by KW Jeter
“Please… a moment.” I weakly held up my hand, to fend off a further effusion from the man. “I am a bit… out of sorts.”
“Take your time, pal.” The sparkling white of his teeth was revealed by his widened smile. “We got plenty of that!”
A suspicion crept into my thoughts, that I was not actually dead – or perhaps a hope; if the events concluding my stay in Highgate had also terminated my life, then the prospect of sailing about in a gondola’s cramped space, in the company of an American, would indicate that my sins while alive had been judged grievous enough to sentence me to Hell or somewhere similar. I was not so convinced an atheist as to dismiss that possibility out of hand – and, I am chagrined to admit, this would not have been the first occasion on which I had been mistaken about my demise. A morbid turn of mind is indicated by the fact that I had once before come to my senses while drifting in a boat, only then it had been the Thames near London, and I had made a similar conclusion about no longer being numbered among the living.
I took advantage of the other’s relaxed manner, and the slow clearing of my head, to make what examination I could of my circumstances. That I was not in some Italianate version of the afterlife, so attractive to poets and other wastrels, was quickly confirmed; true, this was a gondola about me, but upon closer scrutiny its shabby fraud was apparent. By the light of the lantern above me, I could see that the waters through which the boat glided were so shallow as to enable their bottom reach to be perceived. The gondola itself did not continue its motion of its own accord, but rather by means of the iron-wheeled carriage on which it was mounted, rolling along on submerged metal rails. The long paddle at its side, by which the boat might have been assumed to be sculled forward, was a similar artifice: a rudimentary system of cogs accounted for the implement’s back-and-forth motion. It would have continued to do so regardless of the gondolier – that term I recalled as well – who stood on a tiny platform just above and a little behind me.
And who was – to my surprise, I admit – another human being, rather than an automated mechanism in the guise of a man. He wore the traditional costume – horizontally striped shirt, red neckerchief, and flat straw hat with dangling ribbon – that was required of his water-going trade. More disconcertingly, as I twisted about in my seat to gaze up at him, the gondolier gave me a conspiratorial wink and smile.
The lopsided manner of that expression, with just one corner of his mouth twisting upward, triggered my recognition of the person. I had seen him twice before, once at my door in Cornwall, then but some short time ago at the side of my wife’s grave in Highgate, before her casket had been hauled up to that other cemetery floating in the sky. On that later occasion, he had introduced himself as Nick Spivvem – if that were his true name; I had my suspicions on that account, given his generally roguish demeanour.
Before I could make any expostulation as to his presence with the boat, he raised a finger to his lips, admonishing me to silence. Thus I remained without speaking; given the mystifying circumstances into which I had somehow been placed, it seemed the wisest course to accept him as, if not a friend and ally, then someone who might be able to enlighten me to a degree – if I played along with whatever charade in which he was engaged.
“Hope you’re feeling better–” The American’s dismayingly hearty voice broke into my considerations. “Heckuva blow you took up there; would’ve sworn it was enough to knock the brains right out of a guy’s skull.”
I swivelled my gaze back toward him, giving closer scrutiny now that some of the fog had dissipated from my head. The figure I saw was dressed in a garish plaid suit, of an orange colour never seen in Nature or the Scottish Highlands; across its vest and the ample stomach beneath was draped a gold watch-chain, festooned with the medallions of various civic-minded organizations. White spats with intricate closures revealed the heels and squared toes of glistening patent-leather boots. His ample face was adorned on either side by the sort of mutton-chop whiskers that gave the impression of someone attempting to push himself headfirst past the hindquarters of unsheared sheep; at its centre was a tuberous nose reddened by gin, or whatever other potion was more imbibed in the former colonies.
“Here, lemme fix that for ya.” He transferred an immense cigar to the corner of his mouth, so as to be able to lean forward and adjust the jacket back upon my shoulder, from which it had slipped off. “Hope that doesn’t sting too much–” Leaning back again, he used the cigar to gesture toward my wounded arm. “It’ll be fine, though. Trust me, just a scratch.”
“I appreciate your concern.” With some awkwardness, I managed to wrestle my arm into the empty sleeve, without dislodging the reddened linen bandage. “Am I correct in assuming that you ministered to the wound, however slight it might be? Then I owe you for your kindness, and shall endeavour to repay you whenever I have the chance, Mr…”
“Blightley,” he responded to my hinted inquiry. “Edward Blightley, and definitely happy to be at your service, Mr Dower. Been hoping to make your acquaintance for quite a while now; quite a while.”
“I see.” As best I could, I kept hidden my reaction to that announcement; anymore, it was exactly the sort of thing I dreaded most. “And might I enquire as to why you have sought me out?”
“Well, of course you can!” Grey ash spilled upon a cravat of startling bottle-green iridescence as he gestured with the outflung cigar. “I’m a man of business, Mr Dower – just as you are. So pretty damn likely, ain’t it, that it’s a business matter I want to discuss with you.”
“Hm; yes, well. I am sorry to disappoint you, Mr Blightley–”
“Call me Ed; all my friends do.”
“Mr Blightley,” I repeated more firmly. “Given that you might very well have saved my life, though I am not certain as to how you managed that–”
“I had help.”
