The Withdrawal Method Read online

  AT THE WEDDING, Maria Theresa appeared ambivalent, yawning openly as the vows were read. Beside her sat Francis Stephen, gloating at the magnificence of his floral arrangements, bright and glorious around the palace chapel. The benediction ended, Kempelen beamed at his bride, and then plunged at her for a nuptial kiss vigorous enough that the priest had to step in and pry him away. The place erupted with cheers - most enthusiastically from Kempelen's colleagues, relieved that the palace's most coveted bachelor was finally off the market. Maria Theresa clapped wanly, a thin smile on her lips, while her husband blew kisses to the newlyweds as they made their way under a shower of rice out of the chapel.

  The marriage was consummated purposefully, with Franciscka bent over and staring out the window while Kempelen grunted and thrust from behind. When he finished with a mighty holler, she pulled away, squatted, and Wolfgang watched while his ejaculate was emptied on a stream of urine into the chamber pot beside their bed.

  Franciscka's royal duties relinquished, she moved into the counsellor's villa. For the first time in his life, Kempelen felt something he could not identify in certain terms, an uneasiness that devolved into confusion. That consecratory first night haunted him, how Franciscka had indifferently flushed his seed from her body, and their day-to-day, wordless existence resonated with a similar emptiness. She turned her cheek obediently for a goodbye kiss every morning, but he could sense her gazing off into the distance over his shoulder; she yielded nightly to his advances, but in an almost conciliatory way. Any attempt at communication was greeted with a mute, blank stare.

  The answer Kempelen had been looking for still seemed to elude him, and he became preoccupied and began to neglect his duties as counsellor. His first project as a married man, a mechanical system meant to raise and lower the bridge into town, collapsed under the weight of its first crossing (two chickens drowned).

  A day later, the empress sat him down at the chessboard and asked what was wrong.

  "Something must have been amiss with my calculations," he offered.

  "Oh, it's not just that, Wolfgang. What's the matter?"

  Despondent, Kempelen dropped his pieces back into their box. "I can't play today," he said, then struggled to his feet and left the room. His limp seemed more pronounced than it had ever been; Maria Theresa watched him hobble away and realized something needed to be done. The empire depended on it.

  A FEW NIGHTS LATER, Kempelen came home to discover Franciscka collapsed under the kitchen table, a half-drunk cup of cider puddling beneath her on the floor. Kempelen rushed to her side, knelt, and rolled his wife over - her lips were colourless, her body rigid, her brown eyes stared blankly heavenward.

  The court coroner reported that Franciscka's heart had just stopped, like a watch smacked with a hammer. Kempelen's demands to perform a private autopsy were denied. Frustrated more than heartbroken, the counsellor sank into a deep depression, refusing to emerge from his home. After nearly a month of this self-imposed exile, Maria Theresa herself made the trip along the path through the woods to Kempelen's villa.

  Skirts hitched, she banged on the door. "Wolfgang!"

  No answer.

  "Wolfgang, please, it's me. You've got to come out. The empire needs you."

  Maria Theresa pressed her ear against the door. A cough. Then, muffled: "Send me away."

  "Sorry?"

  "Send me away from here. I don't care where. A place where I can make sense of things. A place where things make sense."

  The empress paused. Something rose in her throat. Swallowing hard, Maria Theresa willed it away and spoke to the door. "As you wish, Wolfgang."

  For the next dozen years Kempelen found himself shuttled all over the empire, arriving in locales where his brains were needed for problems agricultural, scientific - even judicial. In Transylvania, he concocted an ingenious pneumatic system for draining the region's flooded salt mines; in Banat, he undertook the role of detective and produced evidence to free a man wrongly convicted of murder.

  During this time, Kempelen established a base back in his hometown of Pressburg. He found himself missing life in the capital but could decipher no concrete reason to return - after all, his services were in great demand elsewhere around the empire. He kept to himself, and loneliness haunted him. Without a worthy opponent, he began to build simple automated chess pieces with the gears and wheels of old watches: when prompted, they would walk across the chessboard to the appropriate square. It was an attempt, he knew, to make life of his own, to create something engaging beyond simple machinery.

