The Teleportation Accident (41 page)

Then the letters stopped.

When Blumstein was writing letters, Loeser wanted him to stop writing letters. But then when Blumstein stopped writing letters, Loeser wanted him to start writing letters again – and he wanted it ten times as much. When Blumstein was writing letters, Loeser had to force himself not to think about Blumstein. Then when Blumstein stopped writing letters, Loeser still had to force himself not to think about Blumstein – and he had to force himself ten times as hard. Quite often, he’d dreamed about getting more letters, but nothing had actually come until today.

Loeser closed the mailbox. He went back inside. He sat down and he tore open the envelope. He saw that there was nothing inside.

And for some reason the sight of the empty envelope made him think of Ziesel lying dead in that locked chamber, and he coughed twice on the skunk rot, and his eyes filled with tears, and at that moment he knew for sure that Blumstein was going to die before he ever wrote another letter.

This wasn’t logical, of course. There were all sorts of reasons why an envelope might have arrived empty. Blumstein might have made an absent-minded error; or his wife Emma might have; or it might not have been an error at all, but rather a deliberate performative metaphor for the end of any chance of reconciliation; or some postal official might have steamed open the envelope for the purposes of censorship or espionage or theft and neglected to replace the contents afterwards. All those explanations made some sense, whereas there was no causal connection at all to be drawn between an empty envelope and Blumstein’s doom.

Nonetheless, Loeser was certain. He would never see Blumstein again. Not without a phasmatometer.

The telephone rang and Loeser went to pick it up. Just like the very first time a missive from Blumstein had arrived at Loeser’s house, it was Woodkin, mercifully interrupting his thoughts with a summons to the mansion.

He hadn’t seen Gorge since the summer, and upon Loeser’s arrival Woodkin stopped him in the hall. ‘Before you go any further, Mr Loeser, I must warn you that my employer’s condition has continued to deteriorate.’

‘What now?’

‘He can no longer read.’

‘
Mein Gott
, he’s that ill?’

‘Please don’t misunderstand me. Colonel Gorge is still perfectly capable of interpreting words on a page. That, you might say, is just the problem. When the Colonel reads the word “hurricane” in a newspaper, he now actually believes himself to be in the presence of a hurricane. It’s a further extension of his ontological agnosia – the trouble he has distinguishing between representations and the objects of those representations.’

‘You once told me reading wasn’t one of Gorge’s hobbies.’

‘No, but the Colonel did used to pay close attention to Sky-Shine’s ledgers. Now, however, when he reads “$898,854.02”, for instance, he sees 898,854 actual dollars and two actual cents there in front of him, even though in reality all hard currency was banned from the residence after the third time the Colonel took up arms to rescue George Washington from kidnappers. And when he reads “-$898,854.02”, he sees – well, in the event, after he recovered from his seizure, he was still not quite able to describe the experience – but from what I can understand, it is a kind of palpable and marauding embodiment of a nine-hundred-thousand-dollar deficit. Unpleasant for any businessman. Colonel Gorge, like your compatriot Mr Gödel, is now an adamant mathematical realist. As you would expect, he must conduct his affairs by telephone and get his news from the radio.’

‘What about when he reads a word that signifies an abstract concept?’ said Loeser. ‘ “Regret”, say? What does he see then?’

‘Fortunately, as the Colonel has often told me, abstract concepts mean nothing to him. That is one of the personal qualities to which he attributes his success.’

Despite all this, Gorge didn’t seem at all subdued when Loeser found him in the billiards room. ‘Macbeth, Krauto?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Said Macbeth when they shouldn’t have?’ joked Gorge. ‘One of your actors?’

‘Professor Bailey destroyed your theatre. Not a curse.’

‘Yes. Bailey. Dynamite, he used. Pounds and pounds of it, police are saying. Enough to blow up this whole plaaa—’ And then Gorge rolled like a commando over the side of his armchair and lay on the ground with his hands over his head.

