by Sesh Heri
“Glad to help,” I said. “Maybe we can cross paths again sometime.”
“Who knows?” he said, turning around and waving as he went back up the street. “What are the chances that we’d meet this time?”
Dr. Flowers walked rapidly away from me; he was especially fast to be such a heavy man. I stood there watching him until he turned and disappeared around the next corner. What was going on here, I asked myself, what was going on?
I thought of the hat— the hat that was an exact duplicate of my own hat— lying on the table in my hotel room. I spun around and retraced my steps up the sidewalk, approached the entrance of the Adams, and went in. I went up the stairs to the fourth floor, unlocked the door to my room, went in to the parlor, and on into the bedroom. I looked at the table where I had left the hat.
Of course— of course not! How could I have suspected it? How could I have known?
The table was empty.
The duplicate hat was gone.
The room was just as I had left it.
I looked about the room a second time. Our birds fluttered in their cages, and our parrot let out a squawk.
I next remember seeing my legs running down the stairs of the hotel. Then I was facing the hotel clerk.
“Has anyone been in my room?” I demanded.
“Not to my knowledge,” the clerk said, a bit taken aback.
“Has anyone passed through here since my assistant and I went out earlier a couple of hours ago?”
“No,” the clerk said. “But I haven’t been here at the desk all that time. Someone might have gone up, but I didn’t see them. Is something missing from your room?”
“What’s that?” I asked, my mind turning around a thousand miles an hour. “Oh, no. I just thought some things had been moved around. My wife probably did it. Never mind. It’s not important.”
The clerk inclined his head to the side and blinked at me. I turned and went out of the hotel and walked back toward Broadway.
I tried to add things up in my mind, but they wouldn’t add up, not in any way that made sense— at least no ordinary sense. Did that hat in my hotel room simply disappear from off the table? Impossible. I shook my head, knowing that such a thing was crazy. But then I thought: I knew that hat wasn’t going to be in my room before I went in. How did I know that? And where did that hat come from in the first place? I certainly did not leave it at that lunch counter. Yet the cook said that someone who looked exactly like me had left the hat there in his restaurant only minutes earlier. And what about Dr. Flowers? This morning he recognized me as Dr. Flowers— or, at least, a man who looked exactly like Dr. Flowers thought I was a Dr. Flowers! Could a Dr. Flowers who looked exactly like me have any connection to my double that left his hat at the lunch counter? Or could I be trying to connect things where no connection existed? Two odd incidents unconnected, except by their oddness, had occurred to me in the space of just a few hours. Nothing was making sense.
I decided I had to go back to that lunch counter and do some “grilling” of my own. I had to find out everything that cook knew about the man who had left the hat. So I walked quickly toward that little lunch counter restaurant, and, when I got to it, I slowed down, paused at the door, and looked inside. That same fry-cook was in there by himself, sweeping up and smoking a cigarette. I stood there waiting for him to notice me. Finally he looked up and stopped sweeping.
“Remember me?” I asked.
“Six eggs and two quarts of milk,” he said.
“That’s right,” I said. “That was this morning. Do you remember me coming by here around noon?”
“No,” he said. “But then I wasn’t here around noon. Oh— wait a minute. You came back for it, huh? Just a minute.”
He leaned the broom against the wall and took the cigarette out of his mouth and stuck it in an ash tray on a table. Then he went around behind the counter.
“You saved it for me,” I said.
“Well, yes, I did,” he said. “I don’t know why. I didn’t think it was important. I was going to throw it away.”
“Throw it away?”
He brought his hand up from behind the counter. It held a piece of stiff paper.
“Yeh,” he said. “Why not? It’s just this piece of paper— it came out of the book you had on the counter.”
It was a bookmark that had been placed in London’s novel by the clerk at the bookstore. Printed on it was a discount coupon for a Christmas book sale. I took it in my hand.
“Well,” I said, “It has a coupon on it I wanted to keep.”
“Oh, yeh,” the cook said. “I didn’t notice that.”
