The Withdrawal Method

THE LOVE LIFE OF THE AUTOMATON TURK VIENNA, 1755

ALTHOUGH HE FANCIED himself one, it would have been a stretch to consider Wolfgang von Kempelen much of a wolf, regardless of whether he was going by his Hungarian birth name, Farkas, or the Wolfgang it became when the empire's official language was changed to German. Kempelen was a haughty, blue-eyed fellow with sandy hair and whiskers resembling more those of a kitten than anything lupine. Yet even the feline comparison was limited to moments of inertia: born with a sort of defect in one of his feet, when forced into motion Kempelen staggered precariously from one place to the next, compromising anything that might have been taken for catlike charm.

At the age of twenty-one, Kempelen was introduced to Empress Maria Theresa at the suggestion of his father, a retired civil servant who had been a favourite of the former king. The monarch was immediately taken with this beguiling youth from Pressburg: having easily bested all the top chess players in the land, the empress had long been in search of a worthy opponent, and she found exactly that in young Wolfgang.

Their first match, Kempelen took Maria Theresa's offered hand, bowed slightly, and sat down behind the other side of the board, blue eyes sparkling, that half-smile almost playful, almost cocky.

"So you are the young genius everyone's talking about." The empress was thirty-seven at the time, with a frizzy poof of orange hair, bulging eyes that suggested a thyroid malfunction, and pale, sallow skin.

Kempelen shrugged. "Genius? Such a relative term."

The game commenced with Kempelen adopting a classic French opening and ended four hours later in a stalemate. A rematch a few days later produced the same result. Finally, after six games, Kempelen took Maria Theresa's queen during a gruelling endgame and, with her remaining pawn and knight gone astray across the board, winked and said, "I believe that's checkmate."

"I believe it is." Maria Theresa gestured and from somewhere appeared a dark, pretty girl with a thick dossier in her hands. "Now, chess is all fine and good, but if you're up to it, we would like to present to you a true test of your intellectual prowess."

As the empress's maidservant handed Kempelen the dossier, his fingers lingered for a moment against the young girl's. "Hello," he said. "What's your name?"

The girl froze. Kempelen's hand snaked up to her wrist.

"That's Franciscka," interrupted the empress. "She's dumb."

"Dumb?"

"Mute. She hears fine, but can't — or won't — say a word."

"Ah," said Kempelen, and at this Franciscka withdrew, scampering into the shadows. Kempelen watched her for a moment, then returned his attention to Maria Theresa.

"This, Wolfgang, is the Hungarian civil code, written in Latin, which needs translating into German. We hear you are quite gifted in both."

"When do you want it by?" asked Kempelen, weighing the papers in his hands.

"No rush," said the empress, "but we're looking forward to seeing your work."

Kempelen bowed. "Pleased to be of service."

DAYS LATER A translation appeared of such sophistication that it sent rumours rippling through the empire of a mysterious crippled prodigy who had turned the empire's archaic charter into Germanic magnificence.

Asked about his process by Maria Theresa, Kempelen shrugged. "Languages are just equations of one another — it's all a matter of figuring out what best equals what."

The empress loved this, the precision of it, and waited for more.

"Now tell me," he asked, looking around. "This Franciscka — she's not married?"

"No, Wolfgang, not that I know of."

"Interesting."

ON THE STRENGTH of this translation, Wolfgang von Kempelen earned a permanent position in the Austro-Hungarian court. Gossip persisted about the nature of his relationship with Maria Theresa, exacerbated by public speculation as to the sexual orientation of Maria's husband, Francis Stephen, Duke of Lorraine. (The duke's imperial role could be best defined as secretarial, and he also delighted in the hobby of amateur florist — admittedly, his bouquets were among the most stunning in the land.)

But civilian conjecture remained just that. Neither Kempelen nor Maria Theresa had anything in mind beyond a strictly platonic relationship: they played chess; she saw his intellect as a tool of the empire, something that would lead them forward; he delighted in having a venue in which to exercise his ideas.

His first day on the job, the empress took Kempelen on a walk about the palace grounds, slowing her pace to match the counsellor's limp. Having spent most of their time together seated on either side of a chessboard, Maria Theresa was surprised at his gimpy leg trailing stiffly along — the fragility it suggested unnerved her. She preferred to think of this fellow as a pillar on which the edifice of a new Austria-Hungary would be built, rather than some pathetic cripple stumbling from one place to the next.