  Still, that life seemed hollow. Although the clockwork figures paraded around like little men, they were no real company, they provided no joy. At work, he performed his tasks methodically, without emotion, while everyone else celebrated his genius. Above all, when he thought about Franciscka's death he felt only curiosity - never sadness, and that seemed deeply wrong. It was clear, now, that he had never loved her - he had never loved anyone. He didn't know how to; he was a man trapped irrevocably in a realm of logic, distant from the enigmas of human emotion. Playing nightly chess games against himself, watching his automata march from one square to the next, the empire's prized counsellor felt the answers to life's greatest questions receding beyond his grasp.

  IN 1769, KEMPELEN received word that the empress wanted him back in Vienna. "Come quickly," read the message, "this is a very urgent matter."

  Fearing the collapse of the empire was at hand, Kempelen abandoned his work and made the trip back to the palace. Empress and counsellor met at their old spot in the gardens; she took Kempelen's hands in hers, seeming excited and flushed. It struck him, suddenly, that she might be in love with him, and that this rendezvous was designed to profess her adoration. That old sense of pride, long absent, swelled within him as he awaited her amorous confession.

  "Wolfgang!" she exclaimed. "There is a French conjuror coming to Vienna. He was here last year, and the year before, and his tricks are baffling. The entire court was in an uproar. No one can figure out how he does it - rabbits from hats, scarves appearing from up shirtsleeves, people sawn in half. And then we thought of you!"

  "That's why you ordered me here?"

  "Yes! He's performing tonight. So you must come and watch and then let us know how everything's done. Typical Frenchman, the bastard thinks he's got us fooled - but he has no idea that we'll have the cleverest man in all of Europe there tonight."

  Kempelen gazed at the empress: a wild, expectant look filled her eyes. He bowed, defeated, and when he spoke, his voice was a thin, reedy whisper. "Pleased to be of service."

  That evening the entire court gathered in the main ballroom. A thin, mincing man with an even thinner moustache performed some simple illusions, addressing the bewildered spectators in a Parisian accent rife with disdain. Kempelen, ire rising with each trick, muttered the fellow's secrets into Maria Theresa's ear while Francis Stephen whooped and applauded one seat over. After a finale that caused Kempelen to slap his own forehead in incredulity, the Frenchman bowed to a rousing ovation from all in attendance - excepting, naturally, the empress and her prize counsellor. When the applause receded, Kempelen stood and angrily addressed the crowd.

  "This fellow is a fraud," he announced, his tone furious. "You people sicken me, how readily you allow yourselves to be fooled."

  The magician spluttered and flapped his arms, his face reddening. Kempelen held up a finger. "Not only will I happily reveal how each of these illusions works to anyone who asks, but I am going to dedicate the next few months to creating something that doesn't need to dupe its audience with sleight of hand - something greater than human beings, something more clever, more cunning."

  The Frenchman fled the room. A hush fell upon the crowd as they waited, terrified, for whatever might come next. Kempelen looked down at Maria Theresa seated beside him. In his eyes was something she had never seen before: fire, passion. It frightened her. "Give me six months," he told the empress, and then limped out of the hall.

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bsp; HAVANA,1838

  UPON ARRIVING IN Havana, Johann Maelzel had told the rest of the crew that he and his assistant, Schlumberger, had official business to attend to in Regla. After overseeing the unloading of the Turk and its automated brethren, the two men stole off into the night to a quiet bodega across the river recommended as "friendly" by an ageing queen back in New Orleans. With a single candle burning between them on the table and a cloud of mosquitoes whining through the air, they sat watching one another nurse their glasses of rum before Maelzel finally spoke.

  "Christ, I never thought we'd get a moment alone."

  Schlumberger glanced shyly at Maelzel before his gaze retreated to the floor. "Finally."

  A local appeared at their table selling beaded necklaces. He stood there, a shirtless mulatto with a patchy beard, wares in hand, waiting patiently while Maelzel frowned and patted the pockets of his waistcoat. Schlumberger slapped at a mosquito on the nape of his neck. "Please, I'll get it, Johann."

  The man pocketed the coins and wreathed Schlumberger. "~Otras cosas?" asked the Cuban, winking at Maelzel, who shook his head, slumped in his chair, and waved the fellow away.

