The Lightning Keeper (50 page)

Toma returned the stare. Steinmetz was his puzzle; where else should he look? The little man's unsparing and unsettling attention made Toma think of Flaten. Poor Flaten would have no defenses against such scrutiny.
Remember our conversation
he had written in the letter. Toma had taken this as a valedictory to the friendship the fellow had offered so eagerly, too eagerly for Toma's comfort. And now Flaten sat in Schenectady, drawn like a moth to his fate, or perhaps…perhaps
sent there? Why would he go of his own free will? And if not freely, why? Because of the patent. Toma smiled at Steinmetz. Something was tipping, obscurely, in his favor.

Remember our conversation
. Not the folded paper that made a mirror of the drawing; not the anecdote of Steinmetz's cigar and the fit of asthma; not even the proffer of friendship, perhaps intimacy, from which Toma had recoiled. Flaten had warned him about Tesla's patent for the bladeless turbine, and that was the direction he must now follow, the meaning of the letter at last. Toma had thought that there was a safe distance between his device and Tesla's. The safe distance had now shrunk to insignificance, perhaps nothing. He could not doubt that this was Steinmetz's doing, history repeating itself. Had he not been hired twenty years ago by General Electric to engineer his way around the Westinghouse alternating-current patents, which were Tesla's? Had he not written a history of alternating current that barely mentioned Tesla? Stefan had lent him this book, unconscious of its irony. It was as if one should write the history of the United States and leave George Washington out of the account. Steinmetz had failed then—General Electric had to buy the patents; what if he succeeded now? Or if he failed again? He, Toma, would be remembered as the man who had tried to steal another of Tesla's patents.

This bitter thought was interrupted by an unusual sound: it seemed as if Senator Truscott had swallowed his tongue in mid-sentence. Toma looked sharply at the speaker, expecting him to clear his throat or take a sip of water. Instead, he clung to the lectern in silence while his head made jerking motions that might have punctuated the lost speech. Then the legs buckled, and in his effort to hold himself upright, Truscott tripped the second lever. The display of the Giambettis' art was most gratifying, the audience ready to be gratified; reaction to the abrupt end of the senator's remarks was confused and muted. Had he tripped? or simply lost his train of thought? It was hard to remember, afterward, the exact sequence of events, and the thrilling explosions on the heights distracted attention from Truscott's exit. The fireworks were such a success, and the picnic supper so lavish, that it all seemed to have gone, more or less, according to plan.

 

T
OMA, ELBOWS ON HIS KNEES,
sat in the deep shadow of the great room where he could watch the door of the library. Once it was determined that Truscott was still breathing, they had managed to get him off the platform. Toma took one arm over his shoulders, and the venerable Mr. Coffin, having waved Steinmetz away, took the other. It was not a perfect arrangement, as both Truscott and Toma were a good deal taller than Coffin, but the old man was strong, his footsteps sure, and they made their way through the clutter of folding chairs to the car where Harriet waited, her face the color of stone in the twilight. Truscott was dead weight, but he seemed still to have strength in his arms. They got him into the backseat: the right foot twitched every second or two and Toma noted how the lustrous shoe had been damaged in its journey across the planking. The driver could not be found, and so Harriet took the wheel. She whispered urgently to Toma, telling him to find Dr. Crowell and bring him at once.

He did not know how much time had passed, but had kept track of who came and went from the library, now the sickroom. Maids fetching water, sheets, towels, a pail. Harriet running out to the stairs and up, returning with a pair of pyjamas. Mrs. Evans hobbled down the stairs after her, and a few steps behind her, Amos Bigelow. He was not allowed in, so he walked up and down the hall, clasping and unclasping his hands.

Mrs. Evans led the old man away, and now Coffin came out of the library and dropped down into a chair not far from Toma, who was not sure he had been noticed. He cleared his throat.

“Is that you, Mr. Peacock?”

“Yes, sir.”

A distant flash illuminated the room and wind ruffled the pages of a magazine or newspaper. They waited for the growl of thunder.

