In the Matter of Nikola Tesla

by Anthony Flacco

  He felt strongly that this time of his life was no less than a full-blown blessing of opportunity, despite the occasional bout of loneliness and the desire for some deeper level of contact than he could find in a billiards tavern. Otherwise his life was exactly as his mother had told him it would be, during that endless carriage ride home from the cemetery after they buried Dane. He may have failed to accomplish great things through the company of Mr. Thomas Edison, but he had prepared himself so well and kept his drive so focused that greatness had come to him by walking right out of the hard world and straight into his laboratory—in the form of George Westinghouse.

  His father’s ghost no longer held power over him with its accusatory and fearful attacks. The iron spike of fear no longer stabbed his chest when his father’s dying curses sprang to mind. As the fear grew weaker, so did his father’s ghost. Quieter and gentler moments began to make themselves felt, memories of a man who wanted to be a good father. For the first time in many years, Nikola felt the truth of that.

  There seemed to be nothing he could say to persuade his mother to consider moving to America, even though it would guarantee her the best medical care while the cruel frailties of age advanced upon her. But Djouka Tesla derived her power from the ground she had walked all of her life; a new land was not a place where she chose to end her days.

  At least Nikola’s peace of mind on her behalf was boosted by his new ability to send her meaningful amounts of money that ensured that she was as comfortable and secure in her life as he could help her to be. Her pride in him, most of all her approval of his accomplishments, made him feel more solid inside; his feet struck the ground with a less tentative heel and he no longer feared that his personal appearance at social situations required him to be in a tuxedo. Although he kept the same immaculate bathing habits he learned as a boy, he was aware of feeling cleaner in general now, or at least less suspicious that there might be some personal detail he neglected. Over time, it turned out to be a minor revelation of relief for him that despite relaxing his diligence, he continued to arrive everywhere he needed to go in acceptable condition and with matching socks on his feet.

  The question if he had been a few degrees too self-critical in the past was a speculation he had no time to pursue. Any part of his awareness not involved in the pursuit, manufacture, and patenting of alternating current devices was occupied in walking through professional association lunches, dinners, publicity gatherings, and in making the rounds of New York City’s social elite. They had lately grown frenzied for the company of men who understood this powerful new force, and who, perhaps, had ideas about where a smart investor’s money ought to go.

  Suddenly, despite being a force reviled by some as a menace to humanity, the so-called “lightning bolt” of alternating current appeared to those in the know as an invisible force that was advancing on civilization with the same inevitability as the thunder trailing a lightning flash. Conjurers of high finance found themselves confronted by the opportunity presented by those many, many thousands and someday perhaps many millions of electrically driven machines, each one waiting to be manufactured by them with operating parts built by Westinghouse Company under Tesla’s patents and placed into systems which the conjurers of high finance would devise and sell to, bluntly said, anybody anywhere who needed to accomplish anything.

  As the conjurers predicted, within months of buying the Tesla alternating current patents, George Westinghouse’s manufacturing wing began flooding all sorts of new electrical products into the marketplace. And because financial mavens do not sustain their lofty heights by sleeping through opportunity, many worldly eyes perceived the same message: the rotary effect of the whirling magnetic field has proved itself to be perfect for powering any kind of machine. Any machine at all.

  * * *

  Nearly a year after buying Nikola Tesla’s alternating current patents, George Westinghouse sat alone at a table set for two, waiting for Tesla to arrive in the fine restaurant Westinghouse had carefully selected. He had set their meeting in this place hoping the opulent surroundings might somehow dull the blow he had to deliver to his partner and friend.

  Now that he found himself actually sitting there, his choice of location seemed ridiculous. What he had been thinking? That a man he was going to rob of a fortune would be mollified if he fed him well first? It hit his conscious mind like a breaking ocean wave; even though Tesla had not even arrived yet, Westinghouse’s attempt to tread lightly with the man was already an awkward failure. His wool suit was suddenly too thick for this warm room. It felt fine all afternoon, but now it was a hair-shirt of damp confinement.

  He glanced around. The dining room was sparsely filled, so why did it feel so stuffy? He spotted some fellow smoking a pipe by the large fireplace, filling the room with the scent of cherry flavored tobacco. Westinghouse wanted to shout, What would make a man smoke that fancy garbage? Did such a man think the aroma recommended him?

  Suddenly his lungs felt too small for his body. His chest was that of a big bear of a man and it needed plenty of air; his puny lungs short-changed him with every breath. Thick straps began to tighten around his heart. He could feel the straps, real as dirt, encircling the beating organ and closing in tighter, tighter.

  By that point his grim task was already giving him a massive dose of indigestion. His state of turmoil was so intense that he had no idea what he actually felt—or was even supposed to feel. Shame?

  Why allow shame? Why should he be ashamed of pouring the company’s resources into development of all his alternating current patents? Companies have to grow or they wither, do they not? If his bankers had a mind to call in some of his overextended credit, what was that besides bad luck? The sale of his company was being forced on him, along with the need to think about all his workers and their families.