I turned the bookmark over. I went lightheaded. On the other side of the bookmark there was an advertisement for a company that made custom hats— Flowers and Eggleston— their names surrounding a bouquet with six eggs nestled in its center in a star formation. Below their trademark was a realistic illustration of a hat— a hat just like the one I was wearing— just like the duplicate hat that had disappeared from my hotel room.
“Thanks,” I said, looking straight at the fry-cook. His expression seemed ordinary, so, I thought, my expression must have been ordinary, too.
“Sure,” the fry-cook said, going over and picking his cigarette back up from the ash tray.
I looked back down at the bookmark, at the pictures of the hat, the flowers, and the six eggs, and then back up at the fry-cook who had returned to sweeping the floor with his back to me.
I turned around and went out the door, and walked down Broadway toward the train station. The sky was a dark gray, and I couldn’t tell if the sun had set or not. I wondered if I could tell whether anything was so or not. I wondered if I was losing my mind, becoming some kind of dog-brained lunatic unable to tell fact from fancy.
I stopped and looked up and down Broadway. The headlights of the automobiles were coming on. Yellow lights glowed in the windows of buildings. The three-globed streetlamps of Broadway diminished away from me toward the hills. The heads of people bobbed and shifted beneath the line of the globes. It was a real city with real people. Perhaps I was going mad, or perhaps…perhaps I had entered a window or door in space and time— a place where one might enter into parallel worlds. I had heard of some things like this happening to others. Once in my youth under the most extraordinary and unbelievable circumstances I had experienced a slip in time myself. It happened in 1893 while I was involved in secret work with the one person that I have ever known who was an unquestionable genius. I wished I could speak with that person now. I thought back to my first meeting with this individual. It was long ago. I was just a boy. But as my memory took flight upon the wings of Kronos, it was just yesterday.
I remembered the crisp feel of my new gray flannel uniform on that day in 1888. I had just been hired on by the American District Telegraph Company to deliver telegrams to businesses along Wall Street and the rest of lower Manhattan. This afternoon I had arrived at the door of what looked like a factory on West Broadway. I had already knocked several times when finally a man in shirt sleeves unlocked the door from inside and opened it up.
“Yes?” he asked impatiently.
“I have a telegram here for a Mr. N. Tesla,“ I said.
“Mr. Tesla’s can see no one now,“ the man said. “I’ll sign for it.”
“Oh, no,” I said. “I have exact orders to deliver this telegram to Mr. Tesla only.”
The man drummed his fingers against the edge of the door, looking me up and down.
Finally he said, “Is that so? Well, then you’ll have to come back later. A lot later.”
I said, “I have exact orders to deliver this telegram to Mr. N. Tesla without delay! This is an important message, and if it doesn’t get into Mr. Tesla’s hands right now, I’m going to be in trouble, and I don’t want no trouble! I’ve just started this job and I’m not going to lose it! I can’t lose it!”
“There’s nothing I can do,” the man said, almost laughing at me. He started to close the
door.
This made my blood boil.
“Listen!” I said, pulling the door back open. “Can’t you add two and two? If I get in trouble, I’m going to guarantee that you get in trouble!”
“Get your hand off the door!” the man shouted.
“I never forget a face,” I said. “I’ll point you out when the time comes. And get a load of who’s going to be asking me to do the pointing—“
And I showed the man the address of the sender on the telegram— J.P. Morgan!
The man froze; he was still smiling, but there was no life to his smile.
I said, “Mr. J.P. Morgan has sent this telegram all the way from Pittsburgh!”
Then he said: “All right, you want to see Mr. Tesla, you can see Mr. Tesla. Just remember: I let you in.”
“I’ll remember,” I said coming through the door. “Just take me to Mr. Tesla.”
Well, the man took me right up the stairs to the second floor and there in the middle of a spacious room stood a very tall, lean man with dark hair. This man was also in shirt sleeves. Although the other man who stood behind me said nothing, it was obvious to me that this man standing in the middle of the room was Mr. N. Tesla.
