‘Robbie, I have gotten you the information you want,’ she said, and she held up a sealed envelope for me to see. ‘I brought you this, even though you must understand that I’m not going to be coming back to you. You have to promise me that your feud with Alfred will end immediately. If you do, I’ll let you have the envelope.’
I told her that as far as I was concerned the feud was already at an end.
‘Then why do you still need his secret?’
‘You surely know why,’ I said.
‘Only to continue the feud!’
I knew she was touching the truth, but I said, ‘I’m curious.’
She was in a hurry to depart, saying that already Borden would be suspicious of her long absence. I did not remind her of the similar wait I had endured when this endeavour began.
I asked her why she had written down the message, when she could as easily have told me in words. She said it was too complicated, too intricately devised, and that she had copied the information from Borden’s own notes. Finally, she handed over the envelope.
Holding it, I said, ‘Is it really the end of the mystery for me?’
‘I believe it is, yes.’
She turned to go and opened the door.
‘Can I ask you something else, Olivia?’
‘What is it?’
‘Is Borden one man, or two?’
She smiled, and maddeningly I glimpsed the smile of a woman thinking of her lover. ‘He is just one man, I do assure you.’
I followed her out into the corridor, where technical staff were loitering within earshot.
‘Are you happy now?’ I asked her.
‘Yes, I am. I’m sorry if I’ve hurt you, Robbie.’
She left me then, without an embrace or even a smile or a touch of hands. I have hardened myself against her in the last few weeks, but even so it was painful to be with her like that.
I returned to the dressing room, closed the door and leant my weight upon it. I slit the envelope at once. It contained one sheet of paper, and on it Olivia had written a single word.
Tesla.
Somewhere in Illinois 3rd July 1900
We departed promptly from Chicago Union Street Station at 9.00 a.m., and after a slow journey through the industrial wasteland that surrounds that most vibrant and thrilling of cities we have since been moving at a fair speed across the agricultural plains to the west.
I have a splendid sleeping berth and a seat permanently reserved for me in the first-class saloon. American trains are sumptuously fitted and magnificently comfortable. The meals, prepared in one of the carriages entirely set aside as a galley, are large, nutritious and attractively served. I have been travelling for five weeks on American railroads, and I have rarely been happier or better fed. I dare not weigh myself! I feel I am ensconced securely in the great American world of convenience, plenty and courtesy, while the terrific American realm slips by beyond the windows.
My fellow travellers are all Americans, a mixed bunch in appearance, friendly towards me and curious about me in equal measure. About a third of them, I hazard, are commercial travellers of the superior kind, and several more appear to be employed in business in one way or another. In addition, there are two professional gamblers, a presbyterian minister, four young men returning to Denver from college in Chicago, several well-to-do farmers and landowners, and one or two others I have not yet been able to pin down exactly. In the American way we have all been on first-name terms from the moment of meeting. I long ago learned that the name Rupert attracts amused inquisitiveness, so while I am in the United States I am always Rob or Robbie.
4th July 1900
The train stopped last night in Galesburg, Illinois. Because today is American Independence Day the railroad company gave all first-class passengers the choice of staying aboard the train in our cabins or of spending the night in the town’s largest hotel. Since I have been sleeping in many trains in the last few weeks I opted for the hotel.
I was able to take a brief tour of the town before turning in. It is an attractive place, and possesses a large theatre. A play happens to be on this week, but I was told that variety shows (‘vaudeville’) are frequent and popular. Magic acts often appear. I left my card with the manager, hoping for an engagement one day.
I must record that the theatre, the hotel and the streets of Galesburg are lit by electricity. At the hotel I learned that most American towns and cities of any significance are so equipping themselves. Alone in my hotel room I had the experience of personally switching on and off the electric incandescent lamp in the centre of the ceiling. I dare say as a novelty this would quickly pall and become commonplace, but the light cast by electricity is bright, steady and cheerful. In addition to lighting I have seen many different appliances on sale: ventilating fans, clothes irons, room heaters, even an electrically driven hairbrush! As soon as I return to London I shall make enquiries about having electrical current installed in my home.
Crossing Iowa 5th July 1900
I stare for long periods through the window of the carriage, hoping for a break in the monotony, but the agricultural land stretches flat and wide in all directions. The sky is a bright pale blue, and it hurts the eyes to look at it for more than a few seconds. Clouds pile somewhere to the south of us, but they seem never to shift their position or shape, no matter how far we travel.
A Mr Bob Tannhouse, a fellow passenger on the train, is by small coincidence the vice-president of sales in a company that manufactures the sort of electrical appliances that have caught my eye. He confirms that as we move towards the 20th century there is no limit, no bound, to what we might expect electricity to do for our lives. He predicts that men will sail the seas in electric ships, sleep in electric beds, fly in electric heavier-than-air machines, eat electrically cooked food … even shave our beards with electric razor blades! Bob is a fantasist and a salesman, but he fires me with a tremendous hope. I believe that in this enthralling country, as a new century dawns, anything really is possible, or it can be made possible. My present quest into the unknown heart of this land will give me the secrets for which I hunger.