  Of course he could refuse. He could tough it out and try to stare down his creditors long enough to raise sufficient capital. He could defy those who would control him into selling off this company. All he had to do was to be willing to gamble his credibility in the profession and the ongoing needs of his workers and their families. That way, he could heed his moral imperative and pay Tesla’s royalties—at the risk of losing everything.

  Except that, of course, in the case of a bankruptcy being forced on Westinghouse, the payments to Tesla would stop anyway.

  “What a nasty business,” Westinghouse muttered into his second slab of buttered bread while he drained his wine glass. “Nasty, rotten business,” he added, blotting his mouth with a napkin. “All of it.”

  Westinghouse knew in his heart that the blessings in his life required his gratitude, but the thought gave him no comfort today. He was especially mindful that the greatest gift he had been granted was not, as many speculated, in having been guided to the inventing of air brakes for trains at the age of twenty. It was not even in successfully winning the U.S. patent on the system that brought him validation from the Universe itself—it was in being allowed to survive the major train wreck that gave him the idea for inventing better brakes for trains in the first place.

  And so because he consciously lived on a moral path, Westinghouse recognized that the only morally pure action open to him on this night was to pay the man his royalties and trust in God to bridge the shortfall of capital that would follow. Except that religious faith only requires you to risk your own life for the Lord; it doesn’t require you to risk an overall group of men, women, and children who have no say in the outcome, which is what the board members finally made him see after hours of wrangling.

  It was, plain and simple, a lesser-of-two-evils situation. He took into account their own bias and still the truth of that remained. Because if God should possibly slip up on maintaining income flow while the Tesla payment obligations were being honored, then along with everyone else who went down with the ship, Westinghouse himself would land on the bottom in ruin, at the age of forty-three. This in an age when a rightly done gentleman retired at
fifty.

  You steel yourself by remembering your duty. The words ran through his mind several times. Everyone kept their job and paycheck as long as Westinghouse allowed this deal. How was he supposed to match up his loyalty to Tesla against that? Still it hurt. It hurt no matter how he explained it to himself, and the hurt got worse for every minute that he waited for Tesla to show. His frustration felt like a mouthful of nails.

  The Golden Rule had stood him well as a guidepost all of his forty-three years, kept him away from temptation throughout his long marriage to Marguerite, kept him honest in his business dealings. It had nothing to tell him now.

  Westinghouse felt someone’s presence close by. When he looked up, Nikola Tesla stood right there next to his chair, wearing a patient smile. He actually looked as if he had been politely waiting for Westinghouse to finish his thoughts. The man has no idea how to stand up for himself, he thought angrily while he smiled and gestured for Tesla to have a seat.

  He genuinely liked Tesla, despite the fact that most of the man’s lab workers resented him for his trademark marathon work sessions. The office joke seemed to be that they should forget about building more efficient motors and instead find out how to manufacture whatever it is that drives Nikola Tesla.

  He liked the man in spite of his many eccentricities, but George Westinghouse was no politician and he couldn’t bear to beat around the bush over this thing. And so as soon as greetings were exchanged, he cleared his throat a couple of times and launched directly into the news, full of overt apology and the unspoken hope that Tesla would not take him to court in a lawsuit that Westinghouse knew that he could easily lose.

  He found it impossible to guess what Tesla was thinking while he regretfully explained about his overexcited business expansion costs and how they may have brought alternating current to the market, well, maybe a little too quickly, because now the specter of bankruptcy loomed if the company’s cash flow was diverted to pay Tesla’s royalties.

  Tesla’s gaze drilled into him from a face that looked almost empty. He silently already asked himself what he would do in Tesla’s position, but the feeling was so unpleasant that he ignored the question altogether and focused his energy on winding up the message.

  “So that’s the gist of it, Mr. Tesla. And let me tell you, as a man of my word, it cuts me to the quick to have to say it. I know that the royalties I promised you have mounted up, but…” Westinghouse hit a dead end. He could not get the words out.

  And the last thing he expected was for Tesla to jump in and save him—

  “Mr. Westinghouse,” Tesla’s smile was broad and warm, “your generous offer made my current work possible. I would not dream of adding to your troubles when every day of my life is now so full of promise.”

  Westinghouse watched as Tesla pulled a paper from his pocket and unfolded it. Westinghouse immediately recognized the royalty agreement. A cold surge of fear ran through him. It was as if Tesla somehow knew why Westinghouse had asked him here tonight, and came prepared to quote the agreement’s language verbatim. He felt a strong need to urinate. Had he severely underestimated this man?

  “Here is our royalty agreement, sir,” Tesla began.

  A moment later Westinghouse’s heart nearly stopped in shock when Tesla tore the agreement in half, put the halves together and tore them in half again.

  “What’s this?” Westinghouse gasped in astonishment. “What are you doing?”

  Tesla tore the pieces in half one more time, then dropped the bits on the table. He spoke quietly, “Men of vision should stand together. Dishonorable behavior is beneath us. Don’t you agree?”

  For George Westinghouse, the noble sentiment was not the incredible part of the encounter; it was the self-evident fact that Tesla clearly believed every word of it. Quietly, without showmanship of any sort, he spoke with so much conviction his sincerity could not be doubted. He looked Westinghouse straight in the eye, smiled, and patiently waited.