  Schlumberger regarded Maelzel across the table and felt a pang of melancholy at what confronted him. Where was the charisma, the life, the energy of the great showman who had entranced crowds across Europe? Since coming to America, Schlumberger had struggled to avoid noticing his companion's steady decline in vivacity, but here it was: eyes sunken, hair dishevelled - the grey, dejected visage of a man beaten and broke. The thirty years that separated them were obvious.

  "Don't worry," said Schlumberger, swatting at another mosquito, "you'll get back on top once this exhibition gets going. They loved you when we were here last."

  "Oh, it's hardly just me, is it?" sighed Maelzel, pulling his hands sharply away as Schlumberger tried to take them in his. "I'm just who they see, parading around like some circus buffoon. You're the true genius behind our operation."

  Schlumberger blushed. "I am only a pawn in the great Maelzel spectacle."

  "Bah," said Maelzel, and disappeared behind his drink.

  Schlumberger had found that lately he and his companion had taken to repeating conversations, and this one was familiar. He already knew what was coming next.

  "You know old Kempelen never intended for a man to be inside, don't you?" Maelzel nodded at his own words, twisting his glass of rum absently round a ring of moisture on the table. "Imagine a machine that could play better than any man, Schlumberger! Imagine if he'd been able to do it. It must have eaten Kempelen alive. He was never able to make peace with himself because of it and died a lonely, sad old man." Maelzel drank, then continued. "And to think, seventy years later, his failure is my biggest success."

  Maelzel disappeared once more behind his glass of rum. There were things Schlumberger wanted to say, but they would have to wait until this whole tour was over and he and Maelzel were back on American soil. Then Maelzel would be finally able to pay off his many debts, and they could pack the Turk up and get on with their lives.

  Schlumberger lifted the beaded necklace and scratched absently at the swelling mosquito bite on the back of his neck. From across the table, Maelzel stared past him at some indefinite place in the dark, lifted his glass again, and drained it.

  AFTER FOUR DAYS of preparation, the exhibition began. On opening night a huge crowd gathered to be dazzled by Maelzel and his automata; many had to be turned away at the door for lack of adequate seating. The show began with the famous trumpet player playing the customary Handel - and, as per the French-born Schlumberger's request, also a rondo of Chopin's that left the crowd somewhat bemused.

  Many of the locals and American expatriates in attendance were especially interested in Maelzel's updated Conflagration of Moscow, the original version of which hadn't made the trip on his first visit to Cuba. Maelzel wheeled the complex diorama onstage. "The Conflagration," he announced to a round of cheers, "of Moscow!"

  After winding a crank to set the mechanism in motion, the showman retreated backstage with Schlumberger. Squeezing his secretary's knee as he sat down, Maelzel noticed that the young man looked flushed; sweat beaded his temples and along his upper lip. "All right?" asked Maelzel. Schlumberger nodded wanly, his gaze sinking to the floor.

  The musical score to The Conflagration, composed by Maelzel's good friend Ludwig van Beethoven, began. Artificial daylight crept over the scene; mechanical peasants emerged from their miniature homes. The music grew in intensity, the movements accelerated, and when the first round of pyrotechnics flared up, the crowd yelped in shock and delight. Buildings toppled and bridges collapsed as Moscow's proud citizenry hurriedly razed the city to spite the invisible, encroaching Napoleonic army.

  When the show concluded a few minutes later with a climactic rumble and a puff of smoke, the diorama lying in ruins, Maelzel bounded onstage to a roaring ovation from the audience. Schlumberger smiled weakly as Maelzel grandstanded about, playing to his fans, showing a hint of the old "prince of entertainers" who had taken Europe by storm over the last few decades. Still, there was desperation to it, as though this show could make or break his career - which, Schlumberger knew, was not far from the truth.

  A succession of other displays of Maelzel's mechanical wizardry followed. By the time intermission finally came, Schlumberger's state had drastically declined. Backstage, meeting Maelzel to prepare the Turk, he collapsed, panting, drenched in sweat.

  Maelzel laid a hand on Schlumberger's shoulder. "Jesus, you're looking rough."

  "Thanks," said Schlumberger, struggling to his feet. "I'm sure it's just the heat."