Kempelen halted before a team of gardeners watering the manicured lawns and hedgerows.

"Have you ever thought," he said, eyes narrowed, "that a single machine might be able to do the work of a dozen of these men?"

The empress watched him, trying to imagine what he saw, what plans and schematics were already being sketched in his mind's eye. "A machine?" she asked.

"Yes. A machine."

That afternoon Kempelen retreated to his court-appointed villa in the woods. Days later, unshaven and sleep-deprived, he re-emerged with elaborate plans for a sprinkler system to irrigate the entire grounds of the palace. It was quickly built, widely considered a stroke of genius, and, while failing to endear him to the gardeners who lost their jobs, raised his stock even higher with the empress, who promoted him immediately to senior counsellor.

The accolades were fine, but it was more the thrill of creation that pleased Kempelen: here was something that he had conceived and given life to, something that was inarguably superior to its human counterpart. He stood proudly before the court as they applauded him, chest puffed out like a peacock, lame leg hidden behind the podium, and in his speech promised even more impressive inventions to come.

That evening's feast ended with Kempelen drunk and in bed with one of his fellow counsellors' daughters, something that quickly became a trend over the months to follow. While he systematically redesigned the palace's irrigation, waste disposal, and archival systems, Kempelen just as systematically made his way through the palace's female courtiers and maidservants, luring them to his villa in the woods, only to shoo them out the door the following morning like mice discovered in the larder.

Soon Kempelen had had them all — that is, with the exception of the elusive Franciscka, who fled any room he entered, always with a flirtatious glance over her shoulder before retreating to some distant corner of the palace. During a chess match that saw the empress taking Kempelen's pieces at will, he confided to Maria Theresa that Franciscka seemed to represent the final variable in the equation of his life, and that without her he felt things sprawling infinitely, with no end in sight.

"So even your love life you reduce to science?" wondered the empress.

Kempelen frowned at her, and it was the frown of one who, hearing his own philosophy spoken aloud by another, was forced to bring it into question.

"You've always told me everything is science. Even chess, you've said, relies on logic so precise that a machine could play it."

Kempelen shrugged. "Maybe I'm in love with her."

"Oh, Wolfgang!" exclaimed the empress, shaking her head. "Be careful. There's something suspicious about that girl — always lurking around, silent, popping up in places she shouldn't be. I'd stay away from her, if I were you."

After a restless, sleepless night, Kempelen lay in bed staring at the ceiling. He pictured Franciscka's face: those big, brown eyes, that little nub of a nose, the lips thin and tightly drawn, as though hiding something forbidden within. Thoughts of her made his head swim, unable to rest on anything definite or absolute; formless images and ideas went caroming off one another, colliding and spiralling away. Kempelen closed his eyes and, one by one, methodically, he pulled the fragments in and laid them out as pieces to a puzzle. With systematic precision he went through, organizing, arranging, and as he did, something conclusive began to take shape.

Kempelen swept the bedclothes aside and, ignoring the matter of dressing, limped briskly out to the maidservants' quarters in his nightshirt, where he pounded on the door, dropped to one knee, and, when a startled Franciscka appeared, promised to renounce his licentious ways if she would agree to marry him.

Franciscka looked down at the man grovelling at her feet, eyes reflecting sky. She felt very little, other than a vague satisfaction that she had played her cards right for the past two years, not like those other tarts around the palace. After six years as a maidservant, Franciscka was fed up with being bossed around by the capricious Maria Theresa and knew that as a counsellor's wife she would be excused from her position.

Extending her hand to Kempelen, who took it and pressed it to his forehead, Franciscka thought fondly of this impending freedom. Kempelen looked up, saw her smiling, and mistook it for lover's joy. His heart raced: he finally felt something that defied his wealth of knowledge, a deep, booming sense of uncertainty that brought him to his feet. He swept his bride into his arms and hollered, "I love you!"

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.

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 chessboard, 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."

