The Blind Contessa's New Machine

by Carey Wallace

  Pietro led her to the carriage and helped her in. Then he climbed in beside her and put his arm out to rap on the door. The carriage rolled forward.

  Carolina could feel them circle the yard, rattle down to the tree line, and turn onto the main road. She knew the dip down the hill and the rise to the next, where Turri’s home gazed down on her father’s orchards. She rode past the long boundary of Turri’s property without turning her head, but when the carriage had climbed to the crest of the next hill, she closed her eyes and looked out the window.

  The whole world she carried with her rolled out in her mind: the gold hills of the valley, dark lemon leaves reflecting the blue sky, and beyond them snow falling on desert sand, a boat cutting through the black ocean, men marching over autumn leaves, children fighting for their place in a parade, women who turned as one in a dance. Over it all, a small bird wheeled under the stars she had made, so high she knew that no one else in the world could see.

  EPILOGUE

  “What is it?” the man at the desk asked. His hair was as black as it had been when he was a boy, but all youth had left his eyes. The desk was strewn with schedules and bills and a selection of scientific instruments that would have made no sense to a scientific man: a decanter with a neck curved like a swan; a complicated sextant; a scale on which a gold ingot hung in an uneasy compromise with a handful of rough black stones that glinted in the firelight.

  The man who had interrupted him was a stranger and a servant, in city clothes. “Signor Turri?” he asked. “Pellegrino Turri?”

  “He was my father,” the other man said, rising. “I’m Antonio.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” the servant said. “I have a delivery for your father. A bequest.”

  “I’m afraid he’s dead,” Antonio said.

  The servant raised his eyebrows, only mildly surprised by the vagaries of chance. “Then I suppose it would go to you,” he said. “You have a brother?”

  “No,” Antonio said.

  “And you’ll sign for it?”

  Antonio nodded.

  The servant crossed the room and set his package on the desk. It was the size of a stack of four or five books, wrapped in dirty fabric. “From the Contessa Carolina Fantoni,” he said in what was unmistakably his official tone. “To be returned to Pellegrino Turri on her death.” His voice turned confiding now. “It’s been six weeks. It took the lawyer some time to find you.”

  “I’ve been here all my life,” Antonio said.

  “You know men in the city,” the servant said. “They think everything outside the walls is wilderness.” As he spoke, he untied the pair of knots that held the dingy cloth together. The rags fell away to reveal a small machine built of delicate dowels tipped with metal type, stained by sooty fingerprints.

  “What do you suppose it is?” the servant asked.

  “It’s a writing machine,” Antonio said, taking his seat again to face it more directly. “My father made it.”

  The servant touched one of the double rows of keys. A dowel sprang forward. He jerked his hand back. “What for?” he asked.

  “So a blind woman could write letters,” Antonio answered.

  “The contessa!” the servant exclaimed. In the thrill of discovery, he reached for the machine again.

  “You had something for me to sign?” Antonio said.

  The servant dropped his hand to fumble in his pockets. After a moment, he produced a crumpled receipt. “That’s right,” he said, laying it on the desk beside the machine. He indicated the proper place with two fingers. “Right there,” he said.

  Antonio drew the paper to him, signed it without flourish, and passed it back. Then he opened a drawer, found a coin, and handed it to the servant. The servant grinned and turned to go.

  “You knew her?” Antonio said.

  The man turned back.

  “Not to speak of, sir, no,” he said. “But I knew her by sight. She lived in the city all her life, from the time she was married.” These were clearly the only facts he knew for certain, but he hesitated, perhaps wondering if there might be gain in inventing more.

  “Thank you,” Antonio said.

  The servant gave the machine a final look, curiosity mixed with longing. Then he touched his hat and went out.

  When the door had closed behind him, Antonio placed his palms on either side of the machine, as if checking for a heartbeat. He struck a few of the keys at random, and the print-tipped rods danced merrily. Then he lifted the machine from the desk, turned to the fire, and dropped it in.

  It took longer than he would have guessed for the old wood to catch. For several long breaths, the machine stood intact amid the blue and yellow flame. Then the fire found it and the graceful shape was obscured by a riot of gold. After the first burst of fire receded, the delicate hammers continued to burn for several minutes, until the charred wood gave way and the glowing metal letters dropped through the grate and disappeared into white ash.

  Acknowledgments

  Many thanks to Kate McKean for falling in love with the book; to Pamela Dorman for giving it a chance to see the light and to both her and Julie Miesionczek for their insight in the editing process; to Roseanne Serra, Carla Bolte, Beena Kamlani, and Sonya Cheuse for all their work in making the book a reality; to Alexandra and Daniel Nayeri for their close reading; to Teju Cole for giving the story its first public outing; to Kate Barrette for her translations from the Italian; to Ian King for his encouragement; and to Webb Younce for his kindness to a stranger. And to my family and friends, for everything.