The Withdrawal Method (20 page)

As the bringer of the news to the rest of the ship, LuisEnrique was assigned the disposal of the inventor's belongings. In Maelzel's sleeping quarters - littered with empty wine bottles, the stuffing of a mattress ripped to pieces, halfeaten meals, the shards of a shattered mirror- he discovered twelve gold doubloons, some paperwork documenting substantial debts and outstanding payments, a chessboard and set, complete but for one pawn, and a beaded necklace of the sort sold by male prostitutes in Regla.

Then there was the cargo that filled the hold. After mopping up the puddle of vomit, Luis-Enrique carted the strange machines out one by one, lining them up along the deck beside the dead man, now lashed to a stretcher and swaddled in a tarpaulin. The Turk, however, proved too large for him to move on his own, and none of the other crew seemed eager to lend a hand. Abandoning the frightening creature - LuisEnrique found himself avoiding the piercing, accusatory stare of its sapphire blue eyes - he returned above-decks for the final send-off.

The funeral, a classic burial at sea, was attended by just under half the crew, many of whom chewed on cigars while the ship chaplain mumbled a cursory prayer. There was a halfhearted "Amen" before Maelzel's things were pitched overboard. The captain pointed at the corpse, then at Luis-Enrique, then down at the water.

Luis-Enrique lifted one end of the stretcher and, dragging its heavy cargo across the deck, wondered what sort of man this Maelzel had been, whom he was leaving behind. At the edge, with the body teetering over the sea, the boy paused. He felt something else needed to be said, but at that moment he felt a shove from behind. Stumbling, Luis-Enrique looked back, saw the captain grinning broadly, and only heard a splash from below as Maelzel hit the water and was carried off in the ship's wake.

PHILADELPHIA, 1854

"COME ON," said Mary, tugging at Silas's sleeve. "You promised you'd show me."

Silas faltered, looking up. The Chinese Museum loomed above them against the purple clouds of the night sky, a big, black box darkening a full block along Sansom Street between Eighth and Ninth. The lantern in his hand tempted him, but he knew it would only be safe to light inside.

"Come on," she said again, huskily, leaning close, her mouth at his ear.

Behind them the darkness was punctured by a single glowing street lamp at the far end of Sansom. Ahead another lit the corner at Ninth, but where they stood between the two lights was entirely in the shadow of the museum. It was as though this section of the street were removed from the rest of the city.

"If my father finds out about this, he'll kill me," mumbled Silas.

"You're twenty-five years old. And besides, you're not exactly the pride of the Mitchell family as is." The girl giggled and took off, dragging her sweetheart by the hand, her flowing skirts nearly tripping them both as they stole around to a door at the back of the museum. Panting, Silas produced his father's key-ring from his pocket. Mary held the lantern as he rifled through the keys jangling in his trembling hands.

"Hurry up," said Mary. "What if there are guards?"

"There's no guards - not yet, not until the exhibition opens tomorrow."

Mary pushed up against Silas, both her hands clutching his upper arm, squeezing. "I'm so excited. Do you really know how it works?"

Silas turned the key in the lock, there was an ominous click, and the door sprung open. "Okay," he said, glancing around. "Inside."

THE LANTERN THEY had brought splashed a pale yellow puddle before them, glinting off the glass cases that filled the museum, gridlike. The smell of burning kerosene hung heavy in the air, and beyond the lantern's feeble glow stretched darkness, eerie and silent, the vague shapes of statuettes and stuffed animals silhouetted against the walls. Through the windows, a half-moon like an upended china bowl appeared at intervals between the clouds.

"Where is it?" whispered Mary. The echo of her voice came hissing back at them.

"Downstairs. The door to the basement's just in the next room, to the right."

"This is so exciting!"

Silas, though, was not thinking about excitement. He was preoccupied with thoughts of his father noticing the keys missing and appearing in the laboratory to find Hammond alone and his son missing. Hammond was a good friend who would do his best to make some excuse - that the younger Mitchell had left to hunt for snakes to extract venom, something diligent-sounding and plausible - but Silas knew that his father's innate sense of reason, coupled with a constant state of suspicion, would undoubtedly prevail.

