moved to a spot directly above my ear. “I note that he is also better than average in Cautiousness and Agreeableness.” The fingers probed the area behind my ear. “He is lacking in Combativeness, which is a good thing . . .” They crept across my crown, making me shiver. “. . . but also in Deference, which is not so good.”

“If I'm to play chess,” I said, “why don't you test my skill?”

“There, you see? The boy shows no respect.”

“He has a point, though,” said Mulhouse. “Instead of playing phrenology with his head, why don't you just play him at chess?”

“I hardly think he could be very accomplished, at his age. How old are you, boy? Nine?”

“Twelve.”

“All the same. The best we can hope for is that he may be taught to play passably, and that could take many months—years, even.”

“I told you I'd found a chess player, Johann, not a
prospective
chess player.”

“All right, all right, have it your way. Help me find the chessboard.”

T
HEY SPENT THE NEXT LITTLE WHILE searching the cluttered office for the board, and another while locating the scattered chessmen—most of them, anyway. We had to substitute a thimble for one of the rooks, and cigar stubs for two of the pawns.

It was clear at once that Maelzel was a strong player, and one who was used to winning. When it was my move, he drummed his fingers on the desk, as if I were taking far too long. I did my best to ignore him and to play in my usual careful fashion. Each time his turn came, he took only a moment to consider, then made his move quickly and confidently.

But halfway through the game, when I took his thimble with my cigar stub, his confidence began to falter. When I captured his queen, he gave a low whistle. He knew it was over. Many players—and I admit, I am one of them—will refuse to accept defeat; they go on stubbornly fighting to the last man. But, though Maelzel might dislike losing, he had sense enough to see that it was inevitable.

“I concede,” he said, and held out his hand. I shook it cautiously, knowing that his thick fingers could easily crush my spindly ones. Maelzel turned to the Frenchman. “Did he defeat you that easily?”

“Oh, yes. Twice.”

Maelzel stared at me for a time, drumming his fingers as if he were again waiting for me to move. But the next move was clearly his. Finally he stood up, took off his carpenter's apron, and draped it neatly over the back of his chair. “Very well. You may begin by picking up the chess pieces and putting them where I can find them next time.”

“Does this mean I have the job?”

“Perhaps.” The man turned to Mulhouse.
“
Was hast du ihm gesagt?”
I knew enough German to understand the meaning: What have you told him?

“Nothing except that chess is involved.”

“Sehr gut.”
Maelzel leaned down and put his face close to mine. “Before I take you on as an apprentice—What is your name?”

“Rufus.”

He pursed his lips in a disapproving look. “Did no one teach you to address your elders as
sir
?”

“No.”

“Well, they should have. Before I take you on as apprentice, Rufus, there is one thing you must know.” He spoke to me with exaggerated care, as though I were a young child, or an idiot. “Inside that room—” He gestured toward the inner door. “—is a closely guarded secret, a secret known only to myself and Mulhouse and my craftsman, Jacques. Once you step into the room, Rufus, you will become a party to that secret. But—and this is the important part—you must
never
breathe a word to anyone about what goes on there. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

He peered into my eyes as though trying to read my thoughts, and I had the uneasy feeling that perhaps he actually could. “Hmm,” he said at last. He placed a hand on my head again, only this time his fingers did not massage it; they closed upon it like the claws of some giant raptor. “I found one other spot on your skull that seems quite prominent—the one denoting Secretiveness, or Discretion. I hope for your sake that I am not mistaken.”

If my cosseted childhood hadn't taught me how to relate to other people, neither had it taught me to fear them. Even in the House of Refuge, I hadn't felt truly afraid, not even of Duff and his cronies; the most I was likely to suffer was a little pain, and I lived with that every day. But, though Maelzel's words were neither harsh nor threatening, there was something in his voice that sent a chill through me, and for a moment I considered backing out, before I was in too deep.

Then I thought of my father and his plight, and I pushed the unfamiliar feeling of fear aside, as I had learned to do with the familiar feeling of pain. I must admit, I had another feeling, too, even stronger than the fear. As I said earlier, for better or worse I had inherited my father's compulsive curiosity. I had to see what lay beyond that door. “I won't tell anybody,” I said. “I don't have anybody to tell.”

“Good.” Turning to the inner door, Maelzel unlocked it. “You wait here, Mulhouse. Rufus?” He beckoned to me. “Come inside and close the door behind you—and bolt it.” The door was so heavy, it took all my strength to push it closed. The iron bolt was heavy, too, but well oiled, and it slid easily into place. What could be so valuable or so secret, I wondered, that it must be kept in such a secure room?

And then I turned and saw, for the first time, the Turk.

Perhaps you've come upon one of the many engravings that have appeared in newspapers and books and magazines, depicting the famous chess-playing automaton. This one was published in 1783 by a journalist named von Windisch. (The cabinet at which he sat was not a separate piece of furniture, you know, but an integral part of the machine):

Though the likeness is accurate enough, it doesn't do justice to the Turk, any more than, say, a brief summary of “The Raven” could possibly do justice to Mr. Poe's celebrated and chilling poem. No picture can begin to convey the uncanny feeling you got when watching the machine perform its delicate, lifelike movements, or the unnerving quality of the figure's unblinking gaze. Those coal-black eyes, rimmed all around with white that was startling in the swarthy face, seemed to look right through you. Some have found the Turk's expression rather menacing, but I always felt it held more of a challenge, as though he was engaging you in a contest of wills, and the loser would be the first one to look away.

