by Terry, Mark
An electrical buzzing accompanied the glowing screen. A bright flash consumed the room and the monsieur closed his eyes.
Then, as quickly as it started, it ended. Tesla walked over to the man, smiling. “That’s all is needed.”
Confused and a bit shaken, the landlord walked over and retrieved the tray of dishes where Tesla had laid it. As he walked out the door, Tesla called out to him, “See yourself!”
Turning to the photographic plate that sat on rolling wheels, the monsieur peered slack-jawed at the bones inside his own body! The bones and vital organs could be seen as through a cloudy window.
The tray of dishes fell from monsieur’s hands. He did not even notice the scattering of his wife's fine tea set and plate ware.
“Is marvelous, yes?” Tesla asked, excitedly.
“Mon Dieu!” proclaimed the landlord. “Sir, this is wonderful!”
Tesla nodded. “I think will have impact on everyday life. Doctors will diagnose internal injuries. Small versions of these on battlefields, soldiers could get medical assistance in quickest time. Prospects are endless.”
“It’s a miracle,” the monsieur whispered.
Tesla shook his head and then moved toward the shuttered window. He opened it and stared out. “That’s true miracle. My alternating current. That’s where I’m getting power. From power plant there.” He pointed across the street at the Continental Edison Building, tapping on the window with each syllable. “From power plant there. From power plant there.” The inventor closed the window and rotated the latch, locking the window. Then he proceeded to unlatch and latch the window twice more before stepping away. “Thank you to making sure your wife removes earrings before come into flat.”
Albion nodded his head as Tesla turned to him with a serious look. “I’m improving power plants. Soon they will provide not just factory but many neighborhoods electricity.”
“For what, sir?” the proprietor queried, but got no answer.
Tesla crossed the room and picked up several angular metallic parts on the work table. “This is amplifier,” he said with little regard. “Using Mr. Edison’s telephone invention, you’ll speak into this and….” He looked at the proprietor for a moment and trailed off.
“I know all about the telephone, sir. I haven’t seen one myself but I’ve heard about them!”
“Yes. Well, with this, you’ll be heard block away with normal voice. Portable phone, like that.” Tesla looked at the pieces in his hands.
The proprietor scratched his head. “What would one want to do that for, sir?”
Tesla went on without answering Albion’s question. “Must remember to get patent.”
The confused man picked up the tray and broken dishes while Tesla went back to his x-ray machine. He twisted a screw, turned a knob, and then checked his gauges feverishly.
Interlude 4
Saturday, February 20, 1892, 2:17 p.m.
Somewhere in Paris
Wedderburn wandered the Montmartre Quarter for most of the morning, moving amongst the musicians and beggars in the neighborhoods between Boulevards des Maréchaux and the Thiers Wall. He found himself unable to think about anything other than the intoxicating woman he had seen earlier on the street. A group of burly youth marched down the middle of the street waving banners of “Solidarity” and “Eight Hour Workday.” As he moved away from the revelers and towards the heart of the city, he contemplated the organ, itself.
What an extraordinary thing it is. The mind can capture thousands of miles of scenery, a hundred nations, a dozen tongues, and still not even be close to being full. But a single glance, a knowing look, and the heart can be overflowing.
Another group of wildly dressed revelers called the Rex Carnival marched behind the socialists. They were followed by a small band of musicians playing “If Ever I Cease to Love,” which became the anthem of the Carnival. Dressed in wild, purple, green and gold costumes, the revelers danced with one another and passersby with equal aplomb. One masked dancer stopped, waved seriously at his surrounded dervishes, and pulled a parchment scroll from the folds of the vibrant array.
A young man’s voice bellowed with all royal dignity, “Hear, Ye! Hear, Ye! His Majesty Rex of the Carnival calls all his subjects to gather from near and far, to join in the many celebrations and processions which will shortly unfold under the joyful carnival banner!” Beside him, a female barker declared the exact same phrase in French.
