A case of curiosities

by Kurzweil, Allen

  "I would like to rent the book, not purchase it outright," she said with finality. "Your master has us on account and provides the service of a lending library."

  Etiennette confirmed the household's regular use of the collection, though it was the domestic who had previously picked up and delivered packages. Etiennette handled the rest of the transaction, entering the name of the patroness into the coded rental book. While this was taking place, Claude continued to comb his memory. She had not been in the shop before. He had not encountered net on his Friday founds. He dtew a blank.

  Etiennette filled in the various elements of the agreement. The patroness inspected Claude intently, almost shamelessly, as if he were part of the merchandise in the store. She concluded the transaction by saying, "I will return the book next Thursday. I will know by then if it has been of use."

  "Noted, Madame," Claude said, adding, "We look forward to your return."

  The patroness smiled. It was at that moment that Claude remembered. The eyebrow had given him a hint, but the smile could leave no doubt. He walked her to the door. The bell rang, the door closed, and only the smell of the patroness's perfume lingered. Claude rushed to the back of the bookstore so quickly that he almost knocked over the celestial globe. Etiennette was sanding the ink in the rental book.

  "Lift your hand! Her name! Let me see her name!" Claude was in shock when his feverish expectations were confirmed. He laughed, jumped about, sat for a few moments quietly, then jumped up again and laughed even more. The curious gestures were repeated throughout the afternoon. He danced with the wigless demoiselle, moving two of her wooden arms together and apart as he swept her around the back of the store. And while he danced, opening and closing the wooden extensions, he sang out, to no one in particular, "I have met the Portrait in Little."

  Her full name was Alexandra Helene Hugon. Though cited in ecclesiastical documents and the registers of a Paris foundling hospital, she finds fullest representation in the sketches and scrawls of Claude's copybooks. Daughter to one wealthy wigmaker and wife to another, she was, for Claude, a reluctant muse during a turbulent stage of his mechanical and emotional advancement.

  If Claude's love was not exactly blind, it suffered, at the very least, a nasty case of cataracts. Twenty seasons of wildflowers had bloomed and withered since the painting of the btowbound Potttait. To be sute, Alexandta Hugon was still atttactive, but thete were many imperfections Claude refused to see. Her complexion was no longer smooth. The pox had left widespread scarring that required the daily application of costly creams. Her eyebrows were not nearly so lush and defiant as the Portrait in Little suggested. Still, she had fire in her gaze and an enigmatic smile. Perhaps to compensate for the loss of youth, she acted and dressed in a manner that could only be called coquettish.

  Claude tried to describe the miracle of the encounter to his friends but was incapable of expressing the full force of his rapture. It is unfortunate that they had not been present at the rendezvous. They might well have tempered his delirious glee.

  Piero would have observed Madame Hugon's clothing with professional interest, recording the animals that had been killed to maintain her stylishness. The hat of white miniver was taken from the belly of the Siberian squirrel; the tasseled polonaise was produced by a colony of Italian silkworms; the corset was made, in part, from the baleen plates of a Greenland right whale harpooned amid the ice floes of the Arctic; the handbag was covered in skin stripped from an ostrich that had once plodded over the arid scrub of Angola; the buttons were sawed from a roebuck's antlers; the common bits of leather were taken off a cow; the cosmetic grease came from a pig. The musky smell Claude picked up as Madame Hugon left the store had been squeezed from the anal pouch of a civet. Her costume, in short, was a taxidermist's dream.

  Plumeaux, in contemplating Madame Hugon's intellectual and domestic ornaments, would have found no less interesting a specimen, one that encapsulated the momentary enthusiasms of late-eighteenth-century France. When the writings by an American inventor—the same inventor, by the way, who so bothered the Abbe with the business of the glass harmonica— proved popular in Paris, Madame Hugon bought all his books and finagled a brief and inconsequential meeting with the aged colonial at a house in Passy. When all of Paris watched the Montgolfier brothers' bag of buttoned-up wallpaper float above the city, Madame Hugon paid a latge sum for a cushioned seat in the Tuileries to witness a launching that laborers throughout the city could see just as well for free. When the battles raged between Gluckists and Piccinnists, Madame Hugon was present, boxed and beautiful, at the most important operatic performances, adding insights on the significance of Iphigenia in Tauris that she had cribbed from a musical almanac. And when it was of the moment to pay big fees for a dubious medical treatment that necessitated bondage in leather strapping and submersion in oaken tubs, Madame Hugon dutifully had herself tied up in leather strapping and submerged in oaken tubs.

