“Grandpa,” Tom says. “You dog.”
Eliza has already seen this tree. (Already seen, too, that they’ve chosen to represent her mother as “foreigner.”) She’s still shocked to see it—or rather, to understand it. Until Grayspool’s visit last week, she’d never heard the name Beatrice Lyons. Not many people had. For the brief time she’d known her grandparents on her father’s side, they were Hub and Kate Dagonet. They both died before her tenth birthday.
But it seems as though Tom is now experiencing the same vaguely uncomfortable feeling she’d felt last week—learning of the infidelity of a grandparent. Not exactly high on the list of ways the mind can be blown, but on the other hand, enough to catch your attention.
“Now,” says Leafing. “Herman Lyons was an eccentric. You also may be surprised to learn that he was our only client.”
“Get out,” says Tom, smiling.
“Quite true,” Grayspool says. “And his fortune, which came to him via his mother, was quite large and quite old.”
Grayspool, after a nice dramatic pause, changes the slide. It shows this:
After an uncomfortable moment, Tom says, “Who put this slideshow together?”
Grayspool has gotten quite good at ignoring Tom. He doesn’t answer. Instead, he launches into the full explanation—finally, new information to Eliza’s ears. And she again finds herself in the strange state of both believing and not believing.
Here’s the situation:
The two had their affair. Circumstances unclear. The history that really matters, however, is the history of Ms. Beatrice Lyons, a scientist whose name is entirely unknown to us today due to the secrecy of her research between the wars and during the war, but also due to the particularly private nature of the Lyons family itself, which, for around 700 years, had been doing its best to convince the residents of northwestern England that it did not exist at all. Beatrice herself, who trained in physics at Oxford under the name Alexander Periwinkle, was said to be a mathematical genius of the highest order. Trained alongside Bertrand Russell, taught Wittgenstein differential equations, played squash with G.K. Chesterton. Originally, as she had no real ambition beyond some gardening and taking in the occasional article on quantum physics, Beatrice had planned to complete her training and retire to the family estate not far from Cockermouth, but—(at this point in the speech, Grayspool is interrupted for a moment as Tom snorts while drinking his tea, then asks if there really is such a place, and if it is really called Cockermouth, and he is told yes, it is real, and he shakes his head and says, “England,” then Grayspool asks if he can continue, and Tom says, “Sorry, sorry. Go ahead. Juvenile.”)—in the late-thirties, on a tip from Paul Dirac, the British government approached her and asked if she might be willing to use her gifts in the service of the crown?
And by “use her gifts,” they meant something quite specific. They meant devise a weapon.
Beatrice asked what kind.
They said it was up to her.
Sort of a free reign, imagination’s workshop kind of thing.
Turing, they said, was making calculating machines.
Beatrice spent a good week considering the proposition. Weaponry, of course, was not exactly the seed of her passion in the sciences, but then again, she was not the type to take hard-line stances about such things, especially when their German neighbors across the channel appeared to be so intent on killing as many people as they could manage. Her family, she knew, had flopped sides many times throughout the Middle Ages; they had shifted allegiances from Henrys to Richards so often there was a special chart in one of the castle’s basements, just to keep track. War was a reality of the world and it seemed to her that from a certain point of view, it was her duty to use her talents in this way. But she had never cared for how her colleagues thought or how the thick-skulled government officials thought whenever such subjects came up. A better missile would help us, would it not? Something a might bit bigger than a V2? A V3, say? Alan—poor Alan—of course had conceived of the problem differently, conceived of it in terms of communication, of breaking codes. Alan was a lovely man.
After a week, she told the Ministry of Defense her idea for a useful weapon.
“It has to do with poetry,” she said.
“You’re mad,” said her contact.
“So is Hitler,” she said. “So is Stalin. So is Chamberlain, so is Churchill, so is Von Braun, so is Roosevelt, so is Einstein.”
