A case of curiosities

by Kurzweil, Allen

  The letter continued: "There has been some sadness and frustration in the trip. Old Antoine is now blind. But even with this handicap, he has shown me how to take my cues from natural phenomena. He says, 'One must understand nature before one approaches artifice.'

  By the time the first letter reached the Abbe, the briefly mentioned sadness and frustration had intensified. In those towns where Claude hoped for the most assistance—localities heralded for their nurturance of mechanical wizards—he received no assistance at all. Outside the communities in which the Abbe's name was known and honored, Claude met with silence or, worse still, open hostility. The initial shouts of welcome were replaced by shots of lead. Bigger towns only yielded bigger disappointments.

  In Basel, Claude carried a letter of introduction straight to the Bernoulli residence, where he was told by a typically long-faced relative that the papers sought would not be made available. Good day. The Eulers were only slightly more helpful, showing Claude an old epidiascope once employed in the study of opaque and transparent bodies. The Bauhin collection proved vast but uninspiring. Even when the locals appeared generous, they offered little in the way of truly helpful information. The coachman observed, while eating a biscuit, that the disposition of the locals was captured in the name of their most highly esteemed dessert, a vanilla cream concoction called "silk gruel."

  Three days were all that had been scheduled for travel from Basel to Neuchatel, but a storm hit, and Claude and the coachman were stranded in Lucille's interior for two extra days. They played cards until their fingers were immobilized by the cold, then turned to the composition of mythical menus. (It should be obvious who thought up the latter diversion.) When they finally reached Neuchatel, they were tired and hungry. Claude read aloud from a guidebook that noted the attractions of the principality. " The residents of Neuchatel are known for the making of lace, buckles, escapements, hobnails, complicated locks . . .'

  "... and wine," the coachman interjected.

  ' They are a model of industry, thrift, modesty . . .'

  ". . . and tedium," the coachman added.

  During his first walk through the center of town, Claude was impressed by the visible craftsmanship: the ingenious fountains, the delicate bootjacks at the thresholds of the buildings, the angelhead shutter latches. In the Rue des Halles, he came upon a sturdy Renaissance tavern and deposited himself in its glassed-in oriel. From that vantage, overlooking the square, Claude scribbled in his copybook. The coachman joined him to drink the local wine but complained of its bite. He was told by the proprietor that if dissatisfied, he had only to leave. He stayed instead, to grumble. That evening, they secured lodgings at a reasonably priced residence catering to students, in the shadow of the mighty Collegial. Claude fell asleep full of hope that Neuchatel would be better than Basel.

  If anything, it proved worse. As he made the rounds among an Old Testament of watchmakers (two Ezekiels, a Moses, a Jonas, three Daniels, and four Abrahams), he received the same response: "We are too busy." An especially devout old man encouraged Claude to attend the sermons of Guillaume Farel and ask God for guidance.

  Claude sent a second letter back to Tournay. "I know now why impenetrable locks are a specialty of Frederick's principality." The coachman, for his own reasons, concurred with Claude. After sampling the unsatisfactory offerings of the Golden Head, Golden Apple, and Golden Lion, he concluded, "There is nothing golden about this town, except perhaps the prices."

  Claude did not see Jaquet-Droz or Leschot. An assistant informed him they were away in Spain negotiating an automat for the King. In keeping with the rest of his bad luck, Claude was denied access to their workshops, so he took a daylong trip to Le Locle and another to La Chaux-de-Fonds.

  In La Chaux-de-Fonds, he caught up with a craftsman who had helped with the construction of the Jaquet-Droz-Leschot writer. "You would not have seen much," the craftsman said. "I will grant that Droz is capable of marketing mystery" — the phrase used was commerce de creation —"but for true ingenuity, you should study the early works of Vaucanson."

  "I would like to."

  "Then you shall."

  This was Claude's greatest investigative success. The craftsman, speaking slowly in Germanic French, detailed how he had sketched the Vaucanson models when he had seen them as a journeyman in Paris. He said he still had the notes. (The German in him.) After some digging, he produced a few sheets that detailed the mechanisms hidden beneath the carapaces of gilded copper. The notes were beautifully illustrated. (The French in him.) Claude listened as the craftsman expanded on the sketches of the duck and the flute player.