At the time I met him, he looked quite different. For one thing, he had been decapitated. Wires and mechanical bits protruded from his headless neck. His wooden torso was bare—his ermine-trimmed robe and embroidered shirt hung from a hook on the wall—the white kid gloves had been stripped from his hands, and his left arm had been amputated.

My mind went to poor Ezra: How had he endured the brutal operation? Had he even survived it? And if he had, how would he stand up to Duff, or become skilled in any trade, with only one arm? Maelzel's voice interrupted my thoughts. “Allow me to introduce to you the world-famous chess-playing Turk, seen by more eyes than any other curiosity ever exhibited!”

Even sequestered as I was in the Parsonage, I had heard of the Turk; with all the chess books I had read, I could scarcely have avoided it. It was said that Napoléon himself had challenged the machine—and, to his disgust, lost. Other celebrated opponents included Frederick the Great, Voltaire, Ben Franklin, Empress Maria Theresa, even the great Philidor—who, of course, defeated the Turk. Its inventor, Wolfgang von Kempelen, had supposedly destroyed or dismantled the machine some time around the turn of the century, without revealing to anyone exactly how it worked.

Well-crafted automata were common enough; some were amazingly true to life, such as the mechanical musician who flawlessly played a flute, or the clockwork duck that quacked, flapped its wings, ate grain from people's hands, digested the food, and then excreted it. But a machine that could play a fearfully complex game, and do it so well that few human players could outwit it? It was nearly inconceivable.

There was no shortage of theories about the Turk. Some said it must be operated by a concealed dwarf, or perhaps a trained monkey. More scientific-minded observers insisted that it was controlled by magnets, or electrical current from a galvanic battery. Those who were mystically inclined suggested that there was black magic at work, or that the figure was not wood and wax, but an actual body that had been revivified in some fashion, as in one of Mr. Poe's stories.

The doors of the Turk's cabinet had been removed, revealing an impressive array of gears and cams and escapements and springs and wires, all of which indicated that there was some clockwork, at least, involved. I was so fascinated by the machine that I barely noticed the flesh and blood man sitting behind it until he let out a blistering string of French curse words (when I studied the language, I had made a point of learning as many curses as possible).

“What is the trouble, Jacques?” asked Maelzel.

“Ahh, one of the tendons in his arm snapped off.”

“Replace it, then, and stop being so ill-tempered.”

The man named Jacques grumbled something ill-tempered. With the help of a crutch that leaned nearby, he slid off his stool and approached us. He walked with a curious hobbling gait, as though he were slogging through mud. He didn't use the crutch for locomotion so much as just to steady himself. Aside from this peculiarity, he seemed a fine physical specimen—solidly built, with broad shoulders and arms as muscular as a blacksmith's.

His appearance was quite different from the fashion of the day: He had several days' growth of beard, though it was neatly trimmed; his sandy hair was even longer than Maelzel's, and pulled back into a queue, like those you see in pictures of Jefferson or Hamilton. Aside from a livid scar that divided one eyebrow, his face might have been pleasant enough if it had not been set in what looked to be a perpetual scowl. “Who the devil is this misshapen midget?” he demanded.

“This is Rufus—your new apprentice.”

“Vraiment?”
Jacques looked me up and down, like a plantation owner considering a purchase at a slave auction. “Well, he is certainly the right size for the job. But can he play chess?”

Maelzel gave a sarcastic smile. “You will soon discover just how well. Can you make up a bed of some sort for him here? I do not want him leaving this room.”

“Am I to be a prisoner?” I asked in dismay.

“No, no, of course not. You will be able to go out occasionally, but not alone. It is too risky. Many people in this city know you as a chess player, and if they see you here, they will make the connection.”

“But I need to visit my father.”

“Your
father
? When we spoke of keeping secrets, you said you had no one to tell.”

“I won't say a word to him about this.”

“Hmm. Where is he?”

“In debtors' prison.”

“Is he indeed?” said Maelzel. “For how long?”

“Until he pays his debts, I suppose. I mean to help him, with what I make here.”

“Yes, well, it will not be much—not until I see how well you perform.”

“Perform? What am I to do?”

“Jacques will show you. I have other matters to see to.”

When Maelzel was gone, Jacques hobbled back to the half-assembled machine. “Well?” he growled impatiently. “Move your hunchbacked bones,
Bébé.
”

“My name is Rufus.”

“I will call you whatever I choose, and I choose to call you
Bébé
. And I will thank you to keep your mouth shut until I tell you to open it.
Maintenant.
”
He pointed to a small platform inside the machine. “This is where you sit.” I nodded to show that I understood, but Jacques snapped, “Well?
Assieds-toi
! Sit!”

If I show you another of Windisch's engravings, it will help you understand how the interior of the Turk's cabinet was set up. (In this view, the center door has been removed.)