A case of curiosities

by Kurzweil, Allen

  Claude stumbled out of the chapel and ran back to his room, where the Slug still slumbered. If Henri couldn't be counted on to share in rapture, he was certainly not one to approach in despair. Claude was gasping. He felt like the ringdove the Abbe had once placed in the pneumatic pump duting a study of asphyxia. He needed air, and in a daze he found himself climbing the tower steps two at a time, seeking comfort in altitudinous isolation. It was at the highest point of the mansion house that Claude reached the depths of dejection. In previous visits to the tower, he had tossed stones at imaginary Vandal and Turkish invaders. Such youthful enthusiasm was absent now. Contemplating a murder he had unwillingly witnessed, he squatted in darkness until the sun rose.

  But was he unwilling? The deadly shadow dance played itself over and over in his head. With each motion, he stopped to consider his passive observance. Couldn't he have stopped the wrath of his mentor and friend? Friend, indeed. Claude felt both betrayal and culpability. He was as criminal as the criminal himself. He considered swearing out a complaint against the Abbe before the Republic's lieutenant of police. After all, he would be in Geneva the following day. The Abbe would be confronted by a silver-topped baton or more vicious police impedimenta, fitting justice given the method of the Abbe's attack. Claude's thoughts became a blur of music and violence. He kept seeing stains of blood on ivory. He transported the Abbe to the sugar mines. A workshop dictum resurfaced: "Be gentler with the metal, it feels the pain and passion of the beater." Would the police lieutenant's baton beat gently? Unlikely. And if the murderer weren't sent to the Pompelmoose Atoll but was kept instead in the prisons of Geneva, what instrument of inquisitorial torture would be used — thumbscrews or the iron maiden?

  Claude reached for a shutter latch and traced a path worn by years, decades, perhaps centuries of use. As he rubbed it back and forth, he contemplated whether he should face or avoid the Abbe. He decided on confrontation. This resolution came with the dawn light, when sounds professionally familiar to him emerged from the trees below the natrow tower window. He heard chirping and Catherine banging a few pots together to suggest the performance of tasks she would leave to the others. Kleinhoff was already in the orchards working his pruning hook.

  The collation bell seemed to clang with unnatural urgency. Claude descended his perch to intercept the Abbe before the start of the meal. He was walking past the color cove when his heart leapt quiet suddenly. The tune that had haunted him throughout the night was emerging from another part of the mansion house. It was being performed with a happy and faultless ease. Was Madame Dubois still alive? Had she learned to play the tune? Claude ran to the source of the sound and came upon the Abbe sitting at the untuned harpsichord.

  Claude gave a recital of his own. "I came to thank you last night."

  "You were deserving. You, at least, have proven to be an able pupil."

  "As I said, I came last night, late, but you were engaged in a musical lesson."

  The Abbe raised the bushier of his bushy brows. "So you found me out." He was unexpectedly calm, almost cool, given his intemperate trepanation of Madame Dubois. "Mozart's Turkish rondo. It should be played with fluent whimsy, but I am afraid Madame Dubois had none of the requisite feeling. She never will."

  "No, I suppose not." Claude was disgusted. Bitterness rose.

  "I was hoping," the Abbe continued, "to introduce the two of you. Now it is no longer possible. When you return, we will discuss in greater detail how her inelegance can be replaced."

  Claude struggled to understand the Abbe's heartless replies. Both he and the Abbe were exhausted by the events of the previous night. The conversation, by common consent, came to an end. Claude knew, as he left the alcove, that the bond he had formed with the Abbe, once stronger than any of the glues Henri could mix up from his stores and stocks, had been weakened beyond repair. The tie between the two, a form of slavery freely entered into, a bondage rigorously maintained by the shackles of trust and respect, had been broken by the percussion of an ivory-handled mallet.

