by Sesh Heri
44
“Well, he was. Fust fired Gutenberg, and then brought in Schoeffer, the calligrapher from the University of Paris. And it was Schoeffer who completed the first printed book that in subsequent years was attributed to the hand of Gutenberg.” “Well, I never knew that, but it’s a good thing to know. And I’ll tell you something that’s just occurred to me. If Paige doesn’t come through that door within five minutes and tell me he’s got the machine put back together, I’m going to serve him his walking papers and sue him in court for every penny I’ve invested.” “Really.”
“Re—actually, no. But if I could—and if I won the court’s judgment—and if Paige had the money to pay up—don’t you know it would be heaven?”
There was another knock at the door. This time it was Paige. I let him in and I could tell by the look on his face that he had been eavesdropping on Hall and me from the other side of the door. Paige asked, “Have I interrupted something important?”
I said, “Mr. Hall here was just giving me a lesson on the history of printing. Did you know that Fust fired Gutenberg?” “Yes,” Paige said, “I thought everyone knew that.”
“I didn’t. But that should come as no shock. There’s a lot I don’t know. I quit school at the age of twelve. But it hasn’t stopped me from paddling my own canoe and knowing what’s what and who’s who when it comes to han- dling my own business. Did you get her put back together?” “Yes.”
“Every part?” “Every part.”
“Did you discharge Grandpa and the boys?” “Yes.” “And give them their pay?”
“Yes. And fed them as well.”
“Good. So the machine is working.” “It’s working.”
“Good. Say no more. That’s all I want. It’s working. I am satisfied. How about you, Hall? You satisfied?” “I’m satisfied,” Hall said.
“Good. Then we’re all set for tomorrow.”
“All set,” Hall said. And then he turned to Paige, and said, “Here’s some- thing I suggested to Mr. Clemens earlier today, and it occurs to me now that maybe it’s something we should do.” “What’s that?” Paige asked.
Hall said, “I think we ought to take a look at a Linotype machine. Just to see how our competition is being used.”
45
“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Paige said.
“Ah!” I cried, “for once Paige and I agree on something! Wait a minute. That doesn’t seem right. Why don’t you want to see a Linotype?” Paige said, “It’s an unquestionably inferior machine. We have nothing to learn from it.” “I beg to differ,” Hall said. “We can always learn something from a com- petitor, even an inferior competitor.” “The lesson of a bad example,” I said. “Something like that,” Hall replied. “You’ve done this sort of thing before, haven’t you, Hall?” I asked.
“I always spy out my competitors. You’d be surprised what you can learn from people who do the same things you do.” Paige said, “I’m sorry, but I have never learned anything new from another mechanic.” I shot a glance over at Hall. I was thinking about the other designers of the typesetter: Farnham, Thompson, North, and Von Schriver. Hall said, “We might not necessarily learn anything mechanical. I’m thinking more along the lines of sales, advertising, and marketing.” I said, “I’m beginning to see your point.” Paige said, “Well, if you want to inspect a Linotype, I suppose I could go along with you. To explain things.”
“Now that’s fine,” I said. “Didn’t you say something about a Newspaper, Hall?” “The Chicago Daily News has a roomful of Linotypes, and I know their publisher, Victor Lawson.”
“Well,” I said, “let’s go down there right now.”
“Very well,” Paige said, “only there is still the matter of my expense money. You said you’d have it for me.” “I said nothing of the kind! I said if you had the machine ready we’d talk about the money. How much do you need?” “Seven thousand dollars.”
“Seven thou—Good God! Seven thou—! I can’t even say it! You’ve spent seven thousand dollars without my authorization?” Paige dropped his hands to his sides. He looked over at Hall, then back to me, and said: “Seven thousand dollars is not that much.” “Not that much? It is that much when you haven’t got it!” “But surely you have it.” “I have it and I don’t have it.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I’ve already economized my family all the way to Europe and now you want seven thousand more of my dollars? Where do you want me to send my wife and children next? China?”
46
“I don’t want you to send them anywhere. I just want to finish the machine.” “The machine is finished as far as I am concerned, and the prospective investors will see it tomorrow.” “Mr. Clemens!” “How in God’s name could you spend another seven thousand dollars?” “Some of the machine’s parts broke.” “Broke?” “Yes, broke! They had to be recast. The recast parts did not fit in certain places. The tolerances of the die-forms were inaccurate. I was able to adjust some parts, other parts had to be recast again.” “Again?”