The Gunslinger made his way to Séverine Square where throngs of revelers amassed. In one area a fire eater displayed her talent, a sword juggler in the other.
I love their transitory nature, passing out of one time and into another. It is an experience I am used to.
Near the Compas D’Or, he wandered into one of the covered shopping arcades which were becoming so popular and commonplace. A butcher and a cutlery shop were its principal facade, but within its narrow archways were offered an open and airy place to shop and meet during the day and the night. Vast winter gardens and greenhouses were also built with huge ribs of iron and fields of glass. They were “cities in miniature.”
She is here!
Once again, she dressed in contrast to the heavy drapery and rigid corseting of Paris fashion. Her evening wear suggested a woman of the new Paris nightlife, her evening jacket a striking red, with padded shoulders. Her strong, slender hands fitted into long, white gloves. Her bicycle sat leaning against the table. A very small box of pâtés and fruit open on the table in front of her. She waved at a passerby. He was a distant acquaintance perhaps, someone deserving of a nod. Nothing more than that. She didn’t seem to be waiting for anyone. She existed at ease, just watching life.
Philosophers have said throughout the ages most problems can be solved if people could just sit in a room and be quiet. To see someone who can sit at ease, without the need to be moving, chatting about nothing to others, only draws me in.
Her mouth crinkled in a smile when she saw him, but she showed no surprise, as if she had expected to see him again. He drew closer to her and noticed for the first time a white orchid with bluish-purple petals and golden streaks could barely be seen in her left coat pocket.
"Allez vous-en! Allez vous-en! Sapristi! That's all right!"
Wedderburn moved his head sharply at the sound, his forward motion rudely disturbed.
"Allez vous-en! Allez vous-en! Sapristi! That's all right!"
A parrot hung in a cage outside a small shop three paces away.
He turned back to the beauty to find her eyes crinkled in laughter, but her mouth did not change its thin, interested line. He cocked his head and smiled politely, but he knew his eyes told a different story. They took her in from head to toe. They drank in her lines, her beauty, the way the very light in this section of the shopping corridor seemed a little brighter because of her presence.
He sat down at her table without a word. Normally, women moved in his direction. A glance or a phrase and a woman would be his for the asking—for the hour, for the night. But sitting at the tiny table, just an arm's length from her, he felt himself leaning toward her. He couldn’t help it. He found himself drawn to her.
Allefra, what a beautiful name! Her father owns a bank. Her uncle is a count with a vast estate. She works at a very modern department store on the Quai des Augustines to pay for things she likes, and her brother is a victim of absinthe who spends most of his days wandering the household in a narcotic stupor.
When he asked her if she used absinthe, she shook her head.
“Never! I have seen others drink it often, but I can’t bring myself to try it. It’s that awful medicinal green color!”
He held a hand up, open palmed. “One wave of the opal wand and all sorrow is guillotined?” he questioned, mocking the phrase of absinthe users.
She cocked her head coyly. “With absinthe, with this fire. You can have a bit of fun. Playing a role in some drama!”
He smiled at her poetic drama and offered, “We of Paris care nothing as to w
hether our thoughts run in wholesome or morbid channels so long as self-indulgence is satiated,” he finished with a flourish of his hand.
She looked at him with hard, almond-shaped eyes. “Happiness, not mindless self-indulgence, is the proof of integrity—and the result of loyalty to your values.”
Somewhere a newsvendor barked, “La Patrie! La Patrie!” as the Gunslinger looked at the beautiful woman. The light of the gas lamps and the reflections of the glass ceiling caused shadows to dance and beams of light to reflect awkwardly, but at that moment when he really saw her, light itself seemed to emanate from her. He thought of himself in love. No, he knew it.
“Did you enjoy your lunch today?” he asked her with solemnity.
“I’m afraid I didn’t have lunch. So busy today. I completely forgot about it.”
“Well, then you will certainly want to join me.”
“For shame, sir! Why would I go anywhere with someone I don’t even know?” she asked, her mouth crinkling in a straight smile.