Once again the crowd erupted. An ironic chant of "Paco, Paco!" rose up while the old man cursed the Turk, pointing at it with a quivering sausage of a finger. Maelzel, glancing quickly at the board, was shocked to notice that the call had been premature: with one backward drop of his remaining knight, Paco's king would have been safe, forcing the Turk to cede the game. But before anyone could notice, Paco swept the pieces from the board, then stormed cursing out of the theatre, shaking his fists. Beneath the din that followed, Maelzel heard a cough from within the cabinet, followed by a long, plaintive groan.

IN SCHLUMBERGER'S hotel room, Maelzel hovered nearby while the doctor, a wiry American hidden behind a mess of grey beard, tended to his friend. The vomiting had finally subsided, but there was little to indicate that Schlumberger was doing any better; he lay helpless, emaciated and silent, like a bundle of twigs left for kindling.

The doctor turned and regarded Maelzel severely. "It's as I suspected. The infection's spread into his liver — that's why the skin appears jaundiced."

Maelzel breathed.

"Please, Mr. Maelzel," said the doctor, "if we can go into the other room."

In the adjoining room, Maelzel's own, the Turk sat glowering in the corner; the other automata lay piled around in various states of disarray, abandoned after opening night.

The doctor stroked his beard. "I have to tell you, Mr. Maelzel, that your friend might not make it through the night."

Maelzel nodded vacantly. He needed a drink.

"The fever is so far advanced there's little more we can do than wait." The doctor paused, staring at the Turk. "But if I may, Mr. Maelzel, could I ask you something?"

Maelzel shrugged. He was thinking, as he had been for days, of what might have happened had he allowed Schlumberger a night's rest — just one night of respite in the room, Maelzel spooning soup into his mouth. His thoughts were interrupted; the doctor was speaking.

"The Turk — has Mr. Schlumberger got anything to do with its operation? People are talking. They say he's actually inside, manipulating its arm on the chessboard. Since he's been ill, you haven't performed, and that first night, when in the middle of your show you claimed a mechanical malfunction, was the night you first contacted me."

The doctor paused, gazing at Maelzel, who in turn gazed past the louvred doors into Schlumberger's room. Then his face twisted into something ferocious. He turned to the doctor, breath whistling through his nostrils, eyes narrowed.

"Get out," he hissed.

"I didn't — " began the doctor, but stopped himself. Before him stood a man who, regardless of his secrets (and they were many, the doctor could see, and various), was ruined. The doctor collected his things, bowed quickly, and was gone.

Left alone, Maelzel pulled a bottle of wine from one of his many cases, uncorked it, and sucked back nearly half before making his way into Schlumberger's room. Lying down on the bed beside his companion, he felt the heat trapped in the sheets, saw the glassy, empty look in Schlumberger's eyes, could smell the sickly scent of rot and vomit from his mouth.

"Sorry, Johann," wheezed Schlumberger. "You will find someone else. There are many great chess players in America."

Maelzel shook his head. "Never, my friend. This is the end. No more illusions, no more secrets, no more hiding men in the bellies of machines."

Schlumberger coughed and something rattled deep inside him. His body bucked slightly off the bed and fell, shuddering. He settled back and closed his eyes. "I love you, Johann," he whispered, his voice papery and crackling.

"I'm sorry," said Maelzel. "You could have been a master, one of the great chess men of history. But I had to stuff you inside a box. What kind of love is that?"

But there was no reply. The mouth had gone slack. Maelzel leaned in, felt what he knew were Schlumberger's last breaths coming in short, dry gusts on his cheek. Quietly, gently, Maelzel laid his head on Schlumberger's chest, his ear against the dull throbbing of his companion's heart, and waited for it to stop.

MAELZEL STOOD swaying before the Turk, the pitching of the Louisiana-bound Otis amplifying his already compromised sense of balance. He gazed at its wooden face, paint starting to peel, turban unravelling. The only thing that still held life was its eyes, piercingly blue, burning with what always seemed to Maelzel something malicious, something evil. Perched behind its empty chessboard, the Turk sneered at him through the drooping points of its horsehair moustache.

Hollering came from above-decks from the ship's American crew, followed by a high-pitched Spanish reply — without doubt the handsome Cuban boy, Luis-Enrique, whom the ship had taken on before leaving Havana. Maelzel listened for more, but heard nothing further, just the gentle crash of waves against the hull, the mournful creaking of rigging and beams.