It was only when I approached him to give him the telegram that I realized that Mr. Tesla was standing absolutely still, frozen in position like a wax-works figure. I stopped before Mr. Tesla and looked up at him; he was looking straight out with his right hand slightly extended as if he was about to shake someone’s hand. I studied his face. I noticed the pupils of his eyes were dilated.
“I told you he could see no one now,” the man behind me said.
I looked back at the man who had spoken. He had his arms crossed and his head cocked to one side. I looked at Mr. Tesla; he was still frozen in place.
I asked, “How long has he…?”
“Been like this?” the man behind me asked, finishing my question. “About an hour. But he might be like that all day.”
“What’s wrong with him?” I asked.
“He’s thinking,” the man said. “Mr. Tesla is an inventor, and this is how he invents.”
“Do all inventors invent this way?” I asked.
“Oh, no,” the man said. “Only Mr. Tesla.”
“Can he hear us?” I asked.
“Every word,” he said. “And he doesn’t like to be disturbed when he’s like this.”
I turned back to Mr. Tesla. I looked at his outstretched hand.
I said, “I have an important telegram for you sir, from Mr. J.P. Morgan. I was ordered to deliver it without delay. I—“
Mr. Tesla had not moved a muscle.
I went on, “I’m going to put the envelope in your hand.”
Mr. Tesla did not move his hand.
I wedged the telegram between his forefinger and middle finger of his outstretched hand. The telegram stayed wedged. I stepped back, and looked at Mr. Tesla with the telegram extended there between his fingertips.
I turned to the man who had let me in, and I said, “I’ve done my job.”
“I’ll say you have,” the man said.
I went out the door and down the stairs. When I got to the front door of the building I looked back up the stairs. The man was standing on the landing looking down at me.
“He’ll snap out of it soon,” I asked, “won’t he?”
“Maybe,” the man said. “Maybe not.”
I went out the door.
Well, I thought about Mr. N. Tesla all the rest of that day, which was about two hours or so, all the way to the end of my shift, and that evening when I had gotten off work, I went back to that factory building and knocked on the door again. The same man came down as before, and opened the door.
I asked, “Is he…?”
“No,” the man said. “He’s not. If you’re very quiet you can come up and see for yourself.”
I nodded, and the man let me in and we went up the stairs.
I had been told the truth. Mr. Tesla was still standing there, exactly as I had left him. Even the telegram still remained wedged between his two fingers, although I could tell it had slipped slightly from the original position in which I had placed it. I tiptoed up to Mr. Tesla and looked at him.
Suddenly Mr. Tesla blinked, and looked straight down at me. It was as if a statue had suddenly come to life.
“A telegram?” Mr. Tesla asked matter-of-factly, bringing the paper I had wedged between his fingers up to his face. At the same time he reached into his pocket with his left hand and brought out a nickel. Now I was frozen. Mr. Tesla looked at me.
“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Take your tip and go.”
He waved the nickel at me. I reached out and took it. I turned to go. The man at the door was watching me with a raised eyebrow.
“Young man!” Mr. Tesla said.
I turned back around. Mr. Tesla was reading the telegram, but he was speaking to me.
“You came back,” Mr. Tesla said. “Why? It wasn’t for the tip.”
“I wanted to see what had happened to you,” I said. “It— it bothered me.”
Mr. Tesla looked up from the telegram and directly at me. A look of realization came over his face.
“It didn’t bother you. It intrigued you. It fascinated you. Admit it.”
I shrugged.
“What do you think I am,” Mr. Tesla asked, “a freak show?”
“No, sir,” I said. “I was just…curious. That’s all. How could you stand there all that time without moving?”
“That is not the question, young man,” Mr. Tesla said. “The question is: how can such a large portion of the great mass of humanity constantly move without thinking? That is the freak show you need to fix your questioning eyes upon— not me!”
I didn’t know what to say to this, so I just started slowly backing out of the room toward the door.
“Young man!” Mr. Tesla said. “What is your name?”
“Ehrich,” I said. “Ehrich Weiss.”