  Some young souls search for mothers in their masters, others search for gods. In both circumstances, the master usually obliges. The Abbe had been different. He had rejected the selfish possibilities that his position offered, choosing instead to develop in Claude a spirited sense of independence. He had taught his pupil to pursue perfection, and to be solicitous only of that perfection which is the nature of all true genius. In times of accomplishment, fueled by praise from the Abbe (the other gifts were less important), Claude's mind soared among the Alpine larks that flew past the workshop windows. In the moments of despair, he went for weeks unwashed and poorly fed, obsessed by the miscalculations of a kidney-shaped gear wheel that was used for the equation of time. He had learned many valuable lessons from the Abbe, but his education would now have to end.

  Claude walked in sorrow to the kitchen, where Marie-Louise, ladle in hand, was diligently filling soup bowls. He ate tentatively, then pocketed two rolls and a strip of bacon before leaving the table. He reconsidered the last, terrifying chambet of the Abbe's metaphoric nautilus and concluded that it would be best not to enter but to pursue his own metaphor alone.

  One hour later, by the chime of his favorite wall clock, Claude Page passed through the helical gates of the mansion house, vowing to God, inasmuch as he was susceptible to such religious transactions, never to return.

  16

  The Lay Figure

  Through the heavy fog of a damp spring morning, Claude Page walked with weary determination. The colors of the road were washed out, and only the boldest greens emerged from the dense cover. But as the day progressed, the sun struggled to assert itself and pierced the clouds of an indecisive storm. The mournful cry of a pair of crows and a single lost lamb added an eeriness to the scene. Claude noticed neither the aspirations of the sun nor the moaning of the animal life as he trudged along, absorbed in dark and disturbing thoughts. Occasionally he hummed a little tune, part of a Turkish rondo.

  Literature of the period has such roadway adventurers carrying their possessions on the end of a sturdy branch, but Claude used no such implement. He limited the application of leverage to his work. What he carried was contained in a cowskin satchel.

  Aged by the circumstances of his departure, Claude moved beyond fright into a realm of fear, beyond anger into a realm of bitterness, beyond loneliness into a world of isolation. The change was visible in his gaze and in his posture, both of which, if not exactly forceful, were more declarative than they had been at the mansion house. Also, he had lost a certain boyish softness around the face.

  Claude focused his thoughts on the chapel scene. The shadow of a hammerhead moved up and down, keeping rhythm with his step. The contents of the cowskin satchel rattled about and poked him. Walking steadily, he reached Geneva by noon. As soon as he passed under the eastern gate of the walled Republic, he felt like an intruder. The ramparts of the city appeared to be bigger than the city itself. Everything about the place suggested that visitors were not welcome. Black-frocked men stared at him, their severe attire evoking an earlier pain. An elder approached and pointed to a notice itemizing the dress code of the city. It prohibited damask (20-flonn fine), panniers (25-florin fine), belts (7 florins), and wigs of improper length. Claude's hairpiece, the elder noted, violated regulations. A summary warning was dispensed before Claude could move on.

  He found the office of the accountant locked, so he walked among the surrounding buildings and along the banks of the Rhone. He tried to distract himself by stringing together a story using the names of the inn signs on the side streets: the Savage, the Dauphin, the Pigeon, the Monkey. He could not. He was too distracted by the events of the previous day. He took a turn around the famous spiral pathway of the Republic's town hall, though this, too, had bad associations. He returned to the office, but it was clearly to remain closed for the rest of the day. Soon the gates of the city would be shut as well, so Claude decided to leave the Republic, taking with him the three costly watches
he had been entrusted to deliver.

  When he crossed the Pont Neuf and started on the coach road to Lyon, exhaustion caught up with him. A rag seller, returning empty from a paper mill, offered him a ride in the tumbril drawn by her sway backed horse. In a mood of martyrdom, Claude declined. As if his dark mood needed a more ominous setting, the storm that had been teasing the region all day finally hit. Rain ran down Claude's long neck and pushed up through the soles of his boots. He was oblivious, thinking only of the Abbe. The chiaroscuro killing replayed itself with the vividness of the slides in the magic lantern. His sense of betrayal was insupportable.