“Please let me continue. You have my gratitude, but it is not sufficient to alter the fact that I am not a man of business. Any attempts along those lines, I abandoned years ago. My sole business, such as it is, has been reduced to merely attempting to live out my days in as insignificant a manner as possible. I assure you that any other activity in which you might have observed my participation, including that from which you apparently made some rescue, was all thrust upon me against my liking.”
“Oh, sure; believe me, I understand. A quiet life – don’t we all want that?” Blightley smiled and nodded. “I got a little piece of land in New Jersey, up near Piscataway. Day’ll come, when you’ll find me there, just sitting on the front porch, rockin’ and smokin’.” He regarded the glowing ember at the tip of his cigar for a moment, then looked again at me. “But right now, in my line of business, I gotta seize the opportunities when I can. They don’t come around too often – not like this!”
“And what line of business would that be?”
He gave no answer, but instead rooted inside his own brilliant jacket, withdrawing a folded sheet of paper. Smoothing out the creases, he then extended it to me with a flourish.
The item appeared to be some sort of advertisement; I could see as much, from its bold lettering, as I took it from his hand. By the yellow glow of the lantern above me, I made a closer examination of its particulars:
* * *
By Tumultuous Public Demand
The Theatrical Partnership of
Blightley & Haze, Ltd.
After Triumphant Tours of Boston, New York, Moose Jaw,
& other International Capitals of Culture
Is Pleased to Announce the British Appearances of Their Celebrated
Dramatic & Comedic Automata Troupe
Currently Engaged for Extended Performances in Brighton, Blackpool,
& Frinton-on-Sea;
Enquire Below for Further Bookings
* * *
An illustration accompanied the handbill, a steel engraving of two soldiers fiercely glaring at each other, bayoneted rifles poised in their hands. The uniform of one of the figures was light-
coloured, the other dark; I did not immediately recognize them, though I had a vague memory of having seen something like them before.
“No, no – keep it.” Blightley waved me off as I attempted to return the sheet to him. “We’ve got piles of ‘em. Pretty much blanketing the countryside – won’t be long before we’re the talk o’ the town, in every little English burg.” He took a deep draught from his cigar, savouring the inhaled smoke for a moment while contemplating some rosy vista he could discern in the darkness beyond me. “They’ve never seen anything like it – a spectacular entertainment! Suitable for all ages as well, and morally uplifting; I can promise you.”
“Of that, I have no doubt.” I surreptitiously laid the advertisement on the gondola’s floor beside my feet, having no actual desire to keep hold of it. “A partner is mentioned – does he accompany, or did you leave him behind to attend to your affairs in the States?”
“Mr Haze! Bestir yourself!” These words were not addressed to me, but to someone behind my interlocutor, as he turned himself about. “Not being very sociable, are you? Man here wants to make your acquaintance.”
That I had not been aware of one more passenger in the gondola was quickly explained by the disproportion between Blightley’s expansive bulk and the meagreness of the figure who now peered at me. At my first glance, I had the uncanny impression that the other was not a human being at all, but some sort of spectacled owl, so magnified were his eyes behind thickly distorting lenses. The effect was heightened by the sombreness of his unsmiling expression, as he raised his head past Blightley’s shoulder and peered at me. His face might have been a child’s, were it not for its wrinkled, crêpe-like skin; his diminutive form seemed to have never advanced into adolescence, either.
“Good evening.” Wetly blinking, this Haze creature pronounced an emotionless greeting, but said no more.
“Are you sure?” From his vest, Blightley extracted a pocket watch – not gold-cased, but cheap gilt, rubbed bare in spots to expose the pot metal beneath; with my experience, I could detect this difference in quality. “Thought we’d be getting on toward morning by now.” He squinted at the dial, then laid the watch by one ear, to determine if it was still ticking. “Doesn’t really matter a heckuva lot, though, does it? Not in a place like this.”
I knew full well what he meant, awareness of my surroundings having achieved a greater extent. The gondola was not the only sham contrivance here, rolling about on its submerged iron wheels rather than gliding free on the surface of the waters. Further away, there were the outlined silhouettes of a faux city, its structures modelled – not very convincingly – after those of the Italian locale I had first assumed it to be, complete with low-arched bridges over the canals branching from this one, and an ostentatiously positioned replica of the famous dome of Saint Mark’s Basilica. The faint, artificial light behind what were likely no more than plaster flats, of the sort used for stage scenery in any grimy music hall, indicated no verifiable time of day; dawn or dusk, it would be all the same in this sadly timeless locale.
“You’re right about that.” Blightley had perceived my disdain. “Pretty shabby, ain’t it?” He returned his watch to its niche on his rounded gut. “My stage carpenters back home would’ve done a better job. But sometimes we just have to make do with what’s available, and throw in our hand with the best folks we can scare up. Just as you’ll be able to do now, Mr Dower.”
“Perhaps.” In my life, so many ruinous propositions have been advanced to me, that I have developed a preternatural awareness of when another is in the offing. “But I doubt if that will be the present case. You appear to follow the theatrical trade, Mr Blightley; I have nothing to do with that, nor any wish to be so associated. Therefore, the possibility of any mutually advantageous collaboration between us would appear to be slight.”