Turning away from the Turk, his vision swimming, Maelzel gazed around, trying to focus on the various other automata that packed the hold of the Otis: the Conflagration of Moscow, the Melodion, the Pyrrhic Fires, the Trumpeter, the Mechanical Theatre, the slack-rope dancer that Schlumberger had nicknamed "Guppy."

Schlumberger. Standing there in the dim light of the hold, yet another emptied bottle of wine dangling from his hand, Maelzel imagined that sheepish face, the shy grin, the slight stoop in his shoulders, likely aggravated by all that time hunched over inside the Turk — hours upon hours, curled up in there working the machine like a trained rat while Maelzel tromped about showboating to the crowds. A sour bubble of guilt and nausea rose in his throat.

As he vomited, the ship pitched and Maelzel was sent careering forward, bile and wine splashing down the front of his coat. The bottle flew from his hand and smashed on the floor, while Maelzel crashed into the cabinet, tumbled over, and landed face to face with the Turk. Maelzel could feel it mocking him. He closed his eyes; his head swirled and spun and danced. Spent, he collapsed finally onto the chessboard, arms splayed out, and lay there unmoving as the hull rocked with the undulating sea.

LUIS-ENRIQUE CASTILLO wasn't entirely sure what he'd been sent to the hold of the Otis to retrieve. The youngest son of a family of Cuban banana farmers, he'd sought work on board in order to make passage to America — although his English apparently still needed some work. It was impossible to decipher the Louisiana-born captain's orders. After a baffling sequence of instructions that rose in volume, but not clarity, and concluded with Luis-Enrique being slapped on the side of the head and pointed below-decks, he had slunk off, wondering if confusion would be all his life among Americans would entail.

Opening the door to the hold, initially Luis-Enrique thought he saw two men on either side of a chessboard, before realizing that one was a dummy; the other, slumped onto the desk, he recognized as the mysterious German who had been holed up in his cabin since departing Havana. From overheard snatches of conversation, Luis-Enrique had been able to glean that this Maelzel, some type of inventorcum-impresario, had been driven mad by his own creations. Although now, as Luis-Enrique skirted a puddle of vomit and prodded the dead man with the toe of his boot, the cause of his tribulations was irrelevant.

As the bringer of the news to the rest of the ship, LuisEnrique was assigned the disposal of the inventor's belongings. In Maelzel's sleeping quarters — littered with empty wine bottles, the stuffing of a mattress ripped to pieces, halfeaten meals, the shards of a shattered mirror- he discovered twelve gold doubloons, some paperwork documenting substantial debts and outstanding payments, a chessboard and set, complete but for one pawn, and a beaded necklace of the sort sold by male prostitutes in Regla.

Then there was the cargo that filled the hold. After mopping up the puddle of vomit, Luis-Enrique carted the strange machines out one by one, lining them up along the deck beside the dead man, now lashed to a stretcher and swaddled in a tarpaulin. The Turk, however, proved too large for him to move on his own, and none of the other crew seemed eager to lend a hand. Abandoning the frightening creature — LuisEnrique found himself avoiding the piercing, accusatory stare of its sapphire blue eyes — he returned above-decks for the final send-off.

The funeral, a classic burial at sea, was attended by just under half the crew, many of whom chewed on cigars while the ship chaplain mumbled a cursory prayer. There was a halfhearted "Amen" before Maelzel's things were pitched overboard. The captain pointed at the corpse, then at Luis-Enrique, then down at the water.

Luis-Enrique lifted one end of the stretcher and, dragging its heavy cargo across the deck, wondered what sort of man this Maelzel had been, whom he was leaving behind. At the edge, with the body teetering over the sea, the boy paused. He felt something else needed to be said, but at that moment he felt a shove from behind. Stumbling, Luis-Enrique looked back, saw the captain grinning broadly, and only heard a splash from below as Maelzel hit the water and was carried off in the ship's wake.

PHILADELPHIA, 1854

"COME ON," said Mary, tugging at Silas's sleeve. "You promised you'd show me."

Silas faltered, looking up. The Chinese Museum loomed above them against the purple clouds of the night sky, a big, black box darkening a full block along Sansom Street between Eighth and Ninth. The lantern in his hand tempted him, but he knew it would only be safe to light inside.