The agent leaned back into his leather chair, eyeing the document. “You actually believe this will work?” he asked. “It’s not a lark? You’re not trying to make a point, are you? Please don’t try to make a point, Beatrice.”
“It will work,” she assured him. “I’ve already begun my distillations. You can see the results.”
The man raised an eyebrow, read for a moment. “What good will it do us?” he asked. “Even if it does work?”
“Quite a lot, I’d imagine,” she said. “Considering what a war is. What’s a war, Mr. Haperwhale?”
The man said nothing, simply touched his mustache, slowly lit a cigarette.
Much to her surprise, the government agreed to fund further research in the Lake District. On one condition. It came from on-high.
“Please don’t tell anybody about this,” Churchill wrote in the letter. “It could end up rather embarrassing. But good luck!”
At this point in the history, the lawyers and Eliza all realize Tom is facedown on the conference table.
After some very loud throat-clearing from Stewart, Tom bolts upright.
“Sorry, sorry everyone,” he says, rubbing his eyes. “I can’t believe how boring this is. Sorry.”
Some uncomfortable silence.
“What?” says Tom. “Really? All that exposition?” He looks to Eliza for help. “That’s not how to tell a story.”
“I found it fascinating,” she says.
“Perhaps this is the right time to move to the second part of the presentation?” Grayspool says. “You’ll learn the rest in the by and by. And I have to say, this part is quite exciting.” Looking at Tom: “I believe you’ll find it far more dramatic, Tom.”
“Do we find out what we get?” Tom says.
“Precisely,” says Grayspool, and as he does, he motions toward the bearded man in the corner, who has stood quietly all along. “Now. Mr. Cankerton. I believe we’re ready for your presentation.” Grayspool glances back at Eliza and Tom. “Mr. Cankerton is an actor hired by your Great Uncle Herman to play himself at these very proceedings.”
“I’m sorry?” says Eliza, looking at the man. He’s come to the front of the room and is now adjusting his potato sack.
“I’ll be playing the eccentric, previously unknown, aristocratic Uncle Herman,” says the man, Cankerton. “A late entrant as a character, nevertheless crucial. Heretofore shrouded in mystery. I’m perfectly qualified. I’ve done Pirates of Penzance.”
“Listen, Grayspool,” says Tom, swiveling toward the man. “This all seems both unorthodox and unnecessary. Why don’t we just cut to the chase? I don’t think we need any role-playing.”
“Ha!” cries Cankerton, throwing his arms up into the air, and Eliza notes by the glint in the man’s eye that he seems to have dropped into the role of Uncle Herman.
He begins to cackle and pace around the room.
She glances at Tom, who glances back.
“I assume you’re Herman now,” Tom says to the man.
“That’s right!” cries Cankerton/Herman, eyes wild, arms still up in the air. He even gets up onto his tiptoes for a second and extends the dance in a more ludicrous manner. “I am your Great Uncle Herman Lyons,” he booms, “and I am an eccentric man who lives in a cave from time to time! Some miles from my family’s estate! Hellooooo, my long lost relatives!”
He’s totally shrieking now. He’s standing on one leg.
“Take it down a bit, would you, Cankerton?” says Grayspool. “Herman wasn’t quite this eccentric.”
Can
kerton/Herman looks annoyed. He puts his foot down and brings his arms down, crosses them, says, “Do you want me to play the G-D role or not?”
“Stick to the script, please.”
Cankerton makes a big show of sighing, takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, opens them, and begins stroking his beard, which is obviously fake.
“You two are my only living relatives. I’ve known this for some time and have been watching you both. I am an eccentric, unpredictable man of great power and wealth and I am very, very crafty. I am now dead, obviously, but I live again via this replacement body and the power of acting.”
Cankerton/Herman rides a few beats of this. Eliza wonders if this is the zenith of his career.
“After some deliberation,” he continues, “I’ve decided to leave my two greatest treasures to the two of you. What do you think of that?” He points at Tom, then Eliza. He also eyes them both mysteriously, then starts stroking his beard.