  The isolation on the road recalled a story told by the Abbe long before. It concerned a tribe of Indians encountered during missionary work in Peru. The elders would send their boys out in winter scantily clad, their genitals exposed "like weather vanes." (The Abbe always paused on this kind of detail.) The boys would endure a quest that often ended in a vision. "They would be given neither fire nor fire-making apparatus, neither food nor the instruments by which food could be obtained. Whipped by the wattle brush, scratched by vines, they would leave their families carefree boys and return home exhausted men."

  Claude wondered whether he himself was on such a quest but decided his voyage would be different. It would not end where it began. This saddened him. Rain struck his face, and he realized that among the many liquids stocked in his former residence— the salivas, the urines, the stream waters — thete were never any tears.

  A few miles on, a new feeling supplanted the anger, sadness, and damp that covered him. It was hunger. The rumbling in his stomach overpowered even the Turkish rondo. Claude remembered that in the Treatise on Starvation, a wotk written by a Scotsman, it was suggested that the odors of certain foods could nourish. He watched a hen chase after a grain wagon and peck at the meal that fell from the tarpaulined carriage. Near an outcropping of ramshackle huts, Claude paused for a slice of overpriced household bread sold by a roadside vendor. He then negotiated the purchase of some punch. He took a deep sniff of the bread and instantly dismissed the Treatise. He consumed the slice in seconds and drank the punch, which he deemed inferior to his mother's brews. He finished the meal only slightly less hungry than when he had started.

  The rain stopped briefly as he sat down under an oak. He sensed he was no longer alone, and turned to observe a headless scarecrow slouching useless in a fallow field. Claude removed the contents of his satchel, hoping that by organizing the objects, he might in some way organize his thoughts. He lined up his possessions and took inventory:

  Three watches. He cursed silently at having fotgotten a timepiece of far greater personal significance, the watch fashioned by his father.

  One note-roll with an S carved into the base. He wanted to register the cry of the lost lamb heard earlier in the day but was afraid he would get the S-roll wet.

  One copybook. He took a quick look, and mote memoties surfaced. He was supposed to study the connection between sneezing and sunlight; to enter the dispute between Reaumur and Buffon as to whether spiders have souls; to work on a new watch escapement that protected against shock. All of those projects would have to be put aside.

  One shirt

  Several tools, assorted

  One book in Latin (the English title: The Mechanical Christ).

  He peeked behind the endpapers and was comforted by the sight of two coins snug in their slots.

  More tools, assorted

  One Portrait in Little

  He repacked, taking care to protect the more delicate objects from damage, wrapping the tools, the book, and note-roll in the spare shirt. He reserved a specimen pouch for the Portrait in Little and the watches. That done, he fell asleep and remained so until another downpour woke him just before sunset. He knuckle-rubbed his eyes and, hearing an unfamiliar sound, squinted down the road to observe clinking pattens and an umbrella moving toward the entrance of an inn. Claude approached the signpost, looked up, and knew he had to enter.

  17

  THE SIGN THAT enticed Claude was bolted above a massive door. It depicted a complex mechanism turning rows of skewered meats. On the top half of the sign there were game birds: five quail over four pigeons over eight squabs. The bottom half of the sign was taken up by an enormous pig, skewered upside down, limbs tied front and back, mouth outstretched in a grimace.

  The Spit Pig was one of the better-known inns on the coach road to Lyon. Arnold cites lumpy beds and sloppy stables but interrupts his dismissive assessment to praise the grillades. Swiggleweiss is slightly kinder, mentioning in his severe High German the hospitable mood as well as the "mighty and memorable hearth." The Pig was a big, high-ceilinged affair dominated, as the Austrian travel writer noted, by a chimney of fired brick that was benched on both sides in granite. The chimney was the locus both of talk, because of the benches, and of cooking, because of the spit. Under normal circumstances, the ingenious rotisserie earned the admiration of patrons and the invective of the innkeeper's son, who was responsible for its maintenance. But circumstances were not normal on the night Claude entered. The innkeeper's son sat cool and content, distant from the tumult. He played with a dog, feeding it the sooty entrails of a deer. The patrons were the ones who were cursing. They surrounded the innkeeper.

