The Steampunk Trilogy

by Paul Di Filippo

  Billed as the “Hottentot Venus,” she had been, before her stage career, simply the South African servant girl Saartjie Baartman.

  Representing like all her fellow Bushmen a curious hybrid of bestial and human qualities, she was soon drawing spectators by the hundreds, all eager to witness this degraded representative from the lower rungs of humanity.

  The guffawing men and tittering women in the audience were particularly struck by her steatopygous traits, those immense gluteal lipoid deposits which Agassiz had noticed in her daughter. This feature was exhibited sans clothing to the audience, who were free to poke and prod it, though, in a gesture of modesty, Saartjie kept her pudendum covered with a loincloth.

  (But there were a few members of the audience who claimed in vague terms that the real shock of the attraction lay beneath that ventral covering . . .)

  After a highly successful tour of the British provinces, Cezar and his charge departed for France, where they met with similar acclaim from layman and scientist alike.

  But Cezar’s captive—who, interrogated once by representatives of a Benevolent Society, affirmed in fine Dutch that she was cooperating willingly for a share of half the profits—contracted an inflammatory ailment and died in Paris on December 28, 1815.

  Setting down his glass of sherry, Jacob Cezar proceeded to divulge to Agassiz that portion of the Hottentot Venus’s fate that was generally unknown to the public.

  “Upon der death of Zaartjie, mine fodder, zaddened und intent only on returning to Capetown, handed over der body of his countryvoman to der French zientific establishment at dere request, in order to zettle a long-time question of natural history. Namely, der existence of der femince zinus pudoris, or curtain of zhame.”

  Agassiz blanched. The very notion of the curtain of shame—for decades, he had assumed, merely a racy bit of naturalistic folklore bandied about when scientists foregathered—was absolutely disgusting to him. Yet, he counseled himself, as a man of reason he should face with equanimity all such quirks of the Creator.

  It had long been rumored by explorers and other unsavory types that females of the Khoi-san peoples of South Africa possessed a genital appendage not shared by their more highly developed female cousins in the civilized portions of the globe. Called the “curtain of shame,” it was said to be a flap of skin attached either to the upper genitals or the lower abdomen, which hung down like a fleshy apron to hide the sexual organ.

  Steeling himself for Cezar’s discussion of this physiological aberration, Agassiz was however once more shocked by the twist the man’s story took.

  “Der man who performed der dissection of Dottie’s mudder vas Baron Cuvier.”

  Georges. God, how he still missed that influential man! Dead for fifteen years, Baron Cuvier still occupied a hallowed niche in Agassiz’s affections.

  With tremendous nostalgia, Agassiz recalled how, as an ambitious twenty-two-year-old, he had dedicated his first book, Brazilian Fishes, to the eminent Cuvier, whom he had never till then met. This inspired gambit had led to close contact between the two, and eventual apprenticeship and collaboration with the elder naturalist, firmly establishing Agassiz on the road to fame and fortune. Upon Cuvier’s untimely death from cholera, Agassiz had been fortunate enough to find in the Prussian genius Alexander von Humboldt a substitute mentor whose patronage continued to the present.

  “I never knew,” said Agassiz, “that Georges had anything to do with the Venus of the Hottentots, much less that he dissected her corpse. Why did he never mention it to me?

  “Ach, dere’s good reason vie he never zpoke to you about it. First of all, it vas old news, had happened almost fifteen years ago by der time you met. Und zecond, it represented a great disappointment to him. But let me continue vit der story as a few udder people know it, before revealing its zecret zide.

  “Your Baron vent like a bloodhound ztraight for Zaartjie’s private parts. Dere, he found dot der dablier, as der French called der curtain, vas nothing more nor less den der familiar labia minora extended by an extra dree or four inches beyond der European norm.”

  A grunt of disgust escaped involuntarily from Agassiz’s lips as he contemplated a whole race whose women were marked by such a disgusting deformity. He flicked his eyes to the Hottentot female not ten feet away from him, and found himself swept by an almost unmasterable compulsion to flee. Only by a superhuman effort of will did he force himself to remain seated.

  “Der Baron next pickled Zaartjie’s organ, wrote a paper on it, und continued vit udder researches.”

  Agassiz was aghast. “You maintain that he preserved her tablier in formaldehyde?”

