Spark: A Novel

by John Twelve Hawks

  It made no difference to me if nubots sat in subway booths or walked around wearing lingerie. But they did remind me of Dr. Noland’s view of humanity. When I was at the clinic, he told me that human beings were organic machines that thought they were real. And that fact, according to the doctor, was either “very funny or very tragic.”

  The store had placed a placard on the wall of the imaginary bedroom. I photographed the words with my phone and Laura translated them into English.

  We reject the antitechnology ideas expressed in Monsieur Rossard’s essay published in Le Monde. These beautiful machines wearing lingerie are not foreign inventions that destroy French Culture. They are the most recent evolution of a quest that began in France during the Age of Enlightenment. In the eighteenth century, the brilliant Jacques de Vaucanson first caught the attention of the public with his Flute Player and Mechanical Duck. King Louis XV was so inspired by Vaucanson’s work that he commissioned the inventor to create the famous Bleeding Man. Inventions from this era can be seen at the National Conservatory of Arts and Crafts. The daily demonstration of automates at the Conservatory shows that French scientists and engineers were the first to propose, design, and create mechanical life. The pleasure bots for sale in our store were constructed in China, but their true birthplace is in France!

  I returned to my hotel and checked my e-mail, but the message box was still empty. There was nothing to do until Miss Holquist decided if I should neutralize Nalini and her son. Back in New York I could have remained in my loft, but my hotel room in Paris was a busy, jagged environment. Although I had covered up the mirrors, there were too many pieces of furniture and the ballet dancers screwed to the wall stared at me when I sat on the edge of the bed.

  Durée de vie mécanique. Mechanical life. I liked that phrase, and was curious about the other facts mentioned in the department store placard. That night, Edward helped me find articles about the mechanical toys called automates popular in eighteenth-century France and the Frenchman named Jacques de Vaucanson, who built machines with a whole new level of sophistication.

  As a young man Vaucanson was expelled from a religious order in Lyon for creating mechanical servants that could serve dinner to the monks. He moved to Paris, found wealthy patrons to finance his work, and, in 1738, displayed a large wooden man, painted white like a statue. This automate had lips and fingers and leather lungs that breathed out air when it played the flute. A year later Vaucanson caused another sensation with a Mechanical Duck that gulped down food with its beak and excreted it a few minutes later.

  Louis XV was impressed with Vaucanson’s creations and offered to fund the construction of a mechanical man with a beating heart and blood in its veins. Vaucanson returned to Lyon and set up a secret laboratory where he began to build the “Bleeding Man.” The King rewarded his new servant with a patronage job: Royal Inspector of Manufactured Silk. Within a few years, Vaucanson modernized all the looms in France, destroying the jobs of thousands of people. Some of the textile workers rioted and tried to destroy the new machines, but the rebellion was crushed by the authorities.

  So where was the Flute Player and the Duck and, above all, the Bleeding Man? Late that afternoon I crossed over to the right bank of the Seine and visited the Conservatoire National des Arts et Métiers. If any of Vaucanson’s automates had survived, they would probably be stored there.

  I expected the conservatory to be a glass-and-steel box, but the government had placed both the school and museum in the former priory of Saint-Martin-des-Champs. The complex of buildings looked like a medieval fortress with a church, a manor house, and several towers with slit windows. Passing through a turnstile, I wandered down corridors gazing at rusty machines and faded portraits of French inventors.

  I asked a guard in English, “Where are the automates?” He pointed me down a corridor lined with water pumps and steam-powered looms. When I turned the corner I found myself standing in line with a mob of children and their parents.

  Another guard appeared and pulled open a large oak door with brass fittings. Following the crowd, I found myself in a windowless lecture hall with tiers of wooden seats facing a black marble table and a wall of display cabinets. The only available seats were on the top row, so I climbed up the tiers and looked down over the heads of the French families. Small painted faces, grinning or solemn, peered out from the glass cabinets; I was looking at forty to fifty mechanical creatures—the automates.

