56
On cooler days, they would carry their acts of love beyond the bed, making use of the pulleys and storage hammocks that ran throughout the garret. Marguerite would occasionally entice Claude by wearing nothing more than a pair of simple slippers, and a silk shoelace around her neck. During the winter, when Claude was not crafting him —the project had gained gender, if not personality—the couple often invented lovers' games under the weight of a heavy quilt. Covered by bedclothes that hid their mysterious motions, they indulged in the ancient Scandinavian custom of snuggling. They would titter and diddle, fondle and fiddle for hours on end, their positions only occasionally confirmed by the unexpected emergence of a foot or hand from the edge of the bed.
The stimulation would carry over to Claude's work. Often, after making love, his thoughts would clear and he would find himself scribbling notes or sketching out gearworks while his testicular nectar still dampened the sheet. At first, Claude hesitated to jump from lovemaking to mechanics, but Marguerite admonished him. She rejected the false notion of competition between the two passions, encouraging his manual dexterity to move fluently between bed and workbench. But she did much more than that. She was his most faithful confidante when he was incapacitated by doubt, his most vigorous critic when euphoria had taken control. Plumeaux called her the caryatid. "She is steady, delicate, supportive."
No one disputed the epithet. Her support was proved in almost every gesture. On those nights when she was awakened by her husband's unconscious turmoil—he often gnashed his teeth while he slept—she would calm him by rubbing her hand gently against his jaw. And when he awoke suddenly, fearfully contemplating some imprecision in his plans, she would light a candle and place by his side a stub of pencil with which he could jot down thoughts that would otherwise be lost. Or she would listen. Toward the end of construction, Claude was doubtful about the external appearance of the talking head.
"What," Marguerite asked, "do you think would provoke the greatest response from the spectators?"
"I do not know."
"What have the others said?"
"What have they not said? They seem to wrap him in all sorts of personal hopes. The Abbe wants one thing, the coachman another, Plumeaux still a third."
"And what do you want?"
"I am not sure. It must, for practical reasons, be a man. The lower registers are easier to stabilize. Beyond that, I do not know. Of all the possibilities, there is a special potency to the costume of the Turk."
"A Talking Turk. And what problems are posed by a Talking Turk? I could stitch him a wonderful robe." Marguerite had taken on the task of costumer since she was handy with a needle.
"Plumeaux dismisses it as an ordinary conceit. He says that we have come to expect the magic of the East. And, of course, there's von Kempelen's turbaned chess player. Plumeaux prefers a Chinese, Peruvian, or Siamese head. The Abbe, for his part, wants to see someone of simple garb and calling. He would be happy with a farmer. Also, he wants a certain anatomical exactitude that would cause us no small scandal."
"And what of the Count of Corbreuil? He is, after all, a patron."
"He has made no stipulation as to the appearance. He is scared even to be associated with the project. His teputation, you know. And even if I do settle on the Turk, there is the question of the surrounding drama. The Abbe thinks that the garret might diminish the mystery of my artificial man."
"But what do you think?"
"I agree that we shouldn't obscure the Turk's ingenuity. And yet, if anything in the design were to go wrong during display, the other elements would provide distraction. You know the old adage: 'A fancy dish hides spoiled food.'
Marguerite stated her own preferences. "There is nothing wrong with combining simple and complex enticements. The world you have already created is a perfect appetizer for the magic of the Talking Turk, which, by the way, is a dish that will not spoil. As for the anatomical exactitude—grant that to the Abbe, and I will keep it hidden under the robe."
This compromise comforted Claude, but only for a while.
"Now what worries you?" Marguerite asked, struggling to stay awake. It was late, and she was tired.
"Plumeaux's proposed book, his history of the invention. When he talks about it, the whole structure seems a bit contrived. It may need a little revision."
"A detail. You will deal with it handily, I am sure. Now come to bed and dream of glory."
Claude was wishful in his assessment of Plumeaux's literary effort. It was more than a bit contrived and needed more than a little revision. It was a jumble of unpublishable half-truths constrained in an ill-wrought structure. The hack had worked too hard to present himself as being as clever in invention as the invention itself.