  Westinghouse stood up, but carefully; his legs were shaking and felt weak. His eyes filled with tears while he reached out and clasped Nikola’s hand. “I won’t forget this.”

  Nikola remained seated and simply lifted his glass to Westinghouse and smiled. “I already have.”

  Westinghouse sat back down and spoke in quiet and determined tones, “Well sir, then you just say the word and you can stay on here full time with my company and I’ll pay you twenty-four thousand a year. That’s what my top executives make. You can do your own work in your off hours and live like a king!”

  Nikola waved him off. “I appreciate your generosity, but our work here together in Philadelphia is essentially finished and, thanks to you, I can afford to go back to New York.” A quick laugh broke out of him. “Now that you have made it possible for my discoveries to spread across the country and soon across the world—think of it!—I am able now to run another lab on a full-time basis for my own experimental work.” The same excited laugh got away from him again. He shook his head, swallowed. “There is so much to do.” He turned away for a moment and seemed to squeeze every muscle in his body for a couple of seconds before he relaxed and looked back up with a pleasant face.

  Neither man was one for small talk. Shortly afterward, when they parted company out on the street, Westinghouse again extended his hand. Tesla regarded him warmly but this time only returned a little bow from the waist. Then he turned and stepped into the street to hail a hansom cab.

  Minutes later Westinghouse bounced along in the back of his chauffeured carriage while his indigestion attacked him like a stomach full of burning oil. What just happened?

  He came to that meeting prepared to deal with a range of possible responses once Tesla heard the grim news. So much money on the table, many millions perhaps, that it seemed smart to try the element of surprise, hope to get him signed up before he could walk away. And yet there was Mr. Tesla appearing not surprised by this at all, arriving with the royalty agreement already in his pocket.

  And at the moment when it seemed that nothing could be any more strange, it turned out Tesla didn’t bring the agreement along to use as a legal reference; no, he brought it to tear it up in front of him. He brought it as gesture of thanks and friendship such as Westinghouse had never seen before. So much money, and yet Tesla appeared completely unconcerned simply because he had enough capital to work with, thanks to Westinghouse’s purchase of his patents. He showed no doubts about his ability to generate whatever future funding he might need. Apparently, the idea of earning additional money simply to accumulate personal wealth meant nothing to the man.

  Westinghouse was boggled. Nothing in his experience guided him in interpreting what had just happened. A reaction of such calm at the loss of such wealth? How could anyone do that?

  By this point in the carriage ride Westinghouse was nearly doubled over in pain; he no longer tried to tell himself that it was indigestion. He recognized it for what it was: a combination of the damned shame and the disappointment with his own actions, gnawing away inside him.

  He didn’t want to feel such irrational rage toward Nikola Tesla. It was just there. He loathed his own sudden desire to destroy Tesla, now the only other person on the planet who knew how badly George Westinghouse was outclassed by a far less wealthy man, a man from another country, a man ten years his junior.

  He also reviled his burning anger. Although he had no real desire to hold a long knife to Tesla’s throat and shove in the tip with the palm of his hand, he would certainly understand if another man did.

  He knew the anger reduced him and shriveled his spirit. It was just there. All he could do was hide it and try to think… try to think… but he needed time. He was so full of shame over his anger at Tesla and so diminished by the younger man’s equanimity of spirit that he no longer knew how he truly felt about anything.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The Fifth Street Lab

  New York

  Nikola rode the train from Philadel
phia back to New York City, still glowing from the opportunity to make his magnificent gesture of faith and friendship to Westinghouse. After all, the man had done so much for Nikola, bringing his alternating current to the public, allowing him to make that first big step in Nikola’s journey to either live up to his gift or outsmart his curse. Why not show him genuine gratitude?

  He thought if his current state was typical of what philanthropists feel, then he certainly understood their way of life. The joy of giving; what a thing! His sparkling condition grew deeper when he considered that this was only the beginning of such opportunities to be a benefactor of deserving people. He was barely thirty-three and already a millionaire, a newly-recognized inventor of the first order.

  He began to hunger for Karina’s presence even more than after she had first appeared to him. While he watched the flickering panorama out the windows, he could feel the hollow place inside of himself that would be perfectly filled if only she were real and there to share the fine feeling with him.

  The glowing sensation stayed strong inside of him during the train ride because a definite point of peace had entered his life. He carried the evidence: a letter from his mother received the day before he left Philadelphia. It was full of her love for him, just as her letters always were before the hard world gave him the power to make her old age more healthy and comfortable. But she also told him of her happiness with the extra comforts and the sense of peace he provided to her.

  Written confirmation of the good that his work had done for her was a powerful weapon against his father’s legacy of torment. The waves of delight and gratitude coursing through him were so powerful that he had to squeeze his muscles especially hard just to carry out normal conversation in the course of traveling.

  Once he returned to his South Fifth Street lab in Manhattan, he revived the level of work output back up to what the place had sustained before he left for Philadelphia. There was nothing to interrupt his full immersion in the creative process. Life took on a golden haze so intensely sweet that the only darkness was in his hunger to call out to Karina and try to draw her to him.