“Are we allowed to interact with him?” Tom asks Grayspool.
“Not really,” says Grayspool. “He’s not supposed to be asking questions. I think that one was rhetorical, anyway.”
“I could improv answers?” Cankerton suggests.
“Please don’t,” says Grayspool. “Please just get on with the speech. As it was written.”
Cankerton goes through his recalibration routine and once again is in character. Eliza is seriously considering getting up and leaving.
Then Cankerton/Herman gets down to business.
“Eliza,” he says, turning to her. “You get the money.”
“Please say I get the cave,” says Tom.
“Eliza also gets the cave,” says Cankerton/Herman. “And the castles.”
Tom is frowning.
“Well, fuck,” he says.
“Watch your language, my boy.”
“What the fuck do I get?”
Cankerton/Herman stares down Tom.
“You get perhaps my greatest treasure, great nephew,” he says. He steps forward, touches Tom on the head. Softly, then, and now almost whispering: “You get my mother’s invention. You get The Machine of Understanding Other People.”
It’s later that night and they are still in Manchester. They’ve put her and Tom Sanderson up in The Palace, a rather fancy-looking hotel with its own clock tower. Why are they both still here? They’re both still here because there is, unfortunately, one last condition.
In order for her to receive the money and get started, the two of them must retrieve this Machine of Understanding Other People.
Together.
It’s in the Lake District.
Buried.
In the cave.
They have a map.
Tom Sanderson is currently downstairs in the bar, drinking himself into oblivion. Eliza politely declined his half-hearted invitation to join him and opted instead for a bath, some wine, and some thinking. Grayspool, having noted that she arrived with only the clothes on her back, has had a package of outdoor-wear sent to her room along with a backpack, raingear, rations, and a shovel.
“You think of everything, Mr. Grayspool,” she said to herself, looking at the items, when she first came in.
Now she is soaking.
Tomorrow, they’ll be given a ride to the head of the trail that leads to the cave. It’s a good day’s hike, and they’ll have to spend a night in Herman’s cave. They’ll be picked up the next afternoon in the same spot they’ll have been dropped off.
Perfectly simple.
Eliza, having abandoned her sense of realism last week, has integrated this final condition of the bargain into her state of mind quite casually. Secret wealthy relative? Why not? A machine that helps people to understand others? Why not? A hike through the hills with a drunken boor? Why not? She sinks back further into the tub. Fine. She is to inherit an unfathomable amount of money. Fine. She will do what she has to do.
Cankerton/Herman provided a number of additional details about what he called The Machine of Understanding Other People. Eliza had done her best to pay attention; Tom, upon learning he was set to inherit no money at all, seemed to drift further and further away as the meeting dragged on. According to Cankerton/Herman, the machine was the end result of her grandmother Beatrice’s research. The “weapon.” Turing had used his computers to crack the Enigma and that had in turn helped defeat the German forces. Very functional, very utilitarian. Beatrice, on the other hand, had focused her considerable gifts on something quite different: devising a piece of technology that distilled the power of romantic poetry into a usable, portable device.
A helmet, actually.
A big helmet that helps you understand other people.
Eliza smiles, impressed with how ridiculous it is. But she knows nothing of science. Who knows? Even more amusing is the American’s despondent reaction to what he’d been bequeathed. It’s oddly perfect for him, this machine. Even if he doesn’t know it.
Narcissists, she thinks, just before pressing her feet against the tub’s wall. Her head goes under; she blows some bubbles through her nose.
Narcissists can never tell.
“Just over nine kilometers,” Grayspool is saying. He is dressed again in his cream great-coat and black bowler, and he stands at the head of the trail, looking into the forest. Eliza sees a slight distaste in his expression, as though he could do without the natural world, given the opportunity to delete it.
It’s still early, just past 8 a.m., and the weather has cleared—the sun is out and the air is crisp. It’s not exactly warm, but it’s a nice day for a long hike. At least to her eye. She suspects her companion might disagree.