  At exactly 1700 hours, the door creaked open and a small man wearing a light blue smock and white cotton gloves marched in and took his position behind the table. The man’s face was free of sags and wrinkles. His hair glistened with some sort of pomade or cream; it looked as if each follicle was plastered to the top of his skull.

  This was the Keeper of the Automates. He bowed to his audience, and then gave a little speech in French. I had no idea what he was saying but assumed that he was talking about the machines waiting behind him. The Keeper spoke slowly and each word was separate and precise.

  After he had finished his introduction, he pulled out a ring of old-fashioned keys and began to open the doors of the cabinets. As he removed each automate—a peasant clutching a flail or a mother in a rocking chair with a baby—he announced the name of the machine’s inventor and the date of its creation.

  The twelve automates were placed in two equal groups at opposite ends of the table. The Keeper bowed again and made them perform. First he would insert a little key or turn a crank that wound up a hidden spring. He would pause for several seconds, then flick a lever and the automate would suddenly come alive. An acrobat swung on a pole. A cavalry officer drew his sword and rode a horse around a little track. And, as the children giggled and shrieked, a condemned man placed his head in a guillotine and a hooded executioner pulled a cord and chopped off a painted head.

  The Keeper made another speech, then returned to the cabinet and came back with a blond-haired girl in a golden gown who was seated in front of a dulcimer. Once again, he turned a key and flicked a lever. The girl began to play, striking the strings with two small hammers. The Dulcimer Player’s chest moved in and out as if she was breathing. After a minute of playing, she gracefully turned her head to smile at the audience. Even the most restless child was still and silent as the music rose up and drifted through the room. One last smile. And then the tune ended and the machine stopped moving.

  Everyone in the audience waited for a few seconds, breathless and silent, expecting the automate to stand up and dance around the room. But no, the performance was over and the two little hammers remained motionless above the strings. The Keeper bowed, and the crowd applauded the presentation and quickly left the lecture hall. Mothers and fathers glanced at the mechanical creatures and then touched their children, as if somehow these ancient machines were going to jump off the table and attack someone.

  I remained in my seat as the Keeper picked up each mechanism and carefully returned it to the cabinets. When he had put away everything but the Dulcimer Player, I left my seat and approached him.

  “Excuse me, sir. Do you speak English?”

  The Keeper locked a cabinet with a little brass key, then turned and faced me.

  “Yes. A little.”

  “I have been reading about Jacques de Vaucanson. He sounds like a great man.”

  The Keeper smiled and nodded rapidly. “Oui … Oui … Il était un génie.”

  “So what happened to the Lute Player and the Duck and the Bleeding Man? Are they somewhere in France? Can I go see them?”

  The Keeper placed the palms of his hands on the table as if he was continuing his presentation. “Non, c’était une tragédie. Vaucanson wants money, so he sells the Flute Player and the Duck. The two automates tour Europe for many years. The Flute Player is lost in a shipwreck near Sicily. The Duck perishes in a fire in Kraków in 1879.”

  “And the Bleeding Man?”

  “L’homme saignant,” the Keeper said, as if this creation was too important to be trans
lated into English. “There are rumors that Vaucanson discovers the secret of mixing rubber with sulfur and sealing it with heat. He uses this substance to create a heart and veins for his Man. Louis Davout … one of Napoleon’s generals … sees the Man use a knife and fork at a private dinner in Rome. Thirty years later, Gerhardt Steiner, the German industrialist, shows his friends an automate that resembles the only drawing we have of the Man.”

  “So where is he now?”

  “Many treasures vanished because of the Second World War. There are no sightings of the Man after 1937. But perhaps …”

  “Perhaps what?”

  “Perhaps other inventors added … inventions … modifications.” The Keeper of the Automates smiled. “Remember, Monsieur, unlike humains fragiles, Vaucanson’s creation cannot die. He could be in Paris at this moment, walking down the street.”