“Five, six miles, I should think, and the temperature dropping at last. I fear Truscott has pushed himself too far in this silly business. And Mrs. Truscott, so he told me at breakfast, is to bear a child. Very sad indeed, and one feels quite useless. Sometimes I wish I were a drinking man. Shall I have them send something to you?”

“Thank you, sir, but no. Can you tell me what the situation is?”

“Oh, I'm afraid he's for it. Doctor wants to be circumspect with
Mrs. Truscott there, but I've seen a lot in my day and often you can tell just by the look of them. I'm not a betting man either, but…”

Coffin stood. “Good night, then, Mr. Peacock. I'm no use to anyone here, so I shall take myself off to bed.”

“Good night, sir.”

There was hushed conversation from the study, and because Mr. Coffin had left the door ajar, Toma might have been able to make it out but for the gusting wind that rattled the leaves. One voice was Harriet's, another the doctor's, and the third belonged unmistakably to Steinmetz. Could they be arguing? Could Truscott be dying? He wondered if he had wished for such an outcome. Of course he had, but this was no victory; it felt more like defeat.

Lily came into the room without glancing at his dark corner, and set about shutting the windows overlooking the lake. He did not wish to startle her. She was talking to herself and seemed very upset.

“Lily.”

“Oh! Is it you, sir, Mr. Peacock?”

“Yes, Lily. Would you do something for me?”

“Anything, certainly.”

“I would like a glass of whiskey, if I might, but I know the liquor is kept in there, in the library.”

“It's all right, sir. He keeps other bottles, and now…and now…” He took her hand.

“I know, Lily, and I am sorry.” She went away and came back with a very full glass. He thought she had helped herself as well.

“Thank you.”

“What will she do now, sir?” He startled at the question, which was too close to his own. Was she too questioning his innocence? “What will become of us and of Mrs. Truscott?”

“I can't answer that, Lily, but I think she is very strong, and we must do what we can to help her, as I'm sure you will.”

“Thank you, sir.” He lifted the glass a few inches up and slightly away. She took it and drank. “I'd better look to the other windows now. Bless you, sir.”

“And you, Lily.”

There was silence in the library. The hall clock ticked off the sec
onds, then chimed three quarters. He didn't know what he was waiting for, and he was no longer quite sober.

He rose from his chair, and as if it had been arranged, or they were connected by a wire, Steinmetz appeared in the door of the library. He spoke to someone standing in the shadow beside him. “You have done the right thing.” He closed the door behind him and stood in the hall light, blinking like a small owl.

“Ah, Mr. Peacock. Good evening. I am surprised to see you here at this hour, but it seems you are everywhere these days.”

Toma refused the bait. He waited.

“You have given Piccolomini quite a turn with your dramatics. Was that necessary?”

“No. He could have opened the door when he was asked, but he was hiding something. He is anxious.” Toma lowered his voice. “And you, I imagine, are ashamed. What could Tesla possibly have done to deserve this?”

Steinmetz smiled. “Deserve is a useless word in science, or in business. You do better to think of progress. Dr. Tesla is a brilliant fellow, certainly; his ideas are dazzling. But if they lead nowhere, if he cannot make them work for the general good, then there can be no progress. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, very clear. You will take his turbine—steal it, shall we say—and call it mine for the general good of General Electric. I think that sums it up.”

Steinmetz patted his pockets until he found the matches. He relit his cigar. “You are trying to offend me, but I can tell you that no law has been broken. Of course I saw immediately the convergence between the two devices, your wheel and his, and if you are an honest man, you did too. But patents expire, and now we are in a war, which changes the way such disputes are viewed and judged. We must get on with things, and put aside squabblings, yes? Squabblings over ownership and the precedence of patent claims. The general good is not an empty phrase to me, nor is progress. There is so much to be done, and one man cannot stand in the way.”

“I am sure Dr. Tesla would be moved by your patriotism, your selfless devotion to principle.”

Steinmetz sighed, rubbed his forehead. When he spoke again it was in a subdued tone of voice. “Tesla may sue us. We have thought of that, of course. But I am informed by my colleagues in the legal department that he will not win, and so he would be well advised not to try.”

“You can do it, and so you will. A very German point of view.”