“It was all the unavoidable result of trying to combine the old, original machine with the new model. What we now have is a composite machine the flaws of which can only be discovered through repeated test runs. The only real solution for sound construction is to build an entirely new machine.” “An entirely new—! You listen to me! It’s your job to make the machine we now have operate correctly! We’re playing the hand we’ve been dealt! You understand that? Do you?” “Yes.”
I turned away from Paige, and said, “I want to see all the receipts and bills for the re-castings and for any other work and expenses which you have in- curred. I cannot believe all your goddamned tinkering has amounted to seven thousand dollars. A few years ago I was paying out seven thousand dollars for your yearly salary.” “It was not just for the re-castings and adjustments. There were other ex- penses.” “What other expenses? I’ve already agreed in New York to pay you five thousand for your monthly stipend.” “Mr. Clemens, you ask for bills and receipts—you worry about a few dollars and cents—”
“A few dollars and cents!”
“—when the greatest invention in the history of the world—” “Don’t start that again!” “—sits across the river in a warehouse for want of— “More money?”
“Mr. Clemens! We must not lose courage now. Not now! Only a little more work and I will be able to pronounce the machine finished!” “God damn you!”
I spun about and stepped up to Paige, and looked at him. He looked back at me with absolute calm and confidence. I said, “Eight years ago you pronounced the machine finished! Eight years ago! We could’ve marketed the machine then! But no! You said we
47
must wait and wait and wait while you tried to figure out how to install the automatic justifier. And how much did you estimate that extra work would cost? Nine thousand dollars? Then adjusted upward to thirty thousand? And what’s my investment now? One-hundred fifty thousand dollars—and climbing! We should’ve started manufacturing and selling the machine eight years ago without the justifier. Then—when we made some money— we could’ve added the justifier to later models! But no! Hell no! We had to submit to your chuckle-headed idea of perfection—and submit to it for eight years! I’ve lived through eight years of your tinkering and ciphering and fidgeting, waiting, and hoping, and praying, while the prime years of my life ran through my fingers! I was in the prime of my life when we partnered up! Now I’m a worn out old man, a worn out old man who’s given you thousands upon thousands of my dollars and my wife’s dollars to finish the machine! And still there’s no end in sight! Where is the end, Paige? Where is the end? Is there an end?”
“Mr. Clemens!” Paige shouted above my voice, “I have incurred expenses! Legitimate expenses out of my own pocket! I am not a wealthy man like you.” “Oh that’s it. I see it now. Oh, ho! I see it all. That’s what you’re after. Milk Clemens for all he’s worth. Is that your game?”
; “I have no ‘game,’ as you put it, sir, and I do not care to be spoken to in this manner.” “Well, why don’t you hit the road, then?”
Paige’s eyes narrowed. He had no intention of going anywhere until he got what he wanted. “Mr. Clemens,” Hall said, coming up beside me. “Maybe you could ad- vance him a little money. He has been working hard.” I walked across the room and looked out the window. The traffic down on the street was getting mighty thick. I said, ”I did not agree to begin the five thousand dollar monthly stipend until next month. I’ll write him a check for three thousand dollars. He has that coming for his monthly stipend under our old agreement.” “Three thousand is not enough,” Paige said with ice in his voice.
“Make it enough!” I shouted, spinning back around to him. “Chicago’s the city of making do! So you make do! And if you want more money, then you’d better make the demonstration of your life to the prospective investors tomor- row. Now. I’m writing you your check.” I reached inside my coat and took out my check book and sat down at the desk. I took out my fountain pen, and said, “I’m making it out for three thou- sand dollars.” I began writing the check, almost gouging the paper with the pen.
“Three thousand dollars,” I said. “Three thousand dollars and no cents. That’s what I’ve got. No sense! For giving you one more damn penny! I’m
48
going to sign this check, but I want the bills and receipts for every penny of the seven thousand dollars you’ve spent, and I want them tomorrow.”
I signed my name to the check, tore it from the book, and held it aloft between my thumb and forefinger. I said, “Now take it and get out.”
Paige looked at me, then at the check, then at me again. I said, “I mean it. Take it.” Paige took the check.
I said, “Now get the hell out of here.” Paige started out. Hall said, “We’ll see you in the morning.”
