by Lavie Tidhar
"Queen takes G3," the Turk said, removing the pawn that stood between him and the white king. "Check." He sighed again, and Orphan thought: it must be a recording. A hidden system of miniature discs, perhaps, each with its own sound, a word or a phrase or some non-verbal expression. He wondered whose voice it had originally been, and how old it was. "Who gave you your voice?" he said.
There was a silence. The Turk sat motionless, as if his energy had run out. And Orphan thought, You speak in a dead man's voice.
At last the Turk stirred, his head moving from side to side as if seeking an invisible presence. The lights flickered behind it. "Vaucanson worked for many years on the project," he said. He did not acknowledge Orphan's earlier question. "He was a student of Le Cat, you know –" Orphan didn't, but he remained quiet – "there was quite a lot of animosity between them, towards the end. Le Cat, too, was working on an artificial man." The Turk made a coughing sound, as of a man clearing his throat. When he spoke again his voice was different, deeper and less monotonous, as if someone else was now speaking through him – through it. "'You are working, so I am told, on your artificial man and you are right in doing so. You must not let Monsieur de Vaucanson accept the glory for ideas he may have borrowed from you. But he has applied himself only to mechanics, and has used all his shrewdness for that purpose – and he is not a man who is afraid to take extreme measures.'"
An image of the two men rose in Orphan's mind then, two scientists, each working in secrecy over the inert body of a man who was not a man, each suspicious of the other, careful, always careful not to reveal to the world the work that they were doing… he wondered why, if one was once a pupil of the other, they had fallen out.
"De Cideville wrote that to Le Cat," the Turk said. "Another of Voltaire's friends… But Le Cat's man came to nothing."
"And Vaucanson's? What happened to him?"
"Play," the Turk said.
Orphan, frustrated, glanced at the board. "King to F1," he said reluctantly. The white king made his temporary retreat.
"Bishop to D4." The Turk's head bobbed up and down. "Officially, in the books of history, Vaucanson never completed his project. His artificial man never existed. The project was abandoned, and Vaucanson himself died in 1782, an old and wealthy man."
"King to E2," Orphan said. He knew he was losing. Then: "The revolution. In France."
The Turk looked up. "Yes?"
"It took place in 1789."
"Yes?"
"Seven years after Vaucanson's death."
"Yes… Queen to G2. Check."
"Why the Bookman? You implied he led Vaucanson to build his simulacrum. Why?"
The Turk nodded. "What do you think?"
"To counter-balance the Everlasting Empire. To check the growing power of Les Lézards." He looked at the Turk. "What exactly did happen in the Quiet Revolution?"
"Perhaps," the Turk said enigmatically, "you will soon have occasion to find out for yourself. Play."
"King to D1," Orphan said, retreating further.
"Queen takes H1," the Turk said, removing Orphan's rook. "Check."
"Do you know where the Bookman is hiding?"
"Do you?"
"No. I…"
A horrible thought rose unbidden in his mind.
The Turk's head bobbed up and down. The lights flickered, on and off and on. "The Bookman wants you to find him," the Turk said. "He has kept his eyes on you for a long time now. Have you thought to ask yourself why?"
"Tell me," Orphan whispered. And then, "Tell me!"
"Play."
"King to D2."
"Queen to G2. Check."
"King to E1!"
"Knight to G1."
"Tell me."
"I sit here," the Turk said, "every hour of every day, alone in the darkness. I have a lot of time to think. To look at the strands of the past weave themselves into the knot of the present, and to imagine how the future might unfold from them. So many possibilities. Like a game of chess. And you, my little pawn, you are the catalyst, walking through the board one small step at a time, towards… what? What sort of endgame will you bring us all, Orphan?"
"I don't know. Tell me."
"Play."
"Knight to C3."
"Bishop takes C3. Do you know, I have played an identical game to this, once. He was a young soldier in the revolution… a short, angry, quite brilliant man, Bonaparte. In another history, another life, he may have been great. In this one, I think he was happier, growing grapes and pressing wine on his farm. Happiness must count for something, don't you think?"