Even half a world away, when Silas had been travelling around France, letters from Philadelphia had seemed to arrive almost immediately after another of the escapades he thought typical, if not expected, of a Grand Tour. Silas always opened mail from his father reluctantly, knowing it would comprise chidings and angry demands to return home, put his medical degree to some use and join the family practice, instead of wasting his time with frivolity overseas. Whether this was genuine, or merely an attempt to get Silas back so they could continue their private performances with the Turk, he was unsure. Regardless, when one of the letters, received after an evening out with some cancan ladies in Montmartre, concluded with the lament, "You are wanting in nearly all the qualities that go to make a success in medicine," Silas decided to return to Philadelphia - if only to prove his father wrong.

But here he was, trespassing in the Chinese Museum, now at the door leading to the basement, about to betray his father's trust yet again. And here was Mary, beautiful, brilliant Mary whom he loved, with her hand on his arm. "Down here?" she asked, wide-eyed.

Silas swung the lantern, light dancing across both their faces, shadows stretching out behind them. A sign on the door read Lower Hall Exhibits. "Down here."

As they descended, step by step, again Silas found himself thinking of his father, could hear the tone of disapproval if he were to discover his son sharing with a colleague's daughter his most prized possession. And not just any colleague's daughter: Mary's father, Dr. Alfred Elwyn, was an eccentric who opted, instead of practising medicine, to open hospices for the feeble-minded and chair societies dedicated to the welfare of animals. Silas knew that this time his punishment would not be limited to parental admonishments; now, considering the patriarch's condition and with the family practice at stake, disappointing his father would result in something far graver.

IN THE BASEMENT were cabinets full of Turk-related lore: articles in French, German, Italian, Spanish, and English detailing its conquests around Europe. Silas and Mary made their way slowly down the hall, shining their lamp over the exhibit. Here was a picture of its inventor, the Austrian Wolfgang von Kempelen, and a copy of the plans for the Turk's original design - all machinery, with no space for a man inside.

Another display was dedicated to the famed showman who brought the Turk to America, the German inventor Johann Maelzel. A brief biographical sketch was paired with a reconstruction of his Automaton Trumpeter, which played various tunes through the rhythmic pumping of a mechanical bellows. Maelzel was remembered in the exhibit as "a great entertainer who perished at sea of natural causes."

Nearby, among a collection of various relics, was a framed essay by Edgar Allan Poe exposing the secrets of the Turk. His guesses were close, noted Silas, reading in the lamplight, but certainly not the entire truth.

Then the wooden floor gave way to red carpet laid out in a long strip leading to the far end of the Lower Hall. This they followed in almost reverential silence, the lantern leading the way along, then up a short flight of stairs to a sort of proscenium before a high curtain.

And then there it was, perched squatly centre stage. It had been more than a year since Silas had seen the Turk, and in the shuddering yellow light it seemed even more menacing than he remembered: the eyes twinkled in an eerily lifelike way. He held the lantern as Mary crept forward.

"Oh, my," she said, standing before the cabinet, running her hand over the chessboard. "This really is remarkable, Silas. What was your father charging for demonstrations before he sold it to the museum?"

"Back when he had me working inside it was fifty cents or so to play, but I think after I left he offered private viewings for twice that." Silas resisted adding anything about the machine being worth more empty than it was with him inside. "He bought it for twenty-five dollars, so I'm sure he made the money back fairly quickly."

Mary circled around until she stood beside the seated figure. She reached out her hand to its face, but Silas called out, "Don't touch it!"

"Please, Silas. I'm not going to break it."

"Sorry. It's likely better not to leave evidence, is all."

"Evidence?" Mary giggled.

"Evidence. We were never here, remember?"

"Right." Mary stood staring into the light for a moment. The contrast of her beauty and the ugliness of the Turk struck Silas then. On her face was an expression of curiosity, intrigue, and a trace of fear - she seemed achingly human, vulnerable, but ready to be delighted. The Turk, meanwhile, glowered at him with a sneer of self-satisfaction and scorn. Silas felt ridiculous hating a machine, but he could summon no other emotion.

Mary tapped the cabinet. "Now, will you please show me how this thing works?"

Silas sighed. "Are you sure you want to know? Many people prefer to believe that it works on its own. Your father, for instance, left the room when we offered to explain it."