"Come on," she said again, huskily, leaning close, her mouth at his ear.

Behind them the darkness was punctured by a single glowing street lamp at the far end of Sansom. Ahead another lit the corner at Ninth, but where they stood between the two lights was entirely in the shadow of the museum. It was as though this section of the street were removed from the rest of the city.

"If my father finds out about this, he'll kill me," mumbled Silas.

"You're twenty-five years old. And besides, you're not exactly the pride of the Mitchell family as is." The girl giggled and took off, dragging her sweetheart by the hand, her flowing skirts nearly tripping them both as they stole around to a door at the back of the museum. Panting, Silas produced his father's key-ring from his pocket. Mary held the lantern as he rifled through the keys jangling in his trembling hands.

"Hurry up," said Mary. "What if there are guards?"

"There's no guards — not yet, not until the exhibition opens tomorrow."

Mary pushed up against Silas, both her hands clutching his upper arm, squeezing. "I'm so excited. Do you really know how it works?"

Silas turned the key in the lock, there was an ominous click, and the door sprung open. "Okay," he said, glancing around. "Inside."

THE LANTERN THEY had brought splashed a pale yellow puddle before them, glinting off the glass cases that filled the museum, gridlike. The smell of burning kerosene hung heavy in the air, and beyond the lantern's feeble glow stretched darkness, eerie and silent, the vague shapes of statuettes and stuffed animals silhouetted against the walls. Through the windows, a half-moon like an upended china bowl appeared at intervals between the clouds.

"Where is it?" whispered Mary. The echo of her voice came hissing back at them.

"Downstairs. The door to the basement's just in the next room, to the right."

"This is so exciting!"

Silas, though, was not thinking about excitement. He was preoccupied with thoughts of his father noticing the keys missing and appearing in the laboratory to find Hammond alone and his son missing. Hammond was a good friend who would do his best to make some excuse — that the younger Mitchell had left to hunt for snakes to extract venom, something diligent-sounding and plausible — but Silas knew that his father's innate sense of reason, coupled with a constant state of suspicion, would undoubtedly prevail.

Even half a world away, when Silas had been travelling around France, letters from Philadelphia had seemed to arrive almost immediately after another of the escapades he thought typical, if not expected, of a Grand Tour. Silas always opened mail from his father reluctantly, knowing it would comprise chidings and angry demands to return home, put his medical degree to some use and join the family practice, instead of wasting his time with frivolity overseas. Whether this was genuine, or merely an attempt to get Silas back so they could continue their private performances with the Turk, he was unsure. Regardless, when one of the letters, received after an evening out with some cancan ladies in Montmartre, concluded with the lament, "You are wanting in nearly all the qualities that go to make a success in medicine," Silas decided to return to Philadelphia — if only to prove his father wrong.

But here he was, trespassing in the Chinese Museum, now at the door leading to the basement, about to betray his father's trust yet again. And here was Mary, beautiful, brilliant Mary whom he loved, with her hand on his arm. "Down here?" she asked, wide-eyed.

Silas swung the lantern, light dancing across both their faces, shadows stretching out behind them. A sign on the door read Lower Hall Exhibits. "Down here."

As they descended, step by step, again Silas found himself thinking of his father, could hear the tone of disapproval if he were to discover his son sharing with a colleague's daughter his most prized possession. And not just any colleague's daughter: Mary's father, Dr. Alfred Elwyn, was an eccentric who opted, instead of practising medicine, to open hospices for the feeble-minded and chair societies dedicated to the welfare of animals. Silas knew that this time his punishment would not be limited to parental admonishments; now, considering the patriarch's condition and with the family practice at stake, disappointing his father would result in something far graver.

IN THE BASEMENT were cabinets full of Turk-related lore: articles in French, German, Italian, Spanish, and English detailing its conquests around Europe. Silas and Mary made their way slowly down the hall, shining their lamp over the exhibit. Here was a picture of its inventor, the Austrian Wolfgang von Kempelen, and a copy of the plans for the Turk's original design — all machinery, with no space for a man inside.

Another display was dedicated to the famed showman who brought the Turk to America, the German inventor Johann Maelzel. A brief biographical sketch was paired with a reconstruction of his Automaton Trumpeter, which played various tunes through the rhythmic pumping of a mechanical bellows. Maelzel was remembered in the exhibit as "a great entertainer who perished at sea of natural causes."

