Curiosity by Gary Blackwood Page B

Battle of Trocadero?”
    â€œWho told you that?”
    â€œMulhouse.”
    â€œMulhouse knows nothing about it,” he said contemptuously. “The only battles he ever fought were on a chessboard.” He chiseled away for a few moments, then went on. “ Oui. It was at Trocadero. An artillery shell. Otso put tourniquets on the stumps and carried me to safety. I owe him my life . . . such as it is.”
    And I owed my situation—such as it was—to Otso’s namesake. If it hadn’t been for the Turk, I’d have been the one begging on a street corner. Of course, I might have had better luck getting money from random passersby than from Maelzel.
    Now that he knew I could handle the job, he added an extra show each evening. I continued to play my part well but, if Maelzel could be believed, we were still not drawing big crowds. After Saturday afternoon’s performance, he gave me a very different sort of task—refilling the lamps beneath the Moscow diorama. This surprised me; normally he didn’t trust anyone but Jacques to maintain his machines.
    As I was taking out the last lamp, the door that led to the adjoining exhibition hall opened. I expected to see Mr. Barnum again. Instead, a stranger entered, a slender fellow with a gloomy expression and a pale complexion that was accentuated by his dark hair and mustache and black clothing; his only resemblance to the boisterous showman was in his forehead, which was every bit as massive as Mr. Barnum’s. Another prime phrenology subject, I thought. If I’d had to guess his occupation, I would have said undertaker. But as it turned out, he was a poet, and apparently one of some repute, for when he introduced himself, Maelzel clearly recognized the name.
    I am sure you recognize it, too; in recent years, his works—“The Tell-Tale Heart,” “The Pit and the Pendulum,” “The Gold-Bug,” “The Raven”—have made Edgar Allan Poe a household name. I am sorry to say that the man was less admirable than his stories. In fact I found him downright unpleasant. He gazed about the hall with a rather disdainful expression, as though he were used to more elegant surroundings. The Southern flavor of his speech added to that air of haughtiness. But seen close up, he looked a little shabby. The cloth of his frock coat was threadbare and shiny at the elbows; I suspect he had rubbed soot onto some of the worst spots.
    â€œHow did you make your way in here, Mr. Poe?” asked Maelzel, a bit peevishly.
    â€œMr. Barnum let me in. I thought I might write something for the Inquirer about your . . . show .” The way he said it, the word sounded slightly unsavory.
    Maelzel didn’t seem to notice. In fact, his manner suddenly became much more cordial. “The Inquirer , eh? Yes, yes, of course. I shall be happy to show you around and answer any questions.” He glared at me as though I were the intruder. “Please get your broom and finish sweeping, now.” He shook his head and smiled wearily. “It is so difficult to find a boy who is willing to work; they would rather stand about gaping at the exhibits.”
    I knew he was passing me off as a common chore boy so that Poe wouldn’t suspect my real role. I drifted off in search of a broom. When I found one, I drifted back within earshot. “The truth is, Mr. Maelzel,” Poe was saying, “I’m mainly interested in the chess-playing automaton. I’ve heard that it’s quite extraordinary.” He glanced around in search of the Turk.
    â€œI like to think so,” said Maelzel, with unaccustomed modesty.
    Poe was not quite so modest. “I consider myself a fairly accomplished chess player. I would like to play a game against your . . . machine; it would add a great deal of interest to my newspaper piece.”
    â€œThat may easily be arranged. If you will come back tomorrow, just