Paige stopped, looked at Hall, nodded, and then went out the door, closing it loudly behind him. “I think you hurt him,” Hall said.
“And he’s hurt me. Down deep. He’s gouging me, Hall, gouging me for every penny I’ve got! Every penny!” “It takes money to make money.”
“Money, money, money. That’s all my troubles. I’ve gone money crazy!”
I collapsed into a chair, and held my head between my hands. “Damn it!” I said. “Damn it all to hell!” I sat there for a minute or two, and Hall stood looking out the window. After a while, Hall said, “Things are not so bad. Not so bad at all. The machine is ready to be seen. We have some promising investors coming to see it tomorrow. I think we should just relax now and let events take their natural course.” “You relax all you want,” I said. “I’m planning on having a running fit, myself.”
“We really should take a look at the Linotypes,” Hall said.
“You ought to learn a new tune, Hall. The one you’re singing is getting mighty old.” “All right,” Hall said. “Just sit there.”
I stood up, and said, “All right, all right. We will go see those goddamned Linotypes. Go get your hat and coat. Go on. I’ll wait. Anything to get you to quit singing that tune.” Hall went into his room. I added, “You know you can’t sing, Hall. People who can’t sing should talk, not sing.”
Hall came back in wearing his coat and hat, and said, “I’m talking now. Let’s go.” I said, “Your talking sounds an awful lot like singing. It sounds like Wagner— just when you think it’s going to stop, and your faith in God and heaven is restored, it starts up again and stumbles and tumbles you straight to hell.” We went out, and took the elevator down to the lobby.
49
Hall said, “We’ll walk over there.” “Walk? Hall, I’ve walked half my life. Why can’t we take a cab?” “The walk will do us good.” “You mean it’ll do me good. All right, let’s get it over with.”
We came out of the elevator, and, as we started across the lobby, the desk clerk said, “Mr. Clemens, I have a message for you.” I thanked the clerk and took the envelope he was handing me. It was a sealed envelope of printed stationery. On it, in a beautifully f lowing hand, was written “Mark Twain.” The printed return address on the envelope’s corner had been crossed out and obliterated with several strokes of the pen, but I could still barely make out the address beneath the pen strokes. It was a place in New York City, somewhere on South Fifth Avenue. The name above the address was completely inked over and indecipherable. At that moment I could not figure out who sent the envelope, for I knew a lot of people in New York. I opened the envelope with my thumb nail and slid out a thin sheet of paper. It was a note written in that same beautifully f lowing hand. It read: “Dear friend Mark, if you will be in tonight, I would like to see you. Please leave word with the desk clerk to give me your room number. N.T.” N.T.? Who was N.T.? I wondered. “Something wrong?” Hall asked.
“Just a strange message,” I said. “How so?” “Somebody’s sent me a note, but whoever it was just signed the initials N.T.; I have no idea who it is.”
I turned to the desk clerk and said, “There’s no postage on this envelope. How did it come in?” “By messenger,” the desk clerk said. “Not more than five minutes ago.”
I pondered the situation a moment. Was it some kind of practical joke? Hall was peering over my shoulder now with curiosity, so I handed him the note. “N.T.” Hall said. “May I see the envelope?”
I handed the envelope to him. Hall studied it a second, his eyes narrowed. Then suddenly, his eyes widened. “I know this address,” Hall said. “So do you.” “I do?” “35 South Fifth Avenue. That’s the address of Nikola Tesla’s laboratory. N.T.”
“Of course! What a thick head I am! It’s Tesla!”
“Yes, Tesla’s here in Chicago. He’s at the fair. In fact, some say he is the fair. Did you see the morning paper?” “I haven’t seen any paper all day.”
Hall reached over the clerk’s desk, snatched up the morning’s paper, and slid it across the counter to me.