  Whether it was Benjamin Franklin, ballooning, music, or Mesmer, Alexandra Helene Hugon was a fashionable woman in the old sense of the term; that is, in maintaining rank above the vulgar and below nobility. Her days were filled with lyceum appointments, violin lessons, and trips to the local pornographer.

  Madame Hugon brought back the rented book as she had promised, but not the following Thursday, or even Friday, which made Claude more than a little despondent. It was only toward the end of Saturday that she finally reappeared. Claude was working on the upcoming salon lecture Livre had encouraged him to prepare. While running errands the day before, he had tracked down a new sound, that of the burrelfly caught in the matted mane of a cart horse. He was now working on the sound's re-creation, scribbling notes under the heading of Bombylious Buzzes, when Madame Hugon entered and put the rented book down in front of the droning apprentice, who had failed to hear the bell.

  Claude pulled himself up nervously and blurted out a salutation: "A gracious welcome to you again, Madame." He took as a good sign that she was returning the book herself; the domestic could easily have acted as the courier. "Was the work as useful as you had hoped?"

  "It was not," the patroness replied. "I must find something else." What was not specified.

  Claude swallowed and said, "I have an object that I think might intetest you, Madame."

  "And what is that, a back-room diversion?"

  "No. A painted ivory miniature."* Claude handed over the likeness.

  Madame Hugon was surprised to observe her youthful portrait. "Where did you get it?"

  "It was sent by your husband, if I remember correctly, to my former place of employment." Claude remembered correctly indeed but wanted to keep his past vague. "A commission."

  "He never told me. I suppose you wish to sell the piece back."

  Claude shook his head furiously. "I only wish to return it to the woman who inspired such delicacy."

  Madame Hugon was pleased by the compliment and receptive to the advances it implied. "You may keep the miniature if it is to your liking."

  "It is, Madame. It is very much to my liking." Claude took a chance. "But wouldn't your husband wish to have it?"

  "It hardly matters anymore what my husband wishes to have."

  "I am sorry," Claude bowed his head.

  "There is no need for sorrow. My husband is not dead. We have an understanding. He leads his life. I lead mine."

  Etiennette came forward with a receipt confirming the completion of the rental transaction. Madame Hugon handed her an additional coin because the loan was tardy. She turned to Claude. "You have no idea what my husband commissioned?"

  "A watch. I was to craft it. It was ordered through the Globe."

  "Was it finished?"

  "No. I left before it could be completed."

  "A pity. I would have liked to see your handiwork."

  "If you truly wish to do so, then you should attend Sieur Livre's next salon. I will be giving a lecture and demonstration of my work on the mechanics of sound as soon as the master returns."r />
  "But you are too young to give such lectures."

  "I am fifteen, Madame."

  Amused by the apprentice's manner and seeing in him a certain rustic charm, Madame Hugon said, "Let me know when you will speak, and I will do my best to attend."

  30

  ONE month after departure, Livre returned to his Globe. The familiar phlegmy gurgle again resonated throughout the store.

  The trip had not been a success. Negotiations proved unprofitable. The hydrodynamic treatments at Montserrat had failed. Livre's discomfort was made worse by the good spirits of the visitors at the springs. Since he considered the world's pleasure absolute, the happiness of others always soured his mood.

  Livre was furious, therefore, to find Claude thriving. Far from being overburdened by all the pearls, the apprentice had managed them admirably. There were even hints he had allowed his imagination to inject itself into the Globe. In fact, there were more than hints. The innovations scaled the walls.

  "What is that!"