“You forget yourself, Mr. Peacock. I am an American and a patriot. You…”

The door of the library opened and Harriet passed between them without a glance. She walked with Dr. Crowell to the front door, where she listened with her head bowed. When she came back to them she seemed too tired to smile or to make small talk.

“You were arguing just now.”

“Do not trouble yourself, my dear Mrs. Truscott; we were just discussing a difference of philosophy. I was recommending to Mr. Peacock that he follow the example of your husband, who has devoted himself to progress. But I see that you are tired and Mr. Peacock has come to pay his respects. I bid you both good night. If anything is needed you must call me. I am a light sleeper.”

“Thank you. Good night.” Toma nodded but did not speak.

A dazed and distant smile, the eyes silently filling with tears, the invisible mantle of her impending widowhood: never had she belonged so completely to Fowler Truscott, and Toma was borne away from her on the deep current of her sorrow. What was left to him? Words of comfort, if only he could find them.

“Is there anything to be done? Anything I can do?”

She shook her head.

“What did he say to you?”

“He said there had been great damage to the heart, and it is perhaps only a matter of time. I must prepare myself.”

“No, I meant Steinmetz. He thanked you.”

She looked down.

“Please, I must know.”

“It was a piece of paper about the project up on the mountain, something they discussed last night at dinner with Mr. Coffin, and afterward in the library. It was still there on his desk just now.”

“And you signed it for him?”

She nodded.

“Do you know what it was? A deed? A contract?”

“A lease of some sort, I think, but I did not read it.” Now she looked up at him, defiant and perhaps angry. “I knew only that it was what Fowler wanted, the one thing that I could do for him. Now the work will go forward.”

“Progress.”

“Yes, I suppose, but I did not think of it that way. It was not for Dr. Steinmetz, and certainly not for myself. It was for him. Can you not understand that?”

“Only too well.” Angry or not, at least she was looking at him. Her anger was a lifeline, a connection, an acknowledgement of binding complicity.

He understood now that there was, after all, something he could do, something he must do. The risk and uncertainty of it were obvious, but the great obstacle was time.

“Shouldn't you try to get some sleep? You look exhausted.”

“Funny”—she was almost smiling—“but I was just going to say the same thing.”

“What if I were to sleep here for a couple of hours? Then I could sit with him while you rest.”

“Are you sure? I could always call Lily, or Mrs. Evans.”

“I might as well. It is a bad time to go up the mountain.”

“Oh, the storm. I forgot. Yes, of course you must stay. But there is only her room.”

“It does not matter. I can find my way.”

“There are candles in the pantry, and matches. Shall I call you?”

“There is no need. I am used to rising at strange hours.”

“Good night, then, Toma, and thank you for everything.”

 

H
E LAY ON THE BED,
naked except for the silk cross around his neck, and listened. Lily muttered in her sleep next door. Someone, probably the cook, turned over in bed. Thunder might wake them, but the rain would put them sound asleep. He would have to wait for the rain. After a carelessly loud trip up the back stairs he had undressed and folded his clothes neatly on the chair. He wouldn't need them until later, but he
had to think about the boots. Would it slow him down to go barefoot? Might he reinjure his foot? Yes and yes. But then what would he do with the soaked and filthy things when he got back? A trace of mud on the carpet would betray him. It must seem as if he had never left his bed, this bed which, because of the heat and the closeness of the room, gave up the odor of Olivia's hair. Wires. That's what she had said in disgust as she brushed her hair, hating the copper color in it and the texture. Everything depended now on wires.

Any moment, he told himself. But the moments passed and he wondered if he should go back to reason with her, beg her to tear up the paper, explain what Steinmetz had done to his wheel. A waste of time. She would not be able to listen or think clearly or believe such things of Steinmetz, and in the end he would be no better than Steinmetz, cajoling her over the dying man.

Lightning flashed in the near distance, and there was Tesla sitting in the chair by the window, his head wreathed in jagged light exactly as it had been in the famous photograph. But didn't everyone know the photograph was a fake, a double exposure? Tesla had not been in the laboratory when the generator discharged its spectacular display. Why was he here now? He lit a match. There was a lazy roll of thunder. Tesla was gone.