  "I've got just the thing." Maelzel produced a half-empty bottle of wine from a secret compartment. "Beaujolais."

  Schlumberger watched him drink, but declined the bottle when it was offered him. Dabbing sweat from his brow with his handkerchief, he slumped back against the cabinet, shivering.

  "We can cancel the show," Maelzel said, suddenly subdued, his hand on Schlumberger's shoulder, "if you're not feeling up to it."

  "No, no. I'm okay. Let's try to get through two games."

  Maelzel drained the last of the wine. With a quick look around, he leaned in and planted a kiss on the top of Schlumberger's head. "God, you're burning up."

  "I'll be fine." Forcing a smile, he added, "The show must go on.

  Schlumberger climbed into the cabinet while Maelzel lit the candles that allowed the Turk's operator to see in the dark. On the chessboard above, Maelzel positioned the pieces in the middle of each square so the magnets would line up with those below. Then he kneeled before the cabinet where Schlumberger sat curled behind his control panel. Gazing into those shadows, Maelzel thought of the show in Baltimore, after which the two of them had made love inside the Turk. It had been a cramped, goofy affair, and when they were finished, realizing they were locked in, they had been forced to kick the doors open from inside.

  "And you're clear on how the new speaking contraption works?"

  Schlumberger pressed a button. "Check," came a voice from the Turk. He pressed it again. "Checkmate," said the Turk.

  Maelzel's smile quickly faded. "You okay?"

  "Yes." Schlumberger's voice was faint and hollowsounding.

  Maelzel paused, then swung the doors closed, the click of the catches securing them in place. After a quick once-over, he rapped on the Turk's chessboard, waited, and then felt a flood of relief when a muffled knock finally came in reply. Maelzel wheeled the Turk onstage, where he was greeted with a burst of applause from the audience.

  Although most in attendance had heard it before, Maelzel went through his usual spiel about "the amazing chess-playing Turk, the machine that has bested the greatest players in Europe," striding back and forth across the stage, all grand gestures and booming voice. The contraption itself was simple enough: seated behind a desk sat a wooden dummy in the flowing robe and sequined turban of an Ottoman emperor. On the desk itself were painted the checkered squares of a che
ssboard, over which loomed one of the Turk's hands; the other held a spindly, Oriental pipe. The front of the cabinet had two sets of doors. Maelzel strode up to these and flung one side open, revealing what appeared to be an empty cupboard. He waited until Schlumberger had time to shuffle over to the other side, and then did the same with the other doors, where a facade of utterly inoperative cogwheels and gears gave the impression that the Turk was, indeed, a functional machine.

  "Who would like to try their hand at besting the mighty Turk?" demanded Maelzel.

  The stands came alive with fluttering hands and cries. Maelzel pointed to a portly, elderly fellow in one of the front rows. Amid jeers from the gallery, he introduced himself as Paco, and at Maelzel's instructions he waddled over and took his seat on the other side of the chessboard.

  "White or black?" asked Maelzel. Paco pointed to the black king, prompting more heckling from the audience. Maelzel cranked the mechanism, notifying Schlumberger that the game was about to begin.

  The Turk made its opening move. Maelzel stood nearby, doing his best to provide illustrative commentary, in fact preoccupied with the thought of his feverish companion huddled inside the cabinet. He grew more settled when it became obvious that Schlumberger still had his wits about him: the Turk gave away a rook and a bishop, but Paco was a weak player, and unbeknownst to him Schlumberger was mounting a subtle attack based around both knights, the queen, and - much to Maelzel's glee - a rogue pawn that was stealthily making its way across the board.

  As contestants tended to do, Paco quickly took to treating the Turk as a living thing, shaking his head when a turn took too long, wagging stolen pieces in its wooden face. The crowd divided into sides, with Paco's supporters mocking the Turk's every move, and vice versa.

  After fifteen minutes or so Maelzel claimed to need to rewind the mechanism; the three turns of the crank he made were the sign for Schlumberger to wrap things up. A few moves later, the automaton called out, "Check," and all in attendance went wild. Paco, perspiring, sacrificed his rook, the Turk swung its remaining bishop across the board, released its grip, paused, and added, "Checkmate."