“You speak with an odd accent,” Mr. Tesla said. “Where are you from? Germany?”
I said, “I was born in Budapest.”
“Ah,” Mr. Tesla said. “I know that city. I once lived there. How long have you been in America?”
“Since I was four,” I said.
“And you still have that accent?” Mr. Tesla asked with irritation. “If you are to succeed in America you must speak like an American! Are all your chums from Europe?”
“No,” I said. “No, most of them were born here.”
“Listen to how your friends speak. Especially note the vowels. Americans speak in a very flat manner, and mostly in a monotone. Yes, it is unattractive, but it is the sound of money, and you appear to me to be a young man who is trying to make as much money as he can. Now— Ehrich is it?”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“Now, Ehrich, be on your way. I have given you a very handsome tip— golden advice for a boy such as yourself.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, backing out again toward the door.
“And, Ehrich,” Mr. Tesla said. “You come here tomorrow at noon. I will have a message for you to take to the telegraph office.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, and I turned and went out and down the stairs and out of the front door and out on the street.
And that is how I first made the acquaintance of the genius inventor Nikola Tesla.
But it was only the beginning.
I would often be summoned to Mr. Tesla’s office to deliver a message to the telegraph office. Sometimes these messages would be delivered in code. I could tell this was so because they would be written as a series of numbers, probably some kind of cipher.
One day I came into Mr. Tesla’s office with a deck of cards I had won from pitching pennies. I had learned a simple card trick, and I showed it to him. After I had performed it, Mr. Tesla said:
“Cards are a trap— they lead to gambling. Gambling with cards is one of the worst traps. Never gamble, Ehrich!”
�
�Oh,” I said, “I won’t, Mr. Tesla!”
“You are not convincing,” Mr. Tesla said. “You won those cards by gambling. You told me so yourself. You must try to beat the trap, Ehrich, before it beats you!”
I must’ve done something to make Mr. Tesla think I wasn’t taking to his sermon.
“What does your father think about your gambling, Ehrich?” Mr. Tesla asked.
“He doesn’t know,” I said.
“And you tell me he is a rabbi,” Mr. Tesla said.
“If he knew what you were doing he would be ashamed— and worried.”
“He’s not going to know,” I said.
“Until you are so deep in debt you must confess to him!” Mr. Tesla said. “You are in the trap, Ehrich! You are bound hand and foot and you will not escape until you lose everything! I know, for the same thing happened to me!”
“I know when to stop,” I said.
“You think you do,” Mr. Tesla said, “but you don’t. You must begin using your mind, Ehrich, your mind! Not blind chance! If you can only realize the importance of this, I may be able to help you.”
I agreed that I would begin trying to use my mind (although I had thought that I had been using my mind all along— I did not know how wrong I was). Mr. Tesla began a game or exercise in which he would show me an object, and then, on the next day afterward when I would see him, he would ask me to describe that object in detail. He began with an apple, then it was a pen-knife, then a small statuette of a bird carved out of ivory. Then he started showing pieces of his electrical equipment. He demanded that I remember more and more detail as time went on. These memory-exercises became so fascinating to me, I began doing them on my own, and my gambling declined. When I told Mr. Tesla this, he was very happy.
“Ah, Ehrich,” he said. “You are beginning to see! Your fortune lies in the use of your mind, not in pursuing the vagaries of blind chance! You have begun to learn how to learn! Use your memory in all things! Stay awake! Observe! And success will be yours!”
When I later began my study of handcuffs and locks, I realized Mr. Tesla’s memory exercises were like money in the bank to me. One of my great challenge secrets is my photographic eyes, developed through the memory exercises taught to me by Mr. Tesla in 1888. When I see a lock or a handcuff, I have developed such an acute memory that I get a vision of the key, just like it was photographed in my mind. This has been of much importance to me in preparing for the opening of all the locks I have encountered. I can retain this vision for weeks after I have seen a keyhole, and to this day I can recall the exact sizes of the various keys etc. of all the jail cells I have opened.