  "I never saw the shepherd," he said, "but I was told it, too, was remarkable."

  He was unhesitating in his help. And just as he had finished showing Claude a method of modifying a conventional cam to expand the possibilities of differentiated movement, a bearded dealer in mechanical games named Perec entered the shop. He added to the conversation a description of the figures he had seen in Augsburg: a zebra that rolled its eyes, an eagle that flapped its wings, and a starling that opened its beak to sing a tender aria.

  Claude left the town in such charged spirits that he decided to repay the craftsman's kindness by drawing a sketch of thanks. Back in Neuchatel, he went to his favorite tavern and seated himself in his favorite spot. He was halfway through the drawing—a host of angels flying off their latches—when a walnut-sized hailstone hit the window. Another fell, and then another. Gouts of rain descended on the town. Claude watched through the oriel as the coachman and Lucille pulled up to the side entrance of the tavern. Claude acknowledged the rain's significance with a simple nod.

  Neuchatel would be the last pinpoint on the itinerary. Though there was still much to do, the hailstorm and rain implied the arrival of the thaw. Claude would be needed back home.

  The thaw had started by the time they reached Tournay. The river was overflowing its muddy banks, the ground was soft underfoot. Claude went straight to the church, knowing the villagers would all be assembled. They were adamant about immediate burial. The smell of putrefaction had already begun to compete with the incense that wafted through the church. Claude moved toward the coffins. The bodies were laid out as tightly as weights in a goldsmith's weightbox. He turned Evangeline's moo-moo one last time and repositioned the feather fan that was clasped in Fidelity's hands. He spent an interminable minute gazing at his mother. He suddenly realized what someone— Piero—must have done. Madame Page's burned flesh had been covered with sheets of velum. Her cheeks were dusted with plaster. The singed hair had been cut away and replaced with a wig. What could not be fixed was hidden beneath the delicate lace pall that framed her face. Claude added to this last coffin a string of dried morels, a tribute to her talents. The gesture provoked tears among the villagers.

  The whole of the community had known her. She had treated half the valley's horses for worms with a recipe of green hellebore. She had used her dandelions for much more than salad, providing tisanes to the sick and the merely restless. She had mixed salves from the petals of daisies for those who had trouble with their eyes.

  The weeping in the church was soon overpowered by the sound of hammer upon nail. There was a slight scuffle over who would carry Madame Page's coffin and the coffins of her two daughters before the procession moved to the cemetery. The Pages were buried under the large yew Claude had once adorned with water rats. Father Gamot cleared his throat and said what priests are expected to say. Then the Abbe spoke.

  "Fire," he said, "is an elastic beast. Those who perished on that frigid night did so in a moment of great heat and cold. Among metallurgists, this is known as tempering, and its effect is supposed to strengthen. I have no doubt that our tragedy will make the victims, those living and those departed, stronger."

  Father Gamot was made uncomfortable by this unorthodox discussion of the afterlife. He ended the Abbe's speech and the service with a smile and a curt clap of his hands. A large group of mourners moved toward the mansio
n house to express condolences. There was a rumor that food and drink had been laid out. The Abbe ended the rumor. "I am sorry. The mansion house no longer belongs to me. I am no longer your Count. Everything has been sold."

  The sale had been concluded during Claude's absence. The accountant had negotiated the various permissions from the various authorities. He took possession of both the Page cottage and the mansion house. The religious community was joyful but solemn. "The ex-cleric is now an ex-count, as well" was Sister Constance's response. The Abbe invested half his funds in a pension. The other half was set aside, as promised, for Claude.

  Lucille was packed hastily, her panniers loaded with bundles that included tools, a half-dozen jars of pears in heavy syrup, pressed butterflies, and replies to letters sent before the winter voyage. The Abbe told Claude that they contained answers to countless queries: the price of porcelain commissions in Dresden and glasswork in Saxony, a long and cordial note from a reed grower in Languedoc. Claude was eager to read them all.