  "A mahogany library ladder of a more suitable design," Claude said. He showed off a device that collapsed into an inconspicuous pole. The uprights were grooved centrally to accommodate the rungs.

  Livre pulled the pole off the shelf and barked out his first order. ''Get to the Mysteries!"

  While his apprentice emptied the chamber pot, Livre conducted an inspection of the premises. Claude had dusted and polished furiously in anticipation of Livre's arrival. He had, alas, missed the third and fourth volumes of Gloriot's History of the Roman Empire. A thin film of cooper's dust covered the age of Caesar. Further investigation revealed that the antipodes of the terrestrial globe were slightly grimy, and that a copy of Catullus from the Curtain Collection had been shelved in the front of the store. Livre fly whisked angrily.

  Talk during the coach ride from Montserrat had been dominated by a wealthy and distressingly jovial pork merchant who had overpowered the bookseller with professional anecdotes. Now that Livre was back in Bibliopola, he compensated by giving Claude a thorough dressing-down.

  "In the name of God. The windows! What have you done to them?" Livre failed to appreciate Claude's selections. Though mildly angered by the image of the sewage system weighted down by enema pumps, it was the print of the "Prison of Invention," the slavish world of gears and pulleys, that most outraged him. He sputtered, "You should be locked up in that Hell for the changes you have made around my Globe. I should swat you for each of these inconsequential selections." And he did. He moved to the ledgers. Etiennette proudly noted the increase in both sales and rentals. But instead of praise, the bookseller expressed more outrage.

  "And what is that?"

  Claude explained. "A simple pantograph. It saves unnecessary duplication from wastebook to ledger."

  Livre broke the four arms of the mechanical scribe over his knee.

  That night, Livre insisted that Claude stay late and share a meal. There was much to be discussed. The bookseller managed, while consuming his leek puree, to throw Claude into a state of total agitation. "You will limit yourself to the pearls. I will not have you ending up like that Count of yours in Tournay."

  "You saw the Abbe?" Claude heard his voice tremble at the mention of his former teacher.

  "Yes." Livre smiled. "Desperate situation. Lawsuits from all sides. I will be lucky if I get a quarter of what I have petitioned for." (Which was twice what he was owed.)

  Claude could not control his curiosity. "Did he mention me?"

  "Why should he mention you? He has other problems."

  "I have thought of him recently. Part of my Wednesday lecture will include work we did together."

  "Wednesday lecture? Oh, that. It can be forgotten. Put aside whatever you were doing. I was foolish to encourage you. We must attend to more important matters."

  Claude was devastated. He suppressed his anxiety and explained that cancellation would be difficult, since he had invited Madame Hugon.

  Livre exploded. "It is expressly against the pearls to make such invitations. By what right did you take such liberties?"

  Etiennette came to Claude's defense. "He did so to augment the bookshop dividends. Madame Hugon paid for two extra days on her last rental. She said it was reward for Claude's efforts. She promises to become one of the Globe's most remunerative customers."

  This calmed Livre slightly. "Very well, since she will attend the salon, a lecture will be given."

  31

  Plumeaux was the first to arrive for the much-anticipated lecture. Piero came next, accompanied by Sieur Curtius, a German showman who operated a successful waxworks. Curtius had jobbed out parts of his minor displays to the Venetian. He agreed to attend the salon because he hoped that the apprentice would demonstrate exploitable skills. In normal circumstances, Livre would have prohibited entry to the malodorous eviscerationist and his friend, but protocol—a pearl addressed the issue—forced him to avoid a scene. The Freres Jacques soon came by. The brothers collaborated with Livre, selling the service of a small press they hid behind a false wall. Three hacks in search of free (if adulterated) spirits, the police lieutenant's informant, and a lawyer who helped Livre with the authorities rounded out the assembly of first-rate bores drinking second-rate liquor and holding forth on third-hand news. The conversation was filled with false displays of bonhomie that betrayed ancient and not-so-ancient rivalries.