"I have a novel manner in which to organize the history," Plumeaux said.
"Novel in what way?" Claude asked, as he administered the final touches to the epaulettes of his uniformed Muhammedan.
"It was sparked during a discussion long ago."
Plumeaux waited as Claude rubbed a brush through the Turk's hair and floated another sheet of gold leaf into place. Claude rested the applicator on its little stand and said, "Go on, I am listening."
"As I said, I have found a novel way of organizing the book. Do you remember what watchmakers call the numbers that rim the face of a clock?"
"Hmm?" Claude was too engrossed in the gilding to come up with a quick answer.
Plumeaux answered his own question. "The numbers on a watch face are called chapters. This, my dear Claude, as you know, is a chapter ring." He ran his finger around the rim of his watch. "Chapter I, Chapter II, Chapter III, Chapter IIII, Chapter V . . . Don't you see? The language of your work and my work converge on the face of the timepiece. Which is why I have constructed the story of the Talking Turk in twelve chapters, naming each after moments in its inventor's life. The whole work will run to 360 pages and will come full circle." He showed Claude an outline of the proposed history. He gave brief chapter summaries. "Take a look. Chapter I is called 'Hands'—a reference both to your hands and to watch hands. Chapter II is called 'Spring,' the season when you first worked on watch springs. Chapter III is called 'The Face' and invokes the Portrait in Little and, of course, the face of the watch. Chapter IIII — I retain the quaint habit of four solid bars instead of IV, a mystery in watch design I have never been able to explain—is called 'Movement,' a nod both to your travels and to your work on watch movements"
Claude interrupted. "I think you may be spending too much time consulting horological glossaries. While both the timepiece and the narrative you propose are chronicles, to compare them strikes me . . ."
". . . strikes! Another double meaning."
"As I was saying, the parallel seems somewhat forced. The Abbe taught me long ago one must never become a slave to complex cleverness. One must never overlook the power of simplicity."
Plumeaux ignored the criticism. "What is an automat? It is something that remakes itself. Doesn't that also describe the efforts of the writer? Why shouldn't our intentions overlap? We are both, after all, searching for a voice."
"Please, don't say another word." Claude's rudeness was necessitated by the application of another sheet of gold, which he watched breathlessly float down onto the Turk's shoulder. He then said, "I've added to the braid's brilliance by smoking it over burning partridge feathers and scarlet dye. It is not considered an altogether reputable practice. The sheen does not last. But I want the Turk to sparkle. Now, what were we discussing? Ah yes, the chapters of your chronicle."
"Yes."
"I suspect your profundities would be lost on the reader." Claude felt no need to inform him that they would be lost on him as well. He checked the technical descriptions. "Also, I'm afraid there are mistakes that would cause us trouble. For instance, there are fewer than 1,789 parts to the mechanism. How many, I could not tell you."
"I thought the number would have a fitting resonance since it marks the year of the automat's creation." Inaccuracy did not seem to distress Plumeaux. In fact, he defended his position. "I am a journalist. At times, I need to mask incomprehension in a little hyperbole."
"I would have a hard time proving to my detractors that such a number could be reached, and I do not wish to give them ammunition to challenge the Turk's authenticity."
"Do not worry about your detractors. We will counter their contentions."
Seeing he could not dissuade Plumeaux, Claude changed the subject. "What do you propose we name our spectacle?"
"That has given me some trouble. I have narrowed the list down to three possibilities, each, as it happens, beginning with the letter M."
"And they are?"
"The Microcosm. You might remember I used that in the first notice I wrote on your creative talents."
Claude had never liked the reference. "And the others?"
"The Mysteriarch. After all, the Turk promises to be the master and purveyor of mysteries."
"I must pass on that one. It recalls too vividly Lucien Livre's closes tool, The Mysteries of Paris. What is the thitd?"
''The Miraculatorium.''
Claude liked the last choice. "A fine name, better even than the 'garret grotto.'
"I cribbed the term from Lavater. But that does not matter. What has not been borrowed?"
"When can the book be ready?"
"In one month's time."
"Not good enough," Claude was relieved to hear himself say.
"The handbill can be done much sooner."