“Don’t underestimate yourself; it’s amazing what folks can get up to, given half a chance. And show business is a glamorous life – I can tell you, for sure. Travel the world, adoring audiences, money by the bucket–” He glanced behind himself at his partner. “Am I right about that, Mr Haze?”
That undersized figure made no reply, displaying no more reaction than might have been shown by a stuffed mannequin. After a moment of silently regarding Blightley through the weighty lenses of his glasses, he turned back to studying the gondola’s course through the waters ahead.
“Your associate is a man of few words.”
“Well, kinda…” Blightley acknowledged my comment with a nod. “Can talk your arm off, though, if you get ‘im on the right subject. Technical matters, mainly – somebody’s got to keep all these gadgets working, right? That’s what he does, and a bang-up job at it, too. That’s what makes us such a good team – I handle all the talking to people as is necessary, which leaves his brain free to concentrate on gears and springs, and all those other bits and pieces as makes our modern mechanical world the wonder that it is. But of course, you’d know more about that sort of thing than I would.”
“I fear I must disappoint you in that regard.” This was not the first time I had heard comments of this nature. So many times, others had sought to inveigle me into their schemes, either daft or felonious, based on the assumption that my father’s genius was an inheritable trait, and that I could either devise or operate his creations with an equal facility. “You overestimate my abilities, just as you have my interest in whatever you care to propose.”
“I’m willing to take my chances.” Blightley grinned as he spoke. “I’ve cracked some pretty tough nuts in my time. Maybe I’ll be able to change your mind as well, if you’ll hear me out.”
“Very well.” If there were an alternative to listening further to the man, I would have seized upon it, but I saw none. The surrounding waters were so shallow that I might well have clambered out of the gondola and paddled at little risk, if some wet discomfort, to the artificial shore by which we passed – but then what? I had no idea of what subterranean chamber this was, or exactly how I had come to it, or whether the pursuers who had fallen upon me in the cemetery of Highgate were still waiting there or somewhere else close at hand, readying themselves for their next opportunity of doing me harm. With those circumstances in mind, I considered it best to endure these persons’ company for a while longer, until some aidsome clarification presented itself. “You have something of which you wish to speak to me–” I gestured with an expansive wave of my hand. “By all means, proceed.”
“We’re halfway there already!” Blightley launched into an exposition that had every mark of having been rehearsed before. “Sir, we are entrepreneurs–”
“As so many of your countrymen are.”
“In America, it’s considered a virtue. We can hardly sit still, what with all the grand endeavours we launch on a daily basis.”
To one of my inclination, this seemed a dreadful prospect, but I restrained my tongue.
“Sure,” continued Blightley, “the ambitions of myself and Mr Haze are pinned to the sphere of popular entertainment – and why not? It’s what people like – wouldn’t be popular otherwise, would it? And folks do pony up for something that amuses them. Maybe in the future – who knows?” The man’s broad shoulders lifted in a shrug. “When we have more of a name, and a bit o’ capital, then the world would be our oyster! But for now, we seem to be on a good thing.”
“Which is?”
“As you might’ve deduced from our publicity–” He pointed to where I had dropped the handbill onto the gondola’s floor. “Our particular niche, so to say, is in performances using mechanical reproductions of human beings. I expect you’re familiar with such.”
“Lamentably so.” The extent of my own father’s skills, and the depraved ambitions in which they were employed, had been revealed to me by that devilish Paganinicon, which had been able to play upon the violin with virtuosity rivalling that of the performer from whom its name had been derived. The blasted thing possessed other abilities by which it had been able to pass itse
lf off as a man of actual flesh and blood, resulting in a good deal of immoral behaviour, before it had come to well-deserved ruin. “You advertise your spectacles so forthrightly? I would not have expected there to be much of an audience for such open imposture.”
“You’d be pretty surprised on that score, then. People love the stuff, and hoot and holler when they’re watching machines got up to look as real as themselves. It’s a fascination, is what it is, and we can sell tickets fast as we can print ‘em up. Of course, the shows have got to be well done – that’s where my partner Haze is so valuable, though he won’t boast of it himself. Bit shy, he is, as you might’ve observed already. But he’s a clever fella – can make a hunk of brass and tin prance ‘n’ dance about, just as if it’d been birthed natural-like, rather than cobbled together on his workbench. Don’t take my word for it, though – you can see for yourself.” His blunt finger pointed above me. “That’s one of ours right there, acting just as if it were poling this barge along. Fooled you, didn’t it? Bet you thought it was a real person, just like yourself.”
The American’s words took me aback; had I been somehow mistaken in my previous apprehension of the gondolier as being human, and my recognition of the particular individual as one with whom I had some brief exchange, both in Cornwall and here in London? The possibility existed, of course – it would not be the first time that I had been unable to distinguish the essential difference between the merely mechanical and the truly animate. And those earlier occasions had often been when I was in greater command of both my senses and my thoughts, and not befuddled by whatever explosives and upheavals had brought me to this still undetermined location.