  Cezar nodded. “Ja. Und he did more den dot. He made a fetiche out of it.”

  “What!?”

  “You heard vot I said. Your hero, Baron Georges Cuvier, vas a black magician.”

  “This is preposterous—”

  “No, it’s der plain facts. I have proof dot Cuvier vas a Martinist! Correspondence in his own hand!”

  Agassiz had heard rumors of the Martinists during his time in Paris. During the late eighteenth-century, one Martines de Pasqually, resident of Bordeaux, had established a Masonic offshoot organization called The Order of the Elect Cohens. Their rituals and goals, while never precisely revealed, were said to be a cross between those of Rosicrucianism and those of the infamous Abbé Guibourg, Satanist in the court of Louis XIV.

  “Cuvier,” continued Cezar, “vanted to convert Zaartjie’s dablier into a dalisman of immense power, much like a Hand of Glory. But he vas unzuccessful. Or zo he thought. He placed der zpecimen in der Musée de l’Homme und forgot about it.

  “Vot Cuvier did not realize vas dot he vas only vun ztep zhort of achieving his goal. He lacked only vun vital ingredient, a hermetic herb found in mine country.

  “Ven mine fodder returned to Capetown, he zpoke to no vun about vot had happened to Zaartjie’s remains. Und dot included me, his zun, und Zaartjie’s daughter, Dottie, who remained connected to our family.

  “Chust zix months ago, mine fodder vas on his deathbed. Den, after all dis dime, he decides to ease his conscience und zpill der beans. I immediately passed dis news on to Dottie. Unfortunately, anudder person alzo got hold of it.

  “Dat vun is D’guzeri, zorceror of Dottie’s dribe.

  “D’guzeri instantly decided dot he vould recover Zaartjie’s dablier, complete der activation of it, and use it for his own purposes.

  “I vas not vorried at der dime. How ist a Bushman going to get to Paris und zteal zomething from a museum? But den, a month ago, I hear from a friend, a Dutch merchant named Nicholas van Rijn, who dravels all around der globe, dot Zaartjie’s remains have been ztolen. His zources alzo tell him dot der culprit has fled to America. I realized den dot dis D’guzeri must be ztopped. Zo I get in mine boat, der Zie Koe, und zail quick as I can for your zhores.”

  Agassiz was slack-jawed. He had never heard such a farfetched load of occult claptrap before. Realizing that such an unstable character could be quite dangerous if provoked, he resolved to humor him while praying that one of his comrades would soon come to his rescue.

  “Why,” said Agassiz loudly, hoping to wake someone, “should this T’guzeri come to America?”

  “Ach, good question. Dottie informs me dot dere are zertain places of zpecial power in dis vorld, und only here can certain rituals be consummated. Dot vas anudder reason vie your Cuvier failed. Und vun of dese places ist here, in dis very state.”

  Agassiz eyed the door. Where was Desor when one needed him? He was supposed to be continually attentive—“Granted all this, why do you come to me?”

  “You are Cuvier’s zientific heir, und bear der responsibility for his deeds. It ist your moral obligation to help zet right vot he ztarted. Und you are a man of zome influence here, und can zpeed up der zearch.”

  Still desperately playing for time, Agassiz said, �
�I assume you brought along that creature with you for some good reason. Perhaps her animal skills will assist you in tracking down her fellow savage? Can they smell one another at a distance?”

  Cezar turned toward the Hottentot and smiled deeply at her. She returned his affectionate expression.

  “Oh, zhure, dere’s a little of dot. But I chust couldn’t ztand to leave her for zo long.

  “You zee, Dottie ist mine frau.”

  3

  WHALE BONES

  WHEN A PUFFER fish—Canthigaster valentini, say—is pulled from the water, its immediate and instinctive reaction is to swallow enough air to turn itself into a startling balloon shape meant to deter a potential predator. Should this boast prove unconvincing and the predator essay a taste of its prey, the puffer will die—if not happily, then at least content—knowing full well that the deadly tetrodotoxin in its cells will exact a full measure of revenge.

  Doctor Louis Agassiz, pulled from the calm waters of his assumptions about the master-slave relationship between the South African and the Hottentot, now swelled up and began to spew his triumphant poison at the heinous pair.