Loeser was now so well trained in the psychopathology of ontological agnosia that it took him only a moment to work out that the tycoon had begun to make an expansive hand gesture signifying the hypothetical destruction of the mansion, caught sight of that hand gesture, mistaken it for the actual destruction of the mansion, and attempted to take cover. ‘That wasn’t an explosion, Colonel, that was just your own hands.’ An expedient as crude as dynamite, thought Loeser, was a poor tribute to Lavicini on Bailey’s part, although perhaps not incompatible with the New Expressionism.

Gorge returned to his seat. ‘Hands! Right. Beg your pardon. Anyway, seems to run in the fucking family, theatres falling down. Not all bad. Still get the tax break. And none dead. Got you to thank for that, Woodkin says?’

‘I take full credit, yes.’

‘And vanished, Bailey, they tell me. Last we’re going to hear about his Teleport Gizmo. So: verdict. Out with it. Real or not?’

‘Bailey certainly hadn’t perfected it. And now there’s no one to continue his work.’

‘Not the point. Told you before. Doesn’t much matter, Bailey’s Teleport Gizmo in particular. Works, though? Means anyone could make one. Means they will, give it a year or two. Means I don’t have to bother about squashing Plumridge and his damned streetcars. Well?’

Loeser thought back to his argument with Blimk that afternoon. If he really did have responsibilities to the place he lived, then he ought to assure Gorge that teleportation was possible. That would mean Los Angeles might still get its streetcar network – might still become a tolerable place to live. But that would also mean Blimk might lose his shop. So what was he supposed to do? Betray his adopted country, or betray his friend? According to that English writer in
The Nation
, he ought to pick the former. But in this case, his friend had specifically instructed him to be patriotic, so he was betraying his friend either way.

And then he thought of the empty envelope from Blumstein, and he made up his mind. Blimk might be right, up to a point – a man did have responsibilities to the place he lived. But Loeser was beginning to think now that a man’s ultimate responsibility was a lot simpler. Don’t be a total prick to the people who try to be nice to you.

‘Bailey’s Teleportation Device was a fiction,’ he said. ‘His assistant was faking the results. I saw no evidence whatsoever that teleportation is possible.’ The lie tasted briny on his tongue.

‘Not what I hoped you’d say,’ said Gorge. ‘Still, can’t be helped. Like rotten skunk, by the way. Stink on you. Not to be rude.’

Loeser realised this might be his last chance. He’d seen an old acquaintance killed today – he could manage one awkward enquiry. ‘It is, indeed, rotten skunk. Now, Colonel Gorge, I spent more than two years at CalTech watching Bailey on your behalf. I don’t expect to be paid, because you’ve been generous in so many other ways, but there is just one thing . . .’

‘Stop there, Krauto. Know what you’re going to say.’

‘I don’t think you do.’

‘Book of mine that you want. French. Very rare.’

Loeser was astonished. ‘How did you know?’

‘Not hard to guess after you asked Woodkin about my books. Probably why you came to me in the first place.’

Loeser was even more astonished. ‘Yes, it was.’ Had Gorge smelled that on him too?

‘Told myself I’d never part with it. No use to me now, though – books with words. And no son to pass it down to.’

Loeser was about to point out that the text in
Midnight at the Nursing Academy
amounted to no more than a few suggestive captions, but he stopped himself. He could hardly believe that after all this time he was now only a few ticks of the clock away from that holy hour.

‘Woodkin?’ Gorge shouted.

The personal secretary came into the billiards room. ‘Yes, sir?’

‘Take Krauto to the treasury. Then call Clowne and tell him he can have Mildred.’