"I don't want destiny," Orphan said. "I want…"
"Happiness? To get the girl and live happily ever after, raising fat babies, writing mediocre poetry? Perhaps in another life, Orphan. Play."
"I can't win, can I?" Orphan said.
"No."
"Pawn takes C3," Orphan said, removing the Turk's bishop. He felt as though something heavy and painful now rested on his chest, pressing against him until he couldn't breathe. "How many?" he asked. "How many sides does this game have?"
"Queen to E2," the Turk said, almost sadly. "Checkmate."
"How many sides?"
"Two," the Turk said. "There are only ever two."
"Les Lézards," Orphan said. Then, slowly, "And the Bookman."
"And we are all their pawns," the Turk said.
Then the lights behind the automaton dimmed for the last time, and died. Orphan was left in darkness.
"Wait," Orphan said.
There was merely silence.
"I don't believe that. Byron mentioned something… the Translation."
A lone bulb flickered into half-light above the Turk's head.
"The Binder story," the Turk said. "Yes… The probabilities are small."
"The Binder?"
"A being like the Bookman, if he exists at all," the Turk said. "It is a belief of – of my kind. A myth for a time of myths. The Translation… somewhere, they say, the Binder lives, and where the Bookman kills the Binder restores."
"What is the Translation?"
"Who knows? A device, perhaps. Or a way of thinking, a way of being… There is a story of a time when human and machine will be as one, life biological and life mechanical and all life animate and inanimate will be joined, will be made one. The Translation…" The dim bulb faded. Darkness settled, again and finally.
Orphan turned. Behind him, the door to the room had opened. Jo Jo stood in the corridor outside.
Orphan took a step towards him. Stopped. Turned back. The Turk was wrapped in the darkness. The Bookman, Orphan thought. And he took a deep breath, half-angry, half-surprised. For he knew then; he knew where the Bookman was hiding. He turned again, ready now. Jo Jo waited silently in the doorway.
FIFTEEN
Jack
Just the place for a Snark! I have said it twice: That alone should encourage the crew.
Just the place for a Snark! I have said it thrice: What I tell you three times is true.
– Lewis Carroll, "The Hunting of the Snark"
"Orphan."
The girls were gone. Tom was on his own, dressed in silk pyjamas, reclining in a chair. He had a book in one hand, a rolled-up cigarette in the other.
Orphan glanced at the title. Moriarty's The Dynamics of an Asteroid. "I need to borrow your gun."
Tom stood up. "What happened?" he said carefully. "Orphan, are you well?"
Orphan giggled. He felt feverish, and yet, inside, there was an icy calm. "I'm very well," he said. "I need to borrow your gun."
"What happened at the Hall?"
"It was as Maskelyne said in his note," Orphan said. "Smoke and mirrors. Mirrors and smoke."
"You don't make no sense. Sit down. I will make you some tea." He turned to go to the bar area. "Did you meet Theo?"
"Jo Jo the Dog-Faced Boy," Orphan said. "I met him. Or, rather, he met me."
"Did you find what you were looking for?"
"Ask me later tonight." He lo
oked at Tom and suddenly shouted, "I don't need tea!"
"What do you need?"
"Your gun."
"What," Tom said levelly, "for?"
Orphan giggled again, ignoring the concerned look Tom was giving him. "Hunting," he said. "I'm going hunting."
"It's a bit late to go a-hunting." Tom said. "Perhaps you should stay here tonight."
"Your gun," Orphan said, and now his voice was quiet and hard, with no trace of laughter left, and he stood tall against the door.
Tom, too, was quiet. He stood in his pyjamas and regarded Orphan without blinking.
"Please," Orphan said.
It was the please that perhaps did it; for when he said it, Orphan came as close as he had ever been to breaking. Perhaps Tom saw that. Maybe he had his own reasons. Either way, he went behind the bar without a comment, and returned a moment later with a giant revolver in his hands. Orphan took an involuntary step back.
Tom smiled. "My old Peacemaker," he said, holding the gun with obvious affection. He needed both his hands to hold it. Then he proffered the revolver to Orphan, holding it by the barrel, and Orphan took it cautiously, suddenly wondering if what he was doing was making any kind of sense at all.