  “Or perhaps he was destroyed.”

  The Keeper bowed and picked up the golden-haired Dulcimer Player. “The idea was not destroyed. Ideas are the true automates.”

  I left the museum, walked a few blocks, and found myself in what appeared to be the Chinatown of Paris. There were vendors selling fake designer handbags, Chinese restaurants, and open-air markets selling food. I passed a mound of yellow musk melons, a bucket filled with mussels, and a live chicken pulled squawking and struggling from a wire cage.

  Instead of taking the Metro, I walked across the river Seine and Laura guided me back to my hotel. I didn’t want to sit in my room and stare at the ballet dancers, so I took my computer and went down to a café. I ordered a bottle of mineral water and watched a soccer match on the café’s television.

  Was the Bleeding Man cheering at the stadium? If he could disguise himself as an ordinary person and get the right ID card, then he could lose himself in the crowd. Like the automates in the Keeper’s museum, most Human Units obeyed hidden clockwork that controlled their movements and guided their reactions.

  But I was in a different category. I was sure of that fact. It was all because of the Transformation.

  The staff at Marian Community Hospital had decided that I was a patient with severe neurological damage. But I realized that the accident had allowed me to see all existence in a profoundly different way. The Spark within me was as pure as light. It transcended time.

  Most Human Units saw time as a linear progression.

  But now I realized that time curved back on itself.

  All moments exist simultaneously. They don’t disappear.

  My Spark was pure and permanent, but it existed in a world that was tainted and corrupt. This is why I told the nurses that they could no longer touch me. With great effort, I forced my Shell to wash itself, check temperature and pulse, and inject the necessary medication. Because it was difficult to communicate with the hospital staff, I spent most of my time talking to Edward. I would tell him my vital signs and he would e-mail the information to the nurses’ station.

  When I was strong enough to limp up and down the second-floor hallway, I announced that I would no longer eat dead and rotting objects from the corrupt world. From this point on, I would consume only clear liquids such as broth, apple juice, and water. This refusal smashed into a wall of resistance. I was told by several doctors that my Shell would perish without sufficient nourishment. If I continued to say no I would be placed in restraints and a feeding tube would be shoved down my throat.

  This conflict was resolved by Sandy Shapiro—the short, plump woman who was a case manager at the hospital. In computer terms, she was programmed to respond in the affirmation mode and was constantly popping into my room to say phrases like “Looking good, Jacob!” or “Getting better!” Mrs. Shapiro covered up all the mirrors in my hospital room with masking tape and newspaper, and then persuaded me to drink ComPlete. The doctors were satisfied with this solution, and I didn’t have to swallow death disguised as a tuna sandwich.

  Each act of resistance generated a response from the hospital psychiatrist, Dr. Tollner. He was an energetic man in his thirties who wore jeans under his lab coat and had a gold stud in his left ear. Whenever I said no to anything, Tollner would arrive with a clipboard and ask me how I felt about this new issue.

  “I don’t feel anything.”

  “Is that really true, Mr. Davis? Perhaps you’re feeling anger or fear about being in the hospital.”

  “No. It’s okay to be here.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with emotions. They’re a natural human reaction.”

  “I don’t have those reactions. I’m dead.”

  I thought this statement would end the psychiatrist’s questions, but he began to drop by my room during his daily rounds. One afternoon, while I was drawing diagrams on my computer, Tollner walked in with his clipboard and sat down on the chair next to my bed.

  “I’m afraid I have some bad news, Jacob.”

  I remained silent and continued designing my Pyramid of Life. Dogs were at the top and I was at the base, but I hadn’t figured out where to put cats.

  “Don’t you want to know what happened?”

  “Did the kitchen run out of ComPlete?”

  “No. It’s a bit more serious than that.”

  “I don’t want a tube shoved down my throat.”