He stood. “Why, it’s a holiday in Paris, and every meal in Paris on holiday is better than the one which preceded it! We have some catching up to do! To Voisins!”
Interlude 5
Sunday, February 21, 1892, 8:26 a.m.
Saint Germain-des-Prés, Paris
We returned yesterday in time for her to help with the closing of the book shop. She agreed to meet me in the market square this morning that I may accompany her on her shopping rounds. The Paris morning is still gray and cold and I am not altogether uncomfortable.
He wore a shooting jacket today, the only change in his outfit. When he saw her, he beamed.
Allefra wore a simple red corset with a splayed collar when she entered the market. Surprising. It certainly belies her middle class tastes. We are going on the next step in a courtship, the walk!
“Good morning, madam.”
“Your increased attentions are going to present you with some challenges, sir.” She picked up a melon, tapped it, and set it down.
“Allefra, if I must, I will submit to an inquest.”
She smiled. “There are questions that will be asked.”
Wedderburn nodded as they continued to walk. “And you may ask them.”
She put several vegetables from the next stall into a bag. She held out some coin to the vendor. The man looked at Wedderburn and waved off the payment. Allefra held the coin in a closed fist for several moments, looking at the Gunslinger. She studied him up and down once, then put the coin into her pocket.
They walked amongst the vendors of excellent produce, fish and meat, cheese and sweets. Several times she bagged up some cheese or ham, only to look at the vendor who just smiled and waved.
“Are they afraid of you, or do you pay very well?” Allefra asked, finally.
He smiled. “I can’t imagine I frighten anyone Allefra.”
She mused about this. “You’re a good Catholic then?”
Wedderburn stood silent for a moment, then spoke with his eyes closed. “Amen, amen, I say to you. No one can see the kingdom of God without being born of water and Spirit. No other man-made religion can see heaven without being baptized by the Catholic or Roman Catholic Church. We go to church to receive the Sacraments for the Spirit.”
She looked at him with quiet surprise, then cocked her head. “So you honor God and the Blessed Mother, but you aren’t French?”
He shook his head. “My family line has been in the Americas over two hundred years.”
“But you live in Paris now?”
He stopped at a stall lined with cans of olive oils, jams, and chocolate. “It’s one of the places I have a home, yes.” He pulled several cans off the shelves and dropped them into a bag. The old woman handed the bag to a young boy who ran off with them, back the way they had come.
“He knows where to go? Just like that?” she asked, puzzled.
He inclined his head. “He isn’t running away.”
They walked silently for several minutes. Once they stopped at a bread vendor. Allefra chose two baguettes and a sweet loaf. The vendor put an extra loaf of sweet bread into the bag and smiled, quickly moving on to another customer.
“I have employment. I provide for myself. I spend my money as I choose, and I go where I choose,” she said, matter-of-factly.
“As do I. Perhaps we might find ourselves doing as we choose at the same time.” He smiled at her.
“My friends are going to be unhappy that I have met someone they haven’t chosen.”
“Well, they certainly wouldn’t consider finding you someone with any intelligence or political attitudes, either.”
She laughed aloud. He stopped and for a moment, stood taken aback at the sight. She laughed with pure expression, beautiful teeth, and a deep expressive tone. No parlor giggle from this Victorian female.
“No, Mr. Wedderburn. They would consider that terribly unfashionable.”
The next step is keeping company, likely in her parlor. Another family member will have to be present, unless I can convince her to join me abroad first. I could sit for tea and a boring conversation, but what if I lack the patience of proper decorum?
“So, Mr. Wedderburn, what is it that keeps you in Paris?”
“I have a number of interests that concern my businesses here. Mostly iron and steel exports from America. Most people don’t believe it to be true, but France’s system of trade is just as liberal and open as that of Britain. French tariffs are actually lower, so business is…robust.”
They stopped to look over some spices at a small table.
She turned and laid a hand upon his forearm. “Oh, we see that every day in the department store. Fabrics and garments, perfumes and disposable trinkets. It’s a wonder. You should come and see.”