"That's my father. A dreamer."

"All right then."

Silas moved beside Mary and, kneeling down, placed the lantern on the floor so it illuminated the back of the cabinet. She crouched beside him, her hand on his back.

"Okay," said Silas. Flipping the catches he swung the back of the cabinet open and proceeded to demonstrate where he had sat and how the magnets below worked the pieces on the board above. He showed her the candle holders, the ventilation shaft, the sliding base that allowed him to move from one side to the other when the front doors were opened to display the interior, and the button to make it speak - which he pressed.

"Check," said the Turk, and Silas flinched.

That voice! Hearing it after so long tweaked and pulled at loose strings of memory until, finally, everything came tumbling back: the stifling smoke of the candles, the claustrophobia, the muffled wonder of Philadelphia's aristocracy as the automaton bested another of their rank. And the booming laugh of his father, championing the machine, mocking his peers in their defeat.

Silas paused, reeling, rocked on his heels, and landed with a thud on his back on the carpeted stage.

Mary was at his side, her hand against the side of his face. "Are you all right?"

Silas sighed. "I'm fine."

"Why are you lying down?" Mary stroked his cheek, smiled. "Is the tour over?"

He touched her hand, breathed. "You know, Mary, my father is dying."

"He's what?"

"Dying. And I am next in line to carry on his practice and work."

"Oh, no, Silas. That's so sad. I mean," she added hurriedly, "about your father. And the practice? This is something you'll be happy doing?"

Silas ran his fingers up Mary's arm to her elbow. She took his hand, adjusted her skirts, reclined, and lay down beside him, resting her head on his chest. Inches away, the lantern flickered, casting washes of amber light over them.

"Oh, it's fine. But I just feel that there's more to life than seeing patients and finding antidotes for snake venom. All his life my father has dedicated every day to science, to a pursuit of the truth, and look at him - the man knows his maths and equations, but he'd never understand the sort of truth you'd find in poetry or art. And look at his relationship with my mother. She's a wonderful woman, but he treats her like she doesn't even exist."

Silas thought about this. He looked up at the Turk, looming above them: from behind it was considerably less impressive, just some tatty old robes hanging limply off a brittle wooden skeleton. A machine, heartless and vacant, useless without a human hand to guide it.

Mary leaned in and kissed Silas, then - fully, deeply, on the mouth. He closed his eyes, felt her climb on top of him, skirts swishing and falling, heavy and enveloping his legs as well as hers, and he kissed her back, ran his hands from her neck down the sides of her body, along the curve of her hips, farther down.

As her mouth moved over his neck he reached as low as he could, grabbing handfuls of fabric, tugging upwards, hitching. The layers amazed him; there seemed enough material down there to outfit a small orchestra. He grabbed her hips and flipped her; Mary giggled, beneath him now, then nibbled at his earlobe, her breath coming heavier, and the skirts were finally nearing their end, he could feel garters somewhere beneath a petticoat and -

Silas paused, sniffing. A smell, a familiar smell, came wafting into his nostrils from nearby, something acrid and sour that he knew only to associate with danger, with emergency. He opened his eyes. The hall was bright around them; an orange glow bathed the room. Was it dawn already?

"Fire!" screamed Mary, flinging Silas off her. He rolled down the steps, his head smacking off each one as he went. Mary, meanwhile, scuttled backwards, crablike, away from where the lantern had tipped and spilled and flames were spreading hungrily up onto the curtains and along the carpet, toward the Turk. "Fire!" she screamed again.

At the bottom of the steps Silas stood, trying groggily to focus. His head hurt; his vision swam. Mary appeared at his side. "Silas, the lantern! We've knocked it over!"

Silas nodded - slowly, ponderously.

"Come on!"

He looked up at the Turk: flames a foot high, gathering intensity, fluttered around it on the stage. Smoke came billowing off the fire in waves, the curtains flapping and urging it on. Quickly the cabinet was alight, catching the Turk's garments. Silas stood, mouth agape. It was beautiful.

A hand slapped him across the face. Mary stood before him, shoulders heaving. "Silas, the museum is on fire, and we need to leave. Do you hear me? What's wrong with you?"