  The Abbe sneezed his thanks to each of the servants, who, in turn, responded with bows and hugs. Perhaps the most unexpected sight came just as Lucille was passing the gates. Claude poked his head out of the coach and observed a man running wildly, holding what looked like a baton.

  "Henri!" Claude shouted in shock.

  The Slug raced with extraordinary speed to catch the departing coach. He narrowed the gap until he could pass the baton—one of the Abbe's overlooked note-rolls — into Claude's outstretched hand. With that done, he slowed his pace and watched Lucille and her passengers roll away ftom Tournay.

  One hour into the trip, Claude noticed an oddly shaped object among the bundles.

  "What is it?"

  "Something Piero and I were working on while you were away," the Abbe said.

  "What is it?" Claude asked again.

  The Abbe was evasive. "You will find out soon enough. Just treat it gingerly. We will be trading it for some important materials on our way to Paris."

  "Where are we stopping?"

  The Abbe stared at the passing fields. He was unwilling to respond.

  Claude pressed him. "At least, tell me what it is."

  Piero could not resist. He lacked the Abbe's talent for keeping secrets. "A cornopard. We made it during your absence."

  "A what?"

  "He said it was a cornopard," the Abbe repeated, tapping with his hearing trumpet on a horn that protruded from the muslin wrapping.

  Claude slid closer to inspect.

  "Don't touch it," the Abbe warned.

  Claude was insulted by the reproach. "I am no ordinary fumbler."

  "This is no ordinary creature. Please be careful."

  Claude removed the wrapping and looked at the animal. It rose four hands high from a simple pine base. As the name suggested, the creature had a horn and spotted fur. What made it even more curious was that the horn, taken from a narwhal tusk once thought to have belonged to a unicorn, stuck out from the small of the animal's back.

  "It reminds me of the sexual apparatus illustrated in The Pervert's Pleasures ," Claude said.

  "We thought placement above the nose was a bit conventional," the Abbe said. "We have composed a journal account of the beast's discovery." He read the text aloud.

  Claude, though amused, was perplexed by his two friends' secrecy. "I still do not see why you cannot tell me where we are taking it, and why you and Piero have gone to so much trouble."

  "There are a number of items that might help your project considerably. I know of only one man in the vicinity who has them."

  "And who is he?"

  "All in good time," the Abbe said.

  Claude touched the cornopard's stomach. "It almost seems to move."

  Piero and the Abbe looked out the window as the carriage entered the Republic of Geneva.

  The Abbe suppressed a smile and said, "I am not at all surprised."

  4 6

  Why are we stopping at this miserable place?" Claude asked.

  "Geneva will provide us with additional material. I told you," the Abbe said.

  "You did not tell me all. This man we are supposed to see, is it the accountant?"

  "No."

  "Who, then? Who requires this kind of secrecy? Yet another chamber of yours?"

  "No. If you must know, it is Adolphe Staemphli."

  "Staemphli!" Claude was incredulous.

  "Yes. That is why we didn't tell you. Forgive the expression, but why open old wounds?"

  "Why indeed, when I can open new ones!"

  "You will be opening nothing at all, Claude. You will not even open the doot to the sutgeon's house. Piero and I will negotiate the transaction alone. You will stay with Paul."

  Claude fell into a silent fury, recollecting strategies of revenge. He had had ample time to refine his acts of retaliation. Some schemes were purely verbal. For example, a devastating condemnation in front of a Genevan judge, a denunciation that would end with Claude unveiling his mangled hand, to the horror of the court. He also contemplated a more spiteful kind of justice. In one scheme, he imagined the surgeon being forced to drink all the fluid from the preserving bottles he had filled. In another, which was set in the dark and acrid interior of the Red Dog, Claude saw himself calling out, "It is my decision that the accused shall suffer the punishment of an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a finger for a finger." Though Claude would act as judge and jury, the tavern patrons would serve as the executioners of his Hammurabian verdict. One by one, they would take from the surgeon what the surgeon had taken from them. An ear for an ear, a toe for a toe. The scene would end with Claude placing the hand of the surgeon, the means by which all the horror had been committed, in the tavern's drop-handled bread cutter. He would leave Staemphli a single eye with which to observe the horror of his reciprocative punishment.

