The artisan took it dismissively. He tested it two or three times and handed it back to Kolm.
“Take it to a watchmaker. I deal with much more intricate mechanisms.”
“I want you to do it.”
Laghi felt the urge to shove the executioner and call for the men outside to come to his aid, but he hesitated- not out of cowardice but in order not to make the night ahead any more difficult than it already was. He snatched the mechanical hand from Kolm and took it with him. The executioner shuddered at being so abruptly deprived of his walking stick, as if his actual hand had been taken from him.
Clarissa
The house now seemed like a machine that processed people in and out at the will of some hidden design. I was hurrying to escape it when I saw a young woman looking in a mirror, at the end of the hall: she was an exact copy of the woman from Toulouse.
I ignored the maid’s shouts and approached the ghost. She looked at me with wide, staring eyes. Not knowing what sort of sin I might be committing, I kissed the automaton’s icy lips. Her teeth cut my mouth, and I was aware of the metallic taste of blood. Hearing my cry, Kolm came with his fist raised, but he lowered it immediately when he saw it was only a girl.
“There’s nothing to fear. She’s not even real,” I said.
Blood suffused the woman’s cheeks, dispersing the illusion and the pallor.
“Are you sure I’m not a woman?”
She brought her mouth toward me, and I closed my eyes, expecting to be bit again but powerless to defend myself. Her lips rested softly on mine. If she was one of Von Knepper’s creatures, then Von Knepper was a god.
“This is the second time we’ve met,” I said, “but the first time, you weren’t there.”
She gestured for me to be quiet and led me by the hand to a room piled with broken mechanical toys: Dutch dolls with springs protruding from the head or chest, a blackbird in a gold cage, a soldier missing an arm. There was also a steam-powered wooden horse, a palace being circled by the sun and the moon, and a bronze Medusa that would open her eyes and toss her mane of snakes.
“Are you Von Knepper’s daughter?”
“You shouldn’t say his name. Call him Laghi; that’s what he’s known as in Paris.”
I asked about the young woman from Toulouse.
“Is she more beautiful than me? My father made her when I was a child: she was the future image of me. Then she was sold and passed from hand to hand; the purchasers always promised to keep her but never did, as if she were cursed. Three years ago, my father lost track of her. She’s made in my image and likeness, but while I grow old and imperceptibly wear out, she’ll never change.”
“If you two were rivals, you won. There’s nothing left of her. A secret mechanism under her tongue caused her to explode.”
“What kind of tears do you cry for a dead automaton? When my father finds out, he’ll cry real tears. He always loved her better; he thought she was more human.”
“I would never mistake a frigid automaton for a woman.”
“No? You don’t even know who I am.”
She brought her hand to my face, as if she were the one wondering about me.
“Don’t tell anyone you saw her. There are no automatons in France; there never were.”
“That’s what I want to speak to your father about.”
“He won’t see you. My father’s in grave danger. He doesn’t ever let me go out; I’m like a prisoner here.”
“Then I’ve come to set you free.”
If she accepted, what would I do with her? Where would I take her? Thankfully, she declined.
“The world out there is just another jail. At least in here it’s not rainy or cold.”
I looked at the dolls and mechanical toys all around us: everything was broken, nothing worked, and those very defects seemed to be contagious, so that soon we didn’t know what to say or how to move.
The Prisoner
I wrote of recent events and my suspicions and asked I my uncle to make sure the letter reached Ferney. My message also asked for money and instructions: I needed to know my words were being heard, that a clear mind was putting the pieces together and arranging my next steps. At the time, it was common for loose pages, found in the bookstores of Paris, to be gathered up and kept in wooden boxes until, at some point, their rightful place was found. It had recently become popular to bind these lost pages, to create a book that jumped from one topic to another. That’s how I felt: I was gathering incomprehensible pages, hoping the great reader, sitting next to a window in a parlor at Ferney, would make sense of them.
Every now and then I would hear rumors that Voltaire was in the city or that he had died, and I would wonder whether I might be working in the service of a lost cause and for no pay.
In the evenings I would watch the Laghi house, hoping to see Clarissa. I was prepared to attempt a second meeting as soon as her father went out. But when I saw Von Knepper hurry away, carrying his little chest, curiosity impelled me to follow him.
Von Knepper walked without looking back or to either side. His stride was so long I practically had to run to keep up. We crossed over the river and passed through a market, where I nearly lost him among the vendors leaving for the night. He stopped at an iron gate, and I had to step back so as not to be seen. We had come to the cemetery. The guard was expecting him and let him in without a word. I watched Von Knepper walk through the trees and the graves until he was swallowed by shadows.
I now had to choose between the graveyard and the house and decided on the latter. The maid tried to stop me at the door, but I shouted Clarissa’s name and she came to my rescue. Once again she led me to the room with the piles of broken toys, Kolm’s walking stick now among them.
“I saw your father at the cemetery. Would he be visiting your mother’s grave?”
“My mother died elsewhere, and my father never went to her grave.”
“So what is he looking for there at this time of night?”
“I don’t know. If you’re so interested in my father, why didn’t you follow him?”
“Because I wanted to come here.”
“Then enough about the cemetery. Your shoes are already caked with mud. The more you talk, the muddier things will get.”
She offered me a chair with a cracked leg, and I nearly fell off it. She sat down on a trunk. The room was nearly dark. I thought I could hear the whirring of little machines in the corners.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve spoken to anyone. My father isn’t much of a conversationalist.”
“They say he’s the greatest maker of automatons in Europe.”
“He’s made a tiger and a ballerina and won over the courts of Portugal and Russia. Sometimes I thought all the time he spent around machines allowed him to discover the secret workings of the world, and his every wish was granted. But then automatons went out of style, and now my father isn’t moved by art but by greed and fear.”
“What is he afraid of?”
“He’s afraid of Abbot Mazy and his calligrapher, who’s writing a book that never ends, using his enemies’ blood as ink.”
Darkness had filled the space as we talked, pushing us closer together. I reached to put my arm around her, in that cowardly, imperceptible way that tries not to appear deliberate. Clarissa gave no sign of approval or disapproval, and I wondered whether I might have touched her so softly she hadn’t even noticed. Emboldened by her apparent acquiescence, I moved closer still. She didn’t reject my caresses, but she didn’t return them either. The things around us gradually began to move: the Dutch dolls and the dismembered soldiers and the little Greek