  Finally, Madame Hugon arrived. Livre held tardiness in contempt but kept his wrath in check since she promised intensified financial commitment. Her elegance reduced the bookseller's anger. She wore a silk dress with folds that formed a reverse corolla and, around her waist, an aquamarine sash, tied like the ribbon on a gift box. The blond curls of her wig were teased with a professional skill that added to her beauty. She was scrutinized more closely when the others realized that she was to be the only woman present. (Etiennette cannot be counted; she sat behind the globes pursuing silent calculations.)

  Madame Hugon carried her handbag on one arm and on the other the clutch of a minor but wealthy aristocrat. She had chosen him with Claude in mind. The Count of Corbreuil was an avid if lazy experimentalist, known to have one of the largest mercury ponds in Paris. He also had a penchant for dogs.

  Introductions were made.

  "Sieur Livre and I have met before," the Count of Corbreuil said. "He acted as the agent for a timepiece ordered from abroad. A little Fragonard, you may recall, Monsieur." Though nervous that his predilections might become known among friends of noble rank, he felt comfortable with such revelations in the salon of Lucien Livre. Claude remembered the H-roll entry: "One case, in silver, Niece on Swing with Dog, a la Frago, for the Count of Corbreuil."

  "You as well?" Madame Hugon said. "It seems my husband also ordered a watch through him. And I think Monsieur Livre's apprentice was to be the maker."

  "That was in another time, another place," Livre said. "Page no longer tinkers in that milieu."

  The Count of Corbreuil expressed confusion. "I thought, Monsieur, that the subject of the evening's talk was this young fellow's work on the mechanics of sound. That is what Madame Hugon said. It is a subject that interests me."

  "It was the topic, yes. But the material proved woefully inadequate." Livre shook his head. "Page will not be making tonight's presentation." All eyes moved to the apprentice, except those of the apprentice himself, which now glared at Livre. The news hit Claude with far more violence than any baize-covered bastinade. "That is right, my young apprentice. You will not be giving your lecture. You are invited, however, to take an honored place among my honored guests."

  Madame Hugon broke the silence. "Who is to talk, then?"

  Livre smiled stiffly and declared, "You will be happy to hear, I am sure, that it is / who will discourse."

  Madame Hugon looked at the young apprentice but said nothing as Livre called the group to order. Piero and Plumeaux expressed dissatisfaction, but their protestations were ignored.

  Livre quickly launched into his talk. "Estee
med guests, tonight's discussion is entitled 'Name as Nature.' What I wish to outline is more than some casual musing, as you will soon discover. The thesis, stated in the simplest terms, is that our names bear directly on what we do and who we are."

  The audience shifted in their monogrammed mahogany chairs.

  The bookseller spat into his handkerchief. This was Etiennette's cue to step fotwatd. She carried with both hands a massive ledger that contained, Livre announced, "no fewer than 9,464 entries that give evidence of what Camden calls the Fatal Necessity of the Name."

  He started a roll call that substantiated his ridiculous theory. Only when he reached the prostitutional arts did interest pick up, and then only slightly. He cited two whores named Hon-orine and Purite and a brothelkeeper named Temperance. "There is also La Langue. She is known to tie sailor's knots with her eponymous tongue, a trick of nautical naughtiness she demonstrates on seamen who visit her in pursuit of correlative skills."

  Plumeaux wondered aloud if the name might have been taken after La Langue's skills had been discovered, but Livre refused to entertain challenges. Claude had his own unspoken doubts; his elder sister, after all, was named Fidelite.

  Livre forged ahead. When one language failed him, he would take up another. Latin, Greek, Chaldean, Norse, English — it didn't matter, as long as his ledger could be augmented. After recounting the wayward history of a cleric named Du Sin, he turned to examples in medicine, citing Cockburn's expertise on syphilis, Smellie on midwifery, and Battie on the insane. He went on and on, until the boredom felt by the guests found open expression. One of the hacks picked at the worn-out wale of his breeches; the lawyer twitched his feet to a rhythm known only to himself. A double chin sank, fingers fidgeted, a pair of spectacles slipped down the oily nose of a dozing printer. Madame Hugon twisted a curl of hair and wondered, like everyone else, how much longer the list could last.