Denver, Colorado 7th July 1900
In spite of the luxuries of railroad travel, it is undoubtedly a blessing not to be travelling. I plan to rest in this city for a day or two before continuing my journey. This is the longest continuous break I have ever made from magic: no performances, no practising, no conferences with my ingénieur, no auditions or rehearsals.
Denver, Colorado 8th July 1900
To the east of Denver lies the great plain, across part of which I came while travelling from Chicago. I have seen enough of Nebraska to last me the rest of my lifetime. Memories of its dull scenery daunt me even yet. All day yesterday a wind blew from the southeast, hot and dry and apparently laden with grit. The staff at the hotel complain that it is from the arid neighbouring states, like Oklahoma, but no matter what its source it meant that my explorations of the town were hot and unpleasant. I curtailed them and returned to the hotel. However, before I did so, and when the haze finally cleared, I saw for myself what lies immediately to the west of Denver: the great jagged wall of the Rocky Mountains. Later in the day, when it was cooler, I went out to the balcony of my room and watched the sun setting behind these stunning peaks. I estimate that twilight must last half an hour longer here than elsewhere, because of the vast shadow thrown by the Rockies.
Colorado Springs, Colorado 10th July 1900
This town is about seventy miles to the south of Denver, but the journey has taken all day in a horse-drawn omnibus. It made frequent stops to take on and put down passengers, to change horses, to change drivers. I felt uncomfortable, prominent and travel-weary. My appearance was probably ridiculous, to judge by the expressions on the faces of the farming people who rode with me. However, I have arrived safe and sound, and am immediately charmed by the place in which I find myself. It is not anywhere near as large as Denver, but abundantly reveals the care and affection that Americ
ans lavish on their small towns.
I have found a modest but attractive hotel, suitable for my needs, and because I liked my room on sight I have registered for a week’s stay with an option to extend it if necessary.
From the window of my room I can see two of the three features of Colorado Springs that have brought me here.
The whole town dances with electric lights after the sun has set: the streets have tall lamps, every house has brightly illuminated windows, and in the ‘downtown’ area, which I can see from my room, many of the shops, businesses and restaurants have dazzling advertising signs that glisten and flash in the warm night.
Beyond them, bulking against the night sky, is the black mass of the famous mountain that stands beside the town: Pike’s Peak, nearly 15,000 feet in height.
Tomorrow, I shall make my first ascent of the lower slopes of Pike’s Peak, and seek out the third singular feature that has brought me to this town.
12th July 1900
I was too weary to write in my diary yesterday evening, and I have perforce to spend today alone here in the town, so I have plenty of opportunity to recount at leisure what transpired.
I was awake at an early hour, took my breakfast in the hotel, and walked quickly to the central square of the town where my carriage was supposed to be waiting for me. This was something I had arranged by letter before leaving London, and although everything had been confirmed at that time I had no way of knowing for sure that my man would be there for me. To my astonishment, he was.
In the casual American manner we quickly became great friends. His name is Randall D. Gilpin, a Colorado man born and bred. I call him Randy, and he calls me Robbie. He is short and round, with a great circling of grey whiskers about his cheerful face. His eyes are blue, his face is burned red ochre by the sun, and his hair, like the whiskers, is steelgrey. He wears a hat made of leather, and the filthiest trousers I have ever seen in my life. He has a finger missing from his left hand. He carries a rifle under the seat from which he drives the horses, and he told me he keeps it loaded.
Though polite, and effusively friendly, Randy displayed a reserve about me that I was only able to detect by having spent so many weeks in the USA. It took me most of the ride up the Pike’s Peak ascent for me to work out the probable cause.
It seemed to be a combination of things. From my letters he had assumed that I, like many people who come to this region, was a prospector (from this I discovered that the mountain has many rich seams of gold). As he became more talkative, though, he told me that when he saw me crossing the square he guessed from my clothes and general demeanour that I was a minister of the church. Gold he could understand, one of God’s ministers he could also accord a place in the scheme of things, but not a combination of the two. That this weird Briton should then direct him to drive to the notorious laboratory on the mountain only compounded the mystery.
Thus arose Randy’s caution about me. There was little I could do to mollify him, as my real identity and purpose would probably have seemed just as incomprehensible!
The route to Nikola Tesla’s laboratory is a steady climb of mixed gradients across the eastern face of the great mountain, the land densely wooded for the first mile or so as the lane wends its way out of the town, but soon thinning into rocky ground supporting immensely tall and well-spaced firs. The views to the east were vast, but the landscape in this region is so flat and uniformly used that there was virtually nothing scenic at which to marvel.
After an hour and a half we came to an area of level ground, on the northeast face of the mountain, and here no trees grew at all. I noticed many fresh stumps, indicating that what few trees had actually once grown here had been recently felled.
In the centre of this small plateau, not nearly as large as I had been led to believe, was Tesla’s laboratory.
‘You got business here, Robbie?’ said Randy. ‘You watch how you go. It can get darn dangerous up here, from what folks say.’