"Fine. Then tell your printer friends to flare their ink pelts." Claude looked at the glistening epaulettes. "The Talking Turk is done!"
58
The handbills announcing the completion of the Miraculatorium went out under the simple heading of u Une Tete Parlante," A Talking Head. It took little time for connoisseurs to make their inquiries and for angry competitors to cry fraud. Without the benefit of benediction from an academy, the work of "the tinkering bookseller's apprentice" was dismissed, but also much discussed.
The courtyard of the Rue St.-Severin residence was filled by 10 a.m. According to copybook notations for that day, ticket holders at the first seating included the Count of Corbreuil and his handsome young secretary, both made conspicuous by their disguises; the landlady; Etiennette; three ironmongers from the junk wharf; Sieur Granchez; two adjunct members of the Academy of Science; a gut spinner; an organ maker; and three wealthy patrons of the mechanical arts. With all the contrivances installed, space in the Miraculatorium was extremely limited.
The first indication of the advertised miracles came even before the viewers mounted the stairs. Claude had devised a telescoping mirror that reached from the dormer down to the courtyard. By peeping into a tube, one observed a vibrantly robed foreigner illuminated by torch-wielding white rabbits, a confirmation that ascent would entail leaving one world and enteting anothet. Upstaits, seated in ftont of the Miraculato-tium, it was hard to focus attention. Foreground and background competed fot the attention of the viewer. The floor of the Mitaculatotium was sptinkled with quattz (ot, pethaps, tock candy; the substance of the spatkling crystal is not known) and planted with bouquets of artificial flowers. Around these out-croppings, the three winter rabbits held up candles to illuminate the room's centerpiece. Carved into the base that held the Talking Turk: mushrooms, herbs, slugs, nautili, and branches heavy with pears—mnemonic encrustations of Tournay. Moving only slightly upward, one found that the Turk's feet were shod in pointed slippers. These had been supplied by Sieur Granchez without charge. The Turk's torso was robed in a beaded gown designed and stitched by Marguerite. The whole of the robe was lined with heavy cloth to withstand the abrasions of the rods and gears it covered. Marguerite had made the sleeves slightly longer than necessary, to add drama to the movement. As a silent record of her link to Claude, Marguerite closed the control panel of the Turk with the button that marked the couple's first union. The midsection of the seated fellow betrayed the slightest protrusion, suggesting an anatomical correctness that deferred to the Abbe's wishes. The face glowered. Piero had done an admirable job applying the foreign features—a mustache of silk thread, eyelashes from the downy feathers of a black swan, almond-shaped lids of kidskin. The Turk's glass eyes gleamed.
Plumeaux stepped forward and began a speech lifted from his unpublished work. "Ladies. Gentlemen. For years, the greatest minds have aspired to re-create the spoken word through mechanics. None has ever proven successful. I say proven, because it is important to distinguish wishful fantasy from what you will witness today. You see, history provides us with a multitude of unproven triumphs. Yet has anyone ever confirmed the existence of Francine, the automat fashioned by Descartes? What an aid to legend that she was thrown overboard by the shipmaster assigned to transport her. And what of von Kempelen's chess player? I am not alone in suspecting turbaned fraud. But even if these other devices are real, they are minor efforts when compared to what you will be treated to today. For today you will have proof that the human voice can be reproduced. And in so doing, we will undermine one of the more questionable conceits of classical drama. What you are about to observe is not some stage set deus ex machina. No! Here in the Miraculatorium, the machine is the god, the source of supernatural intervention. Let me correct that, for, in truth, there is nothing supernatural about the Talking Turk. The fellow who sits before you is the product of over four dozen crafts. He contains 2,199 parts, of which 1,789—an appropriate total, given that it is the year of its manufacture—move to grant him speech. I will not tire you with the specifics of construction right now. I am finishing a history of the subject that will soon be available, price and place of purchase to be determined in the very near future. It is enough to say that, through a truly miraculous conjunction of mechanics and anatomy and much else besides, the Turk will talk. Yes, talk! But only if I become silent. I do that now so that you may hear sounds far more interesting than my own. A voice that will resonate through the garret. A voice that will be heard all over the world."