Battle of Trocadero?â
âWho told you that?â
âMulhouse.â
âMulhouse knows nothing about it,â he said contemptuously. âThe only battles he ever fought were on a chessboard.â He chiseled away for a few moments, then went on. â 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.â
And I owed my situationâsuch as it wasâto Otsoâs namesake. If it hadnât been for the Turk, Iâd 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 afternoonâs performance, he gave me a very different sort of taskârefilling the lamps beneath the Moscow diorama. This surprised me; normally he didnât 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. Barnumâs. Another prime phrenology subject, I thought. If Iâd 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 worksââThe Tell-Tale Heart,â âThe Pit and the Pendulum,â âThe Gold-Bug,â âThe Ravenââhave 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.
âHow did you make your way in here, Mr. Poe?â asked Maelzel, a bit peevishly.
âMr. Barnum let me in. I thought I might write something for the Inquirer about your . . . show .â The way he said it, the word sounded slightly unsavory.
Maelzel didnât seem to notice. In fact, his manner suddenly became much more cordial. âThe Inquirer , eh? Yes, yes, of course. I shall be happy to show you around and answer any questions.â He glared at me as though I were the intruder. âPlease get your broom and finish sweeping, now.â He shook his head and smiled wearily. âIt is so difficult to find a boy who is willing to work; they would rather stand about gaping at the exhibits.â
I knew he was passing me off as a common chore boy so that Poe wouldnât suspect my real role. I drifted off in search of a broom. When I found one, I drifted back within earshot. âThe truth is, Mr. Maelzel,â Poe was saying, âIâm mainly interested in the chess-playing automaton. Iâve heard that itâs quite extraordinary.â He glanced around in search of the Turk.
âI like to think so,â said Maelzel, with unaccustomed modesty.
Poe was not quite so modest. âI 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
âThat may easily be arranged. If you will come back tomorrow, just
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