Nearby, among a collection of various relics, was a framed essay by Edgar Allan Poe exposing the secrets of the Turk. His guesses were close, noted Silas, reading in the lamplight, but certainly not the entire truth.

Then the wooden floor gave way to red carpet laid out in a long strip leading to the far end of the Lower Hall. This they followed in almost reverential silence, the lantern leading the way along, then up a short flight of stairs to a sort of proscenium before a high curtain.

And then there it was, perched squatly centre stage. It had been more than a year since Silas had seen the Turk, and in the shuddering yellow light it seemed even more menacing than he remembered: the eyes twinkled in an eerily lifelike way. He held the lantern as Mary crept forward.

"Oh, my," she said, standing before the cabinet, running her hand over the chessboard. "This really is remarkable, Silas. What was your father charging for demonstrations before he sold it to the museum?"

"Back when he had me working inside it was fifty cents or so to play, but I think after I left he offered private viewings for twice that." Silas resisted adding anything about the machine being worth more empty than it was with him inside. "He bought it for twenty-five dollars, so I'm sure he made the money back fairly quickly."

Mary circled around until she stood beside the seated figure. She reached out her hand to its face, but Silas called out, "Don't touch it!"

"Please, Silas. I'm not going to break it."

"Sorry. It's likely better not to leave evidence, is all."

"Evidence?" Mary giggled.

"Evidence. We were never here, remember?"

"Right." Mary stood staring into the light for a moment. The contrast of her beauty and the ugliness of the Turk struck Silas then. On her face was an expression of curiosity, intrigue, and a trace of fear — she seemed achingly human, vulnerable, but ready to be delighted. The Turk, meanwhile, glowered at him with a sneer of self-satisfaction and scorn. Silas felt ridiculous hating a machine, but he could summon no other emotion.

Mary tapped the cabinet. "Now, will you please show me how this thing works?"

Silas sighed. "Are you sure you want to know? Many people prefer to believe that it works on its own. Your father, for instance, left the room when we offered to explain it."

"That's my father. A dreamer."

"All right then."

Silas moved beside Mary and, kneeling down, placed the lantern on the floor so it illuminated the back of the cabinet. She crouched beside him, her hand on his back.

"Okay," said Silas. Flipping the catches he swung the back of the cabinet open and proceeded to demonstrate where he had sat and how the magnets below worked the pieces on the board above. He showed her the candle holders, the ventilation shaft, the sliding base that allowed him to move from one side to the other when the front doors were opened to display the interior, and the button to make it speak — which he pressed.

"Check," said the Turk, and Silas flinched.

That voice! Hearing it after so long tweaked and pulled at loose strings of memory until, finally, everything came tumbling back: the stifling smoke of the candles, the claustrophobia, the muffled wonder of Philadelphia's aristocracy as the automaton bested another of their rank. And the booming laugh of his father, championing the machine, mocking his peers in their defeat.

Silas paused, reeling, rocked on his heels, and landed with a thud on his back on the carpeted stage.

Mary was at his side, her hand against the side of his face. "Are you all right?"

Silas sighed. "I'm fine."

"Why are you lying down?" Mary stroked his cheek, smiled. "Is the tour over?"

He touched her hand, breathed. "You know, Mary, my father is dying."

"He's what?"

"Dying. And I am next in line to carry on his practice and work."

"Oh, no, Silas. That's so sad. I mean," she added hurriedly, "about your father. And the practice? This is something you'll be happy doing?"

Silas ran his fingers up Mary's arm to her elbow. She took his hand, adjusted her skirts, reclined, and lay down beside him, resting her head on his chest. Inches away, the lantern flickered, casting washes of amber light over them.

"Oh, it's fine. But I just feel that there's more to life than seeing patients and finding antidotes for snake venom. All his life my father has dedicated every day to science, to a pursuit of the truth, and look at him — the man knows his maths and equations, but he'd never understand the sort of truth you'd find in poetry or art. And look at his relationship with my mother. She's a wonderful woman, but he treats her like she doesn't even exist."

Silas thought about this. He looked up at the Turk, looming above them: from behind it was considerably less impressive, just some tatty old robes hanging limply off a brittle wooden skeleton. A machine, heartless and vacant, useless without a human hand to guide it.