‘I know the risks,’ I averred. I negotiated with him briefly, unsure of what arrangements, if any, Tesla himself had for descending to the town, and wanting to be sure that I could later get back to my hotel without difficulty. Randy told me that he had business of his own to attend to, but would return to the laboratory in the afternoon and wait for me until I appeared.
I noticed that he would not take the carriage too close to the building, and I had to walk the last four or five hundred yards by myself.
The laboratory was a square construction with sloping roofs, built with unstained or unpainted wood, showing many signs of impromptu decisions about its design. It appeared that various small extensions had been added after the main structure went up, because the roofs were not all at the same pitch, and in places met at odd angles. A large wooden derrick had been built on (or through) the main roof, and another, smaller rig had been built on one of the side sloping roofs.
In the centre of the building, rising vertically, was a tall metal pole that tapered gradually to what would have been a point, although there was no visible apex because at the top there was a large metal sphere. This was glinting in the bright morning sunshine, and waving gently to and fro in the fresh breeze that was blowing along the mountainside.
On each side of the path a number of technical instruments of obscure purpose had been set on the ground. There were many metal poles driven into the stony soil, and most of these were connected to each other with insulated wires. Close by the side of the main building was a wooden frame with a glass wall, inside which I saw several measuring dials or registers.
I heard a sudden and violent crackling sound, and from within the building there came a series of brilliant and horrific flashes: white, blue-white, pink-white, repeated erratically but rapidly. So fierce were these explosions of light that they glared not only at the one or two windows in my sight, but revealed the tiny cracks and apertures in the fabric of the walls.
I confess that at this moment my resolve briefly failed, and I even glanced back to see if Randy and his carriage were still within hailing distance. (No sign of him!) My faint heart became even fainter when, within two or three more steps, I came upon a hand-painted sign mounted on the wall beside the main door. It said:
GREAT DANGER
KEEP OUT!
As I read this the electric discharges from within died away as abruptly as they had started, and it seemed a positive omen. I banged my fist on the door.
After a wait of a few moments, Nikola Tesla himself opened the door. His expression was the abstracted one of a busy man who has been irritatingly interrupted. It was not a good start, but I made the best of it.
‘Mr Tesla?’ I said. ‘My name is Rupert Angier. I wonder if you recall our correspondence? I have been writing to you from England.’
‘I know nobody in England!’ He was staring behind me, as if wondering how many more Englishmen I had brought with me. ‘Say your name again, good sir?’
‘My name is Rupert Angier. I was present at your demonstration in London, and was greatly interested—’
‘You are the magician! The one Mr Alley knows all about?’
‘I am the magician,’ I confirmed, although the meaning of his second query was for the moment lost on me.
‘You may enter!’
So many impressions about him at once, of course reinforced by my having spent several hours with him after our first exchange. At the time I noticed his face first. It was gaunt, intelligent and handsome, with strong Slavic cheekbones. He wore a thin moustache, and his lanky hair was parted in the middle. His appearance was in general untended, that of a man who worked long hours and slept only when there was no alternative to exhaustion.
Tesla is equipped with an extraordinary mind. Once I had made my identity clear to him he remembered not only what we had corresponded briefly about, but that I had written to him earlier, some eight years ago, asking for a copy of his notes.
Inside the laboratory he introduced me to his assistant, a Mr Alley. This i
nteresting man appears to fulfil many rôles in Tesla’s life, from scientific assistant and collaborator, to domestic servant and companion. Unexpectedly, Mr Alley declared himself to be an admirer of my work. He had been in the audience during my show in Kansas City in 1893, and spoke briefly but knowledgeably about magic.
By all appearances the two men work in the laboratory alone, with only the astonishing research equipment for company. I ascribe this near-human quality to the apparatus because Tesla himself has a habit of referring to his equipment as if it had thoughts and instincts. Once, yesterday, I heard him say to Alley, ‘It knows there’s a storm coming’; at another moment he said, ‘I think it’s waiting for us to start again.’
Tesla seemed relaxed in my company, and the brief hostility I had experienced at the door was nowhere evident during the rest of my time with him. He declared that he and Alley had been soon to break for luncheon, and the three of us sat down to simple but nourishing food that Alley quickly produced from one of the side rooms. Tesla sat apart from us, and I noticed he was a finicky eater, holding up each morsel for close inspection before putting it in his mouth, and discarding as many of them as he consumed. He wiped his hands and dabbed his lips on a small cloth after each mouthful. Before he rejoined us, he swept away his uneaten food into a bin outside the building, then scrupulously washed and wiped dry his utensils before placing them inside a drawer, which he locked.
Rejoining Alley and myself, Tesla interrogated me about the use of electricity in Britain, how widespread it was becoming, what was the British government’s commitment to long-term generation and transmission of power, the kinds of transmission being envisioned and the uses to which it was being put. Fortunately, because I had planned to have this meeting with Tesla, I had done my homework on the subject before leaving England, and was able to converse with him on a reasonably informed level. He seemed appreciative of this. He was especially gratified to learn that many British installations appeared to favour his polyphase system, which was not the case here in the USA.
The Prestige Page 24