‘Yes, sir. If you’d follow me, please, Mr Loeser.’ They took the stairs down to the mansion’s wine cellar, which didn’t, of course, contain any wine. ‘This is a fortified room containing all the items that Colonel Gorge would most wish to protect in the event of a burglary or anarchist insurrection,’ said Woodkin as he unlocked a heavy door, and Loeser was half reminded of the teleportation chamber and half reminded of Slate’s storage locker. At the same time he realised that in this, as in everything, Gorge was showing good business sense. If the rule of law were ever shattered, perhaps after the big earthquake, then so many people would already have had the idea of stockpiling gold or shotgun shells or tinned peaches that those commodities would be badly devalued in the resultant barter economy. But hardly anyone would have thought to hold on to books. Not
Berlin Alexanderplatz
or
Ulysses
or
The Sorceror of Venice
or even
Assembly Line
– all those would be worthless when everyone forgot how to read. But there were certain types of printed matter that would never lose their intrinsic value. The wisest shop to loot, in those first days, would be Blimk’s.

Except Loeser now saw that the treasury was not lined with bookshelves, as he’d expected. Instead, the room was dominated by two old sedans with broken windscreens and twisted fenders, parked there underground like escapees from a wrecking yard.

‘Why are these here?’ said Loeser.

‘Colonel Gorge acquired them in 1925 after hearing of an accident that had taken place in Nevada. It was a warm Sunday afternoon, and by coincidence both drivers had spent the morning industriously polishing their cars with Sky-Shine. They were driving in opposite directions, and as they drew near, each was dazzled by the reflection of the sun on the mirrory hood of the other. There was a swerve and a crash. Both drivers survived uninjured, and Colonel Gorge intended to use the cars as part of an advertising exhibit. Later, however, he decided against it.’

‘Why?’

‘Three small girls and a terrier were killed in the accident.’ Woodkin continued the tour. ‘This is a signed photograph of the actress Marlene Dietrich. This is the coyote whose glands were transplanted into the Colonel by Dr Voronoff. This is the authentic skeleton of a Troodonian cantor. This is a flagitious puppet from the Colonel’s great-great-great-great-grandfather’s puppet show, discovered last year in an attic in New Orleans. This is a drawing made by the Colonel’s daughter when she was five. And this is the book that the Colonel wishes you to have.’

It was French, and it was rare, but it wasn’t
Midnight at the Nursing Academy
. It wasn’t a photo album at all. It was a much older, smaller book, bound in dark red leather like that copy of Dante’s
Inferno
that Loeser had bought in the Marais, entitled
Un rapport de la confession sur son lit de mort d’Adriano Lavicini comme elle a été dit à son ami Bernard Sauvage en l’an de grâce 1691
– a record of the deathbed confession of Adriano Lavicini as it was told to his friend Bernard Sauvage in the year of grace 1691.

‘But the Teleportation Accident was in 1679,’ said Loeser.

‘Yes,’ said Woodkin. ‘Lavicini survived it, however. And when Auguste de Gorge, my employer’s great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather, discovered this fact some years later, he became determined to have his revenge on the Venetian for destroying his theatre. But at that point his resources were meagre, and by the time he found out where Lavicini had been hiding, Lavicini was already dead, so de Gorge’s sole consolation was a copy of this book. Bernard Sauvage had printed only a dozen, intended for his closest associates. It is one of the very few inherited possessions that has survived all the changing fortunes of the Gorge patrilineage. No other copies are now known to exist. All Lavicini’s secrets are here.’ Woodkin paused. ‘Is something the matter, Mr Loeser?’

‘Oh, no. Not at all.’ Loeser knew that this was probably the most extraordinary gift he could ever hope to receive in his whole life. He did his best to conceal his disappointment. ‘Did Lavicini really plan the Teleportation Accident? I think that’s what Bailey thought.’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘Because of a woman,’ said Woodkin. ‘He went to Paris because of a woman. He perpetrated the Teleportation Accident because of a woman. He went back to Venice because of a woman. So the testament states.’

‘He really killed all those people because of a woman?’

‘That is not precisely the case, no. I hope you’ll forgive me for suggesting that it would be best if you read the truth for yourself, Mr Loeser. Now, I imagine this has been a demanding evening, and it occurred to me that you might not have had time to attend to your own needs. I understand that Watatsumi is preparing a light supper for the Colonel’s daughter. Perhaps you would like to join her. And perhaps before that you would like a bath and a change of clothes.’