He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Lots of people, I would imagine.”
Her eyes went wide. “Oh, throngs.” Her eyebrows wrinkled. “Do crowds bother you, Mr. Wedderburn?”
“Only the people in them, Mademoiselle. Only the people.”
“You should come visit my counter at Zola’s. Mr. Zola worked under Mr. Wanamaker in Philadelphia. He’s a visionary. For the first time, women in Paris have a socially acceptable, safe place to shop. Everything is separated into departments. They’re clean and appealing.” She stopped and held a hand to her mouth. “There’s even a counter for women’s gloves!”
Interlude 6
Monday, February 22, 1892, 10:22 a.m.
Zola’s Department Store, Paris
Wedderburn walked up to the front of Zola’s Department Store and paused. He wore his shooting jacket again and a tall crown hat for the shopping spectacle. Massive granite columns stretched two stories high across the portcullis, and a marble facade outlined the veneer that gleamed in the morning light. The gray French weather still blocked the sun, but the front of Zola’s didn’t seem to suffer from a lack of astral glow.
The Gunslinger stepped into the store and looked around. To his right, the floor opened up to a ten-table, tea room full of Gibson Girl women enjoying their late morning tea. They dressed in garments that accentuated their hips and buttocks, their hair piled high on their heads in the contemporary bouffant.
To the left, a long string of counters selling fabrics, perfumes, jewelry and more lined the wide halls. Wedderburn could see signs for a nursery, an emergency room, and even a library. Beautiful porcelain dolls sat on the corner of several long counters. Higher up the massive, open interior, the multi-story rotunda displayed the size and majesty of the department store. The second story kept the building bathed in daylight through windows designed by L. Frank Baum.
He spotted her in the hat section. She fitted one woman with a sailor’s hat, while the woman next to her studied herself donning a lady’s carriage hat in a full-length mirror. When Allefra saw him, she smiled.
From behind a large display case, stepped a wiry man in a gray, double-breasted, frock coat. He had squinty eyes, pursed lips and a sneer. His eyes darted suspici
ously among the several ladies working the hat and glove counter. Wedderburn eyed the little man.
“Ladies, performance is everything. The performance of your dress. The performance of your duties. The performance of pleasing the customer.” He smiled like a snake. Several of the women looked very nervous, almost terrified.
Allefra spoke softly, “Mr. Snerdley, we’ve already sold our quota for the day. It’s not even noon.”
Mr. Snerdley’s eyebrow arched. “Hats, Mademoiselle Babin.” His eyes narrowed and he practically slithered to turn to look at the two women behind the glove counter. They cowered under his gaze as his hand settled on Allefra’s gloved hand on the counter. “Obviously your performance in sales is unquestioned, Mademoiselle Babin, but there are other factors of performance that help you keep your job.” He turned to Allefra and sneered.
“Please, Mr. Snerdley, sir. The gloves are selling. We will meet our allocation.”
The little man spun on the two women.
“Maybe keeping your jobs isn’t so important to you. Maybe you belong out on the streets with the rest of the trash who wish they had a warm clean job to come to. There are women out there who would do anything—anything—to have this job.”
The two women cowered then jumped at the figure that loomed in front of the counter.
“Excusez moi, Mademoiselles,” Wedderburn said, his voice as hard as iron. He stared directly at Mr. Snerdley. The little floor manager turned, looked up into the Gunslinger’s face, and paled.
Wedderburn licked his lips hungrily, impaling the floor manager with his stare. Then he turned to the women and flashed them a brilliant smile.
“I have several sisters and aunts I need to buy gifts for. A family event. I’ll need a dozen.” He turned to Mr. Snerdley. “Later, I have several other departments I need to visit. What departments are you in charge of, sir?”
The little man backed up, but Allefra stood behind him, and for a moment, he could not move. “From gloves and hats here, to perfumes,” he said pointing meekly to the right, “and on to handicrafts and candles.”