  “This isn’t about you, Jacob. But it is bad news. Nurse Grasso was killed driving home from the hospital last night. A trailer truck skidded on the ice, rolled over, and crushed Eva’s car.”

  I continued to work on my drawing.

  “So how does that make you feel?” Tollner asked.

  “Things happen. Last week they put blue sheets on my bed instead of white sheets.”

  “But you knew Nurse Grasso. She was the first person you saw when you opened your eyes.”

  “Yes. That’s true.”

  “Now she’s dead and you’ll never see her again.”

  “That statement could be made about all objects that exist in this room. If they take away the sponge mop in the corner, perhaps I’ll never see it again.”

  “Eva Grasso is … was …” Dr. Tollner was speaking loudly. “She wasn’t a sponge mop!”

  “Of course not, Dr. Tollner. They’re two different objects. Nurse Grasso wore a top with a floral design and blue cotton pants. She was mobile and could talk.”

  Dr. Tollner left the room—which meant there was a chance that I would never see him again. But there was a high probability that he would return, so I spent the rest of the day creating a new set of drawings. When Tollner returned the following afternoon, I showed him the computer screen.

  “This is your reality, Dr. Tollner. You are a Shell containing a Spark who feels attachments to other Human Units.”

  Tollner nodded. “Very good, Jacob. This is an accurate expression of interpersonal relationships.”

  “If Nurse Grasso breaks away from your personal cluster, then you are conscious of this loss.”

  “And that makes me sad,” Tollner said. “There’s nothing wrong with being sad, Jacob. As humans, we occasionally feel sad … and happy, too.”

  “Because I’m dead, I’m not attached to a cluster. When I meet a Human Unit, we occupy the same space for a period of time, and then I bounce off and travel in a different direction.”

  The psychiatrist studied the diagrams on my computer screen while he scribbled notes on his clipboard. “Could I get a copy of your illustrations?” he asked.

  “They’re not illustrations. They’re explanations.”

  “Of course. I understand. Explanations.” He wrote down that word in block letters. “Your explanations help me understand you better, Jacob. And that might make your time here at the hospital less confrontational.”

  That sounded like a good idea, so I allowed him to return with a flash drive and download all my drawings. A week later, Sandy Shapiro informed me that my medical insurance covered only sixty days of hospital care and that it was necessary for me to continue my recovery as an outpatient back in New York. But first I needed to attend a case review w
ith Tollner and the hospital neurologist, Dr. Rose.

  None of the patients at Marian Hospital used the third-floor chapel, and this was where the meeting took place. Tollner and Rose sat at a table with printed copies of my file. There was a large bronze cross behind them that jutted out from a fake stained-glass window lit by fluorescent bulbs. Something was wrong with the fixture and light behind the top portion of the cross kept flickering on and off.

  I sat on a folding chair, facing the doctors. Although I still couldn’t interpret the emotions expressed by a human face, I did appreciate the thoughtful placement of Mrs. Shapiro’s chair. As chief mediator and explainer, she sat halfway between the doctors and my Shell. During the conversation, her head went back and forth like a spectator watching a tennis match.

  Dr. Rose, the neurologist, was a skinny older man with sandy-colored hair. He always mentioned golf during our examinations, and once I saw him leaving the hospital early in the afternoon with a bag of clubs. “I’m going to lead off here,” he said. “Mr. Davis, your improvement in the last two months has been extraordinary. When you first arrived here, there were indications that you might be brain-dead or permanently disabled. Now you’re conscious, fully ambulatory, and able to interact with the world.”

  “But there was brain damage,” Mrs. Shapiro said, motioning to Dr. Rose’s notebook computer.

  “Yes. That’s true. You can see it quite clearly.…” Dr. Rose typed a command, then swiveled the computer around so I could see a video of my brain taken by an MRI machine. The image changed every five seconds as the machine peeled back another layer of tissue, going deeper into my brain, burrowing toward the core.