50
Nikola Tesla’s picture shone out on the right side of the front page, while on the left side of the page was a drawing of the giant pleasure wheel designed by George Ferris. In thick, black type, the headline read: “WONDER OF THE WORLD!” I ran my eyes over the text of the article. It was all about Tesla and the fair. It was telling how the fair would be using the alternating current system of electricity invented by Tesla. His system would be lighting all the incandescent light bulbs in the exhibition buildings and running all the electrical machinery on the grounds. It would be powering gigantic electrical lights that would shine up in great beams to the night sky, while other lights would illuminate and bejewel the outside walls of the fair’s exhibition buildings in a dazzling array of colors. For the first time in history, a city at night would come alive with a noon-day glow by the power of electricity. The fair had not opened yet, but, across the street from the main entrance, Buffalo Bill was presenting his “Wild West Show.” In order to take advantage of the thousands of people coming to Buffalo Bill’s arena with money in their pockets, the fair’s organizers were selling passes to the unfinished fairgrounds. People were referring to these passes as “inspection tickets,” for, with one of those tickets, anyone could set himself up as an “inspector” of the unfinished fairgrounds. People could study scaffolding and lumber piles and mud puddles and criticize or praise according to their temperament and politics. And they could note, perhaps, that, if the building of the fair was behind schedule, it was not because the workmen were laying down on the job. Building the fair was straining the capacity of every industry in the world. The things being done there had never been done before, and it was becoming obvious that the unprecedented would keep to no schedule. Although the interior of the Elec- trical Exhibition Building was still unfinished, on this day, the paper announced, special groups with their “inspection tickets” would attend lectures and demon- strations there by Nikola Tesla who was in the process of installing his electri- cal system throughout the fairgrounds.
&n
bsp; “Well,” I said, “if people didn’t know who Tesla was before, they will now. He’s going to be more famous than Edison.” Hall said, “I never thought any inventor would be more famous than Edison, not in my lifetime. But, you know, I think you’re right. Tesla’s a man who will change the world. Yes—now there’s a man who will define the next millennium.” “But how did he know I was in Chicago? And—why did he sign his note N.T.?”
“Who knows? Tesla’s a very strange bird. Who can guess why or how he does the things he does? I’ve heard some of the most peculiar things about him.” “Peculiar is all a matter of proportion. Perspective and proportion. One man’s peculiar is another man’s P’s and Q’s. And I always try to mind my own P’s and Q’s.”
51
I turned back to the desk clerk, and said, “Mr. Nikola Tesla will be here tonight at—at—” I turned to Hall, then back to the desk clerk.
“Well,“ I said, “Mr. Tesla didn’t say what time he will be here to see me. But he will be here some time tonight. You’ll be sure to let him know how to get up to my room when he comes, now, won’t you?” “Why, certainly, Mr. Clemens,” the desk clerk said.
“And there’s no need for him to send up a card. Just give him my room number.” “Yes, sir,” the desk clerk said.
I turned to Hall, and said, “All right, let’s go see those Linotypes.” “And we’ll walk,” Hall said. “All right. We’ll walk. I just hope I don’t throw out my left knee. You know I’ve got rheumatism in that joint now.” “No, I didn’t know.” “Well, I do.”
“The walk will do you good. That’s why you’ve got the rheumatism. You sit around too much. You’ve got to get up and move around. Keep limber.” Hall and I stepped out of the hotel and headed down the sidewalk. It was thick with office workers going home. We reached a wagon-tangled intersec- tion and crossed it, barely avoiding getting trampled by a horse and f lattened by a streetcar and crushed to pulp by a dray overburdened with barrels. We got across that street whole and intact and nearly sane, and continued on foot through the streets of always-changing, always-moving Chicago. A dry, dusty wind whistled past us, scattering loose rubbish and sailing shreds of old Newspapers into the blue of the afternoon sky. The wind had moved all the coal dust out of the air, moved it off to wherever coal dust goes when it is no longer needed or enjoyed. This made breathing somewhat possible. I say “some- what” because breathing is only somewhat possible inside a cyclone. We shuff led along the crowded sidewalk, every few seconds being jostled and bumped by one of the herd. Ahead, a flotsam of black derbies bobbed like driftwood on the surface of a river, and, here and there, a lady’s hat decorated the f low with a splash of color. The air boomed and cracked with the sound of steam hammers, and beneath all that booming and cracking was a dull roar of streetcars sliding along on their cables and horse hoofs and carriage wheels clattering and rattling over paving stones and Newsboys shout- ing at street corners. All that roaring and booming and cracking and banging and shouting vibrated in my head in a most disagreeable way until it felt like my skull was ready to split apart. Then my knee began bothering me; it was a dull ache in the left knee-cap. I began questioning my sanity for giving in to Hall’s urgings, but it was too late to turn back; I could see the office building for the Daily News up ahead at the corner of Wells and Madison. We made it