Free Curiosity by Gary Blackwood Page A

minds.”
    â€œNo one has guessed the truth yet?”
    Maelzel shrugged dismissively. “Many years ago, long before I owned the Turk, a scoundrel named Racknitz published a booklet, complete with illustrations, explaining his theory of how the famous automaton chess player worked.”
    â€œWas he correct?”
    â€œFor the most part. But it was not proof; it was only a theory. In any case, his book faded into oblivion long ago, and the Turk still survives. In fact, he is in better shape than ever, thanks to a few improvements. You might even say that he is a whole new species of Turk.”
    â€œWhat sort of improvements?”
    â€œWell, for one thing, he now has a voice. Not to mention a new head. When we were still in France, my operator—who is no longer with us, obviously—knocked over the candle and set the felt on fire. It scorched the Turk’s torso and melted his face.” He gave me a stern, almost threatening glance. “I trust that you will not be so clumsy.”
    I tried to answer, but my throat seemed suddenly constricted and dry—a reaction to the phrase no longer with us , and what it implied. I swallowed hard and managed to say, “No.” I wanted to ask whether the operator he mentioned was the mysterious Mademoiselle Bouvier. If she had damaged the Turk, that might be reason enough for Maelzel to get rid of her—though hardly reason enough to do her in. I didn’t ask, of course, for I was supposed to know nothing about the matter.
    As we turned to leave, a door at the far end of the hall opened, and two figures entered. One was a youngish, stocky man with curly hair that framed an outsized head, half of which seemed to consist of forehead. Though I knew little about phrenology, I guessed that he would make an ideal subject; there was so much territory to explore. He wore an elegant velvet coat, a silk waistcoat, and a flamboyant striped cravat that blossomed all down his shirtfront.
    He was pushing a wheelchair, which held a Negro woman so ancient and shriveled that she might have been a mummy. Her eyes were so clouded by cataracts, they resembled pearls. Their sightless gaze was nearly as unnerving as the Turk’s. She seemed as inanimate as the Turk, too; only her claw-like right hand, which had long, curved fingernails, moved jerkily from time to time. I couldn’t help wondering whether she was actually a living person, or just an especially well-crafted automaton.
    Though she seemed incapable of speech, her caretaker certainly wasn’t. His voice was as outsized as his head. “Good evening, Herr Maelzel! I hope business is good!”
    â€œThank you, Mr. Barnum,” said Maelzel. And in case you’re wondering, yes, it was the same Mr. Barnum who has since earned fame and fortune by introducing to the world the Feejee Mermaid and Tom Thumb and Jenny Lind, the Swedish Nightingale. “Our box office has declined a little of late,” Maelzel went on, “but I expect that to change once the Turk is back in action. I see that you are drawing good crowds, sir.”
    â€œI should say I am! In the few months that I have had her, Mrs. Heth’s fame has spread far and wide! We recently received an offer to appear at Niblo’s Garden in New York!”
    I approached the figure in the wheelchair, curious as always, but careful to keep out of range of that claw-like hand. “What does she do?” I asked.
    â€œDo? She doesn’t need to do anything!”
    â€œThen why do people pay to see her?”
    Mr. Barnum gave a hearty laugh. “Who is this lad, Herr Maelzel? Does he always ask so many questions?”
    â€œYes, unfortunately,” said Maelzel. “He is no one, only a street urchin who did not have the price of admission. I felt sorry for him.”
    â€œWell, whatever your name is—”
    â€œIt’s Rufus.”
    â€œWell, Rufus, you are looking at a genuine piece of American