  Shooting to his feet, unconsciously dropping the bedclothes that had shielded his nudity—the better to gesticulate wildly—his normally florid complexion reddening to a positively psittacine shade, the veins in his forehead beating like tribal drums, Agassiz thundered out his righteous condemnation.

  “By God and all that’s holy, sir, as I am a Christian born and bred, raised in a household of virtue, I brand you as a despicable traitor to your race! How could you! How could you pollute yourself so, and lower the stature of the white race in the eyes of this creature and her no doubt insolent and insurrectionary fellows! By such brutish miscegenation, by catering to your basest lusts this way, you have placed in jeopardy not only your own country, but also four thousand years of civilization, of mankind’s struggle upward from the slime! Go! Leave this house as you came, with darkness covering your foul and iniquitous shame!”

  As Agassiz finished his fervent peroration a sound of hurrying footsteps manifested itself outside his bedroom. At last, rescue! Citoyens, aux armes!

  The door burst open, revealing the other members of the scientific establishment, all be-weaponed and ready to defend their leader. Pourtales brandished his trusty alpenstock, while Girard wielded a fearsome microtome. Burckhardt flourished an agressive palette knife, and Sonrel waved a formidable engraving tool. Barely visible behind the foursome crouched Desor, peeping under the uplifted arms of the front ranks.

  Cezar seemed undaunted by the reinforcements, as did the Hottentot Dottie, who remained squatting by the window. The hefty Capetowner regarded the poised rescuers calmly, then returned his gaze to Agassiz.

  “Vot a bunch of narrow-minded barbarians. . . .”

  Agassiz swallowed more air. “Knave! Will you depart on your own, or shall I have my men forcibly eject you!”

  “Professor Agassiz, I do not like you now, dough I vas not prechudiced against you before. Yet I need your help to recover mine mudder-in-law’s remains, before dey are used to make a wrongness. If you vill not give me your help voluntarily, den I must coerce it. I know you have ingratiated yourzelf vit the American zientists and public, who all imagine you are zo perfect. Vell, vot vould dey zay if dey knew dot der man who taught you everything you know und who first zponsored you vas an occultist? I imagine der penny-papers vould have a field-day vit the news. Perhaps der Cambridge Chronicle or der Christian Examiner, zay? Und der academic community. . . .”

  Generally speaking, the puffer fish may take as many as five minutes to deflate once the attack has ceased.

  Agassiz collapsed in thirty seconds.

  Sinking back down into his chair, the naked naturalist feebly signaled his comrades to drop their aggressive postures. They complied, casting speculative looks over the improbable scene.

  Upon hearing Cezar’s threat, Agassiz had been swept by a vision of all his careful plans, his dreams of glory and advancement in the New World, coming to naught, undermined by the insane yet lethal charges which the man seemed prepared to press. Public opinion, that tyrant, could not be trifled with. Agassiz realized in a flash that he had no option but to collaborate with the Capetowner—however repugnant and treasonous to the white race his mating habits might be—and hope that he would soon remove himself from Agassiz’s life.

  “Very well,” said Agassiz weakly. “You have impressed me with the justice of your cause, and I will do what I can to help. But for God’s sake, let us save further discussion till the morning. Edward—”

  Danger obviously past, Desor scuttled to the forefront of the watchers.

  “Please put up Mister Cezar and his—aboriginal companion—in the spare room.”

  “Very good, Professor.”

  Agassiz was soon left alone. He managed to summon up a shadow of his traditional decisiveness.

  One way or another, he would end this whole affair as soon as possible. And when the foreigner and his ape-bride were gone, he would burn all the linens, towels and carpets they had touched, and possibly several pieces of furniture as well, depending on what kind of scent-marking habits the Negro revealed.

  In the morning, after a restless period of semi-unconsciousness plagued by unrecallable but decidedly unpleasant phantasms, Agassiz joined his team at the communal breakfast table. Jane’s peasant disposition had enabled her to sleep soundly through the entire contretemps after she had retired, post-fornication, to her own room, and she now moved swift as a sparrow (Spizella pusilla) about the kitchen, serving platters of johnny-cakes, scrambled eggs and crayfish (Orconectes limosus) to the appreciative scientists. Somewhat disconcerted at first by the uncouth appearance of the Hottentot, Jane had quickly adapted to her presence, remarking that “she’s got better table manners than that heathen Mister Alcott.”