Tom stands beside her, swaddled in his new outdoor gear, which includes a green jumper whose color is surprisingly similar to the color of his face. On the drive to the head of the trail, they were forced to twice pull over to allow him to vomit. The second spot overlooked a rolling pasture dotted with sheep. When Tom came back to the car, he said, “Pretty.”
“Have you ever been made to walk this trail, Mr. Grayspool?” asks Eliza. There’s something about the look in his eyes. Knowing what she now knows about his “eccentric” employer, it seems entirely possible.
“Yes, yes,” he says. “Many times. It’s quite beautiful, especially if it’s not the middle of the night. It won’t be difficult. And I imagine you’ll find the cave quite comfortable as your lodgings. It’s been recently cleaned.”
“Did he die inside?” she asks. “In the cave?”
“No,” Grayspool says. “The lake.”
“Amazing horseshit,” Tom says. He’s still clearly disappointed about the distribution of the inheritance. But Eliza also guesses that as her capacity for abiding the strangeness of their situation has increased, his is going down.
“How quickly we adapt to unexpected good fortune, Mr. Sanderson,” Eliza says, “and how hard it is to adapt to misfortune. You’d think we weren’t being given something for nothing.”
“Says the one who got the money,” Tom says, looking at the trail.
“I’m quite fascinated by this machine of yours,” she says. She is.
“Wanna swap?”
“No,” Eliza says. “I don’t.”
“How much money is it, exactly?” Tom asks. “I missed that during our theatrical event.”
“You two best be off,” says Grayspool. “We’ll be here to meet you tomorrow evening, upon your return. Good luck.” He turns, then shakes Tom’s hand. “Try to stay hydrated,” he says.
“Thanks.”
“And try to take good care of our visitor,” he says to Eliza, turning to her and shaking her hand. Confederates in Englishness. “The machine is quite valuable,” he says, glancing at Tom. “And I assure you, it works. I’ve used it myself.”
“Oh really?” Tom says. “And who did you use it to understand?”
“Your uncle, of course,” Grayspool says. “How else do you think I could be compelled to work for such an absurd man?”
“I dunno,
Grayspool,” says Tom. “Maybe you’re just greedy.”
Grayspool smiles warmly at them, and in another moment, he and the car have gone.
“Well,” Tom says, looking at the trail.
They set out into the low hills at the northwest corner of the park. They aren’t far, Eliza knows, from Maryport, where she once went with her grandfather, just a year before he died. The ferry to the Isle of Man goes from Liverpool, and she knows that city well, too. Surprising, but she’s never spent any time in the Lake District, close as she used to be in the summers. There was enough on the island.
The landscape here is a rough combination of rocky highland and forest. The trail ascends into the more densely forested hills, and there are no markings to speak of.
They hike in silence for the first twenty minutes. Eliza, knowing she is the stronger hiker and also not hungover, has put Tom in front so she will not outpace him. She’s also not too keen on having him stare at her ass the entire way. She can’t help but think he would.
Funny, too, that she hasn’t been here before, as Coleridge has always been her favorite. She can’t entirely remember what she first loved about him, nor can she remember why she found there to be something terribly boring about Wordsworth. In a way, they were part and parcel, but nevertheless she always thought of Coleridge as the real human, Wordsworth as the parody of himself. Perhaps the beard? Was it “Kubla Khan?” The story of somebody interrupting him, how furious he had been? No, no, not that, something else. Could it be so superficial as the simple beauty of his name? Cole-ridge. Gorgeous. Eliza thinks her fascination—her original fascination, at least—could easily have come from it. What more is required to capture a child’s imagination than the sound of a single, beautiful word?
Tom is barfing again.
Lost in her thoughts on Coleridge, she did not notice his slow drift to the side of the trail and now nearly runs into his backside as he leans toward the weeds and (loudly) empties the contents of his stomach. At this point, it’s mainly water.
The Universe in Miniature in Miniature Page 21