  The Abbe interrupted Claude's angry meditation. "You will have to trust us to exact compensation."

  "I will do no such thing. I am going to enter the surgeon's house with you."

  "You will not."

  "I will."

  As the coachman negotiated the streets of the town, the argument inside Lucille bounced back and forth like a shuttlecock.

  "Your bitterness will ruin our plan," the Abbe said.

  "And what plan is that?"

  "We will tell you after it is complete."

  Piero intervened. "At least, allow him to be present." At heart, he sided with Claude. "Allow him to witness the surgeon's ruination."

  "If Claude promises to say and do nothing at all while we are there, I will agree to his presence. But he must promise." Claude reluctantly accepted the conditions of entry.

  It was dusk when the Abbe reached up and pounded the knocker—a cast-iron fist holding a ball—at the house of Adolphe Staemphli.

  "A surprise to see you" was the best salutation the surgeon could muster as the Abbe hobbled in.

  "It has been too long," the Abbe responded. "I have come to renew our relationship of exchange."

  "I doubt that my collections would benefit from anything more you or your valley could offer," the surgeon said. "But come in if you must."

  "Oh, I must. I must. I have a piece that will surely augment your holdings." The Abbe told Piero and Claude to bring in the muslin-wrapped object. As the young men cradled the cornopard, the surgeon glanced twice at Claude, whose face seemed vaguely familiar.

  For Claude, nothing in the appearance of the surgeon had changed: the same stony complexion, the same black cloak proclaiming a somber unity with the elders of the Republic, the same self-righteous manner in evidence the night the Vengeful Widow struck. The surgeon was eager to inspect the specimen, to conduct business without delay, if, indeed, there was any business at all to conduct.

  The Abbe had a different strategy.

  "I propose that these fellows fetch what we desire from your collections, duplicates I am sure you do not need. We will put them on the table and compare what we wish to exchange. While the
y gather, we can catch up. I should say here and now that I have long wished to compliment you on your masterwork of medical illustration."

  "You have seen it?" The surgeon was pleased. Few men of science—few men in any field — had come upon The Art of Cystotomy.

  "Who has not?" the Abbe said. While the Abbe interrogated Staemphli about his work, disingenuously praising the author's persevetance, style, and sensibility, Pieto and Claude wete waved off to the tooms in which the collections wete kept. As they left, Staemphli was tuminating on a musket ball he had extracted using Cheselden's high operation. "The patient had carried it around since the siege of Lille, in Flanders. Four ounces, seven drops, English measure."

  "No! By English measure?"

  "Yes, yes," the surgeon replied, in a state of uncharacteristic rapture. The conversation moved on to the kidney stone of a camel that was carved with a map of the globe. "I use it as a paperweight."

  "Really? How truly interesting. I think a similar one can be seen in Vienna."

  After a half-hour of such talk, Staemphli could hold back no longer. "What," he asked, "is this piece you wish to trade? And for what do you wish to trade it?"

  "It is an extraordinary piece that reached me just six months ago."

  "As descriptions go, my dear Abbe, you are not being terribly precise. I must ask you again, what is it?"

  "All in good time. You will see it shortly. But let us talk more about your Art while we wait for the fellows to return." And so the surgeon discoursed on cysts and gallstones and other truly interesting things.

  Meanwhile, Piero and Claude worked their way through the collections as quickly as thoroughness allowed. The Staemphli holdings were housed in three adjacent rooms. The first was passed over, since it contained rocks and minerals, principally quartz, metal ores, asbestos, magnets, a few gems, and a pictorial stone collection that rivaled that of Manfredo Settala. The second room took more time to investigate. It was filled with animalia that displayed the Genevan's disconcertingly nonselective and insatiable urges. It was cased from floor to ceiling. In fact, even the ceiling had been taken over by objects suspended from ropes. There were at least three items Claude needed from the second room. Finding them was no easy task. There were no fewer than seven pack rats, including one that was born with three tails.