  "The spit's broke," he explained. "Can't get the chain to rotate. And until it does, we can't use the central fireplace. Until it does, we can't cook our meats." He substantiated these statements by displaying a few links of chain, which in happier times turned assorted game birds and viands. He looked for support from the skewered but uncooked pig that rested in the corner. Its fly-and ash-covered smile mocked him. The crowd shouted in accents of Provence, Savoy, and the Jura.

  The innkeeper said, "There's not an ironmonger around at this hour who can fix it."

  "Sir," returned a self-appointed spokesman for the disgruntled patrons, "I am pinched by want of food. And unless you wish one of those skewers to be used on you, I suggest you provide the rotational delicacies your establishment boasts to roast." The man, globically proportioned, sat splayfooted, wiping his brow, neck, and nose. He leaned back slightly, amplifying his gut and impressing on those around him the immensity of his form. Here was a wit worthy of Rabelais.

  The innkeeper replied, "Coachman, this spit is no simple wheel-and-rim affair. It has springs and a smokejack." He stuck his head up the flue and pointed to the complex ironwork.

  The storm outside the Pig intensified. Lightning struck a nearby tree, and the travelers gathered around a window to observe a pine that had split in two. The fat man stayed where he was and pressed his case. "The road cannot be traveled. You must find some way to feed us."

  "The other provisions were finished hours ago. What remains requires the spit."

  "Then fix the spit," the fat fellow said.

  "I cannot. It is as delicate as a pocket watch."

  With the mention of watches, there was a stir. Above the heads of the hungry patrons, a cowskin satchel could soon be seen bobbing toward the chimney. Below it, a voice called out, "Would you offer a meal to the fellow who repairs the mechanism?" The voice was small and uneven.

  Claude now stood in front of the fat man and the innkeeper.

  The innkeeper said, "I would offer a meal to the man who revived its motion, but I will not allow so elegant a machine to be handled by such youthful and" — he glanced down—"misshapen hands."

  The fat man stood up to offer support for the youth. "You would allow your half-cooked cocks to turn foul? Let the boy attempt to fix what you have broken. Lucille and I insist on it."

  "Coachman, despite your obvious commitment to my inn— and half the inns to Paris—1 must inform you that you know nothing about this spit. Only its output concerns you." And with that, he tapped the midsection of the unhappy Gargantua.

  The coachman glared until the innkeeper handed him a mug of ale. The bribe was accepted, but after taking a quaff, the coachman said, "This will not fix the spit." Then he burped.r />
  The two men had reached an impasse. Claude stood aside as the atmosphere grew grimmer and travelers moved to the exit. Only the bootcatcher was earning his keep, pulling off the wet and stinking footwear of the new and uninformed arrivals, while working his shoeing horn on the disenchanted but equally remunerative departures. The innkeeper tried to appease the travelers by hanging a small spit from a jack, but this only intensified the anger. Three fuzzy-headed, bare-bodied quail could not feed the passengers who milled about.

  The innkeeper said, "How am I to trust the lad to the complexities of my rotisserie? / do not even know what the problem is."

  Claude, emboldened by want of food, responded. "The device was sand-forged and poorly quenched. The gears are gritted over, a link is bent, and the fly, crude as it is, needs adjustment."

  All eyes turned to the youthful expert.

  The fat man spoke. "You see what he says. Gears gritted over. Bent links. Improper quenching. The last predicament, I might add, is one I fully comprehend." He wiped away a mustache of ale from his upper lip and said, "You have no choice but to give the boy a chance. My passengers value my opinions about the inns at which we stop. This route offers others in which to take shelter."