  Agassiz said little during the breakfast, all the while sorting through his limited options regarding the South African. Cezar, meanwhile, regaled the others with the rousing tale of his storm-tossed voyage in the Sie Koe from the Cape of Good Hope to Boston, his only crew the tireless Hottentot. By meal’s end, he had charmed them all.

  When his subordinates had left to begin the day’s work, Agassiz found himself confronting the Capetowner and his subhuman mate. The Negro smiled at Agassiz and said, “Good meal.” She then produced from somewhere beneath her skirt a small bone-handled knife and began to pick her teeth.

  Agassiz nearly gagged. He hastily rose and moved to a chair by the hearth, gesturing for Cezar to follow him.

  “We must discuss our plans,” began Agassiz.

  “Ja, to be zhure. But first I must dell you about due men who alzo figure in dis affair. I did not get der chance last night, because of your intemperate outburst.”

  Agassiz made a dismissive gesture. “Go on then.”

  “You have heard perhaps of Thaddeus Kosciuszko?”

  “Of course. The Polish patriot who fought on the Americans’ side during their Revolution. What of him?”

  “Vere you avare dot he had a zun?”

  “No.”

  “Vell, it’s zo. During his vanderings after he vas exiled from Poland, ven der uprising of 1794 failed, Thaddeus stayed vit many nationalist und revolutionary groups around der vorld. He visited der Owenites in Zcotland und America, der Carbonari in Italy, der Fourierists in France und der Philike Hetairia in Greece. But he felt most at home vit der Irish patriots in Dublin. It vas among dese latter dot he fathered a child, a boy named Feargus.”

  “Feargus Kosciuszko?”

  “Ja. You are zhure you never heard of him? No? Vell, in any case, der zun is now dhirty years old, und active in both Ireland und Poland. He fought in der Polish uprisings of both 1830 und last year, und lately he has been trying to zuccor der ztarving Irishmen zuffering from der potato blight. But dis is all incidental. Vot is really impo
rtant is dot der young Kosciuszko is a believer in Polish Messianism.”

  Agassiz reluctantly admitted his ignorance of this movement.

  “Vell, der Polish Messianism vas propagated mainly by Andrei Towianski, who lived in exile in Paris until 1842, ven der French Archbishop expelled him as a drubblemaker, and der poet Adam Mickiewicz. Dey formed an organization called Der Vork of God, vhich maintained dot Poland vas ‘der Christ of nations,’ whose zufferings vere meant to redeem all mankind. Dey elaborated dis belief vit many zupernatural trappings. In fact, Towianski studied vit vun of der Martinists, der painter Joseph Oleszkiewicz.”

  “I fail to see what all this Polish hocus-pocus has to do with your stolen fetiche.”

  “Ach, it’s zimple. Kosciuszko has heard of der fetiche und, realizing its potential power, has decided to dry to obtain it in der hopes of using it to liberate his people. My zources tell me he is now in Massachusetts.”

  “All right. It seems implausible, but I’ll assume you know the players in this affair. Who is the other person?”

  “Ach, dot one ist Hans Bopp!”

  “The German philologist from the University of Berlin who collaborates with the Grimm Brothers? That’s ridiculous. I’ve met the man, and he’s a mild-mannered scholar—”

  “No, dot’s Franz Bopp. Hans ist his brudder, und a chiraffe of a different color! Hans ist der ruthless head of your Prussian patron Frederick’s zecret police, murderer of more innocents den dyphoid und yellow fever put together! Und vot’s more, he’s der last surviving Deutonic Knight!”

  “Come now! Them I’ve heard of. And I know for a fact that the Teutonic Knights are no more. For all practical purposes they died out in 1525, when Albert of Brandenburg accepted the Reformation. Although I believe something called the Teutonic Order existed until just a few decades ago—

  “Ach, dot’s vot everyone believes! But der druth is dot not all der Knights accepted Albert’s decision. Branding him a draitor, zum kept der old vows made first during der Crusades, und dey formed a hidden core in der organization. Dey never gave up der notion of reconquering Prussia, vhich had vunce been deres. Death and disaffection have vittled avay all but one, Hans Bopp. Und now he dinks he zees the key to making der age-old dream come drue, in der form of Saartjie’s pickled quim.”