Mary leaned in and kissed Silas, then — fully, deeply, on the mouth. He closed his eyes, felt her climb on top of him, skirts swishing and falling, heavy and enveloping his legs as well as hers, and he kissed her back, ran his hands from her neck down the sides of her body, along the curve of her hips, farther down.

As her mouth moved over his neck he reached as low as he could, grabbing handfuls of fabric, tugging upwards, hitching. The layers amazed him; there seemed enough material down there to outfit a small orchestra. He grabbed her hips and flipped her; Mary giggled, beneath him now, then nibbled at his earlobe, her breath coming heavier, and the skirts were finally nearing their end, he could feel garters somewhere beneath a petticoat and -

Silas paused, sniffing. A smell, a familiar smell, came wafting into his nostrils from nearby, something acrid and sour that he knew only to associate with danger, with emergency. He opened his eyes. The hall was bright around them; an orange glow bathed the room. Was it dawn already?

"Fire!" screamed Mary, flinging Silas off her. He rolled down the steps, his head smacking off each one as he went. Mary, meanwhile, scuttled backwards, crablike, away from where the lantern had tipped and spilled and flames were spreading hungrily up onto the curtains and along the carpet, toward the Turk. "Fire!" she screamed again.

At the bottom of the steps Silas stood, trying groggily to focus. His head hurt; his vision swam. Mary appeared at his side. "Silas, the lantern! We've knocked it over!"

Silas nodded — slowly, ponderously.

"Come on!"

He looked up at the Turk: flames a foot high, gathering intensity, fluttered around it on the stage. Smoke came billowing off the fire in waves, the curtains flapping and urging it on. Quickly the cabinet was alight, catching the Turk's garments. Silas stood, mouth agape. It was beautiful.

A hand slapped him across the face. Mary stood before him, shoulders heaving. "Silas, the museum is on fire, and we need to leave. Do you hear me? What's wrong with you?"

But Silas was entranced by the inferno eating away at the cabinet, crackling and alive, and he felt himself saying to Mary, "Yes." He heard himself tell her, "We need to leave," but even as she took his hand and tugged him back down the carpet toward the exit, he still watched over his shoulder, saw the turban unravel in a shower of sparks, the face paint melt, the pipe crumble into ash. As they made their way back into the stairwell, Silas caught one last glimpse of the Turk's eyes, blue and sparkling in the firelight, before Mary pulled him away.

OUTSIDE THE Chinese Museum, Silas and Mary collapsed choking on the back lawn, she on her knees, he right onto his stomach in the grass.

"Silas," she said, once her fits of coughing subsided, "we have to run. The fire brigade will be here soon. They'll catch us and know we did it."

Silas sat up. He was smiling. "Let them come," he said. "We did do it."

Mary paused, then came over and smacked him again. "Don't be so foolish."

Behind them, smoke was beginning to waft out of the basement windows, but Silas just sat there, a grin on his face.

"Listen, you can go ahead and get caught, but if you think for a moment you're dragging me into this with you, forget it."

Silas looked up at her. "Mary, it's gone. It's over now."

"You're delirious. What are you smiling at? Get up!"

"Mary?" He pulled her down beside him. "I love you, Mary," he said.

"Silas, that's wonderful, but — "

"We can go, we'll go, but before we do, I just want you to know." She went to stand up, but he stopped her with a kiss, planted his lips on hers, both their faces smudged black with ash and smoke and joined together. Just as he released, an explosion came behind them as one of the basement windows was blown outwards. Glass came tinkling across the lawn, followed by the greedy roar of the fire inside.

Mary hauled Silas to his feet. "You okay now?"

"I'm okay," said Silas, wrapping an arm around her. They began to walk away, holding each other close. Behind them came another explosion; an orange glow stretched trembling across the lawn. Mary took Silas's hand and together they broke into a run. Very faintly, as they made their way off into the darkness, Silas was sure he heard a voice from deep amid the thunder of flames. It was a plaintive, desperate call. "Checkmate," said the voice, and then the roof of the museum came crashing down, a ball of flame rose into the sky, and all that was left was the rumble and hiss of the fire consuming the museum, devouring everything inside.