"The Colt forty-five, single-action revolver," Tom said. "A six-shooter. So who are you planning to shoot?"
"No one," Orphan said. "Hopefully."
Tom nodded. "I should hope so too. Here." He went again behind the bar and returned with a belt and a handful of bullets. "You know how to use it?"
"I'll figure it out," Orphan said. Tom merely nodded, and helped him put on the gun belt. "Of course you will."
With expert hands he loaded five bullets, one after the other, into the chamber. "Cock it before you want to shoot. Always leave it on the empty chamber, or you'll end up shooting yourself. Have fun – try not to kill anyone."
"I will," Orphan said. The gun felt heavy on his hips, yet reassuring. I would need it, he thought. If only to make me bold enough to proceed.
"Here," Tom said. "You need a hat, too." He went to the right corner of the room, rooted in a small cupboard, and returned with a wide-brimmed hat that he put on Orphan's head. "Now you look proper, like."
Tom kept a full-length (at least, full-length for him) mirror close to the stairs. Orphan positioned himself far enough and examined himself in the mirror. He saw a tired face looking back at him, covered in stubble, a face shaded by the hat, a poet's hands clenching and unclenching into fists. He looked like a gunfighter, he thought. Like one of the men from Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show, which he had seen in Earl's Court once when they performed in the capital.
"You look like a kid," Tom said, not quite hiding his laugh. "If you were performing with Barnum and me, that's what you'd 'ave been billed as. The Kid." He laughed again, but Orphan didn't. The Kid, he thought. It resonated with him.
"The Kid," he said out loud. Tom stopped laughing and regarded him almost solemnly. "Take care of yourself, Orphan."
"I will," Orphan said. He turned away from the mirror and marched out of the Nell Gwynne.
"And bring back my gun!" Tom shouted after him. "It was a present from Colt himself!"
He leaned against the doorframe and watched Orphan disappear as he walked out of the alleyway.
"I wonder if I'll see you again," he murmured into the empty night, "Take care of yourself, Orphan. For all of us."
He walked along St Martin's Lane and thought of endgames. There are many players, he thought. But only two sides. And the objective of the game is to topple the king. But what if there was no king? What if a queen ruled the board? The objective, he thought, would be the same.
It was a cold night, the earlier warmth departing under the threat of a bank of clouds that sailed overhead, a fleet of warships announcing their dominion of the weather. The street was almost empty, the gas lamps casting weak light and strong shadows. They twisted and turned like barbarians in a dance. He thought, I want to come back to my old life. To return to the shop, sell books, write poetry. Talk to Gilgamesh by the bridge, watch the theatre, love Lucy and be loved… but it had already happened, and passed. And here I am.
He turned left into Cecil Court. Payne's stood in darkness. His footsteps made the only sound.
He stepped into the interior of the shop. Age-old books dozed in the darkness on countless shelves. They seemed to murmur sleepily to him when they sensed his presence. He thought again of the bible at Guy's, the book that lay in wait in every room, the one Irene Adler had glanced at, nervously it seemed to him, before falling silent.
The books have ears, he thought, and giggled.
The sound was muffled by the room, absorbed by all the paper. He thought, There is nothing sadder than an unused bookshop. Volumes of words, ideas and stories, blueprints and diagnostics, illustrations and notes scribbled in the margins – they did not exist unless there was someone there to hold them, to open their pages, to read them and make them come alive, however briefly.
Out of habit he went to his room. His bed lay undisturbed beneath the burden of the bookcase. The table was bare. His eyes were used to the darkness now, and he ignored the stub of a candle still sitting in its saucer. The dark was better, he thought. His days of sunshine and light were gone, the clock his body followed had been twisted and changed. He did not like night, yet now he lived inside it. I will live in it for just a little while longer, he thought. He left his room and returned to the main area of the shop. There.
He approached the door to the basement and put his palm against the wood. He pushed, and it opened.
Worn stone stairs led underground. The stairwell was dark. Orphan walked down the steps, placing each foot carefully before continuing to the next one.
At the bottom of the stairs was a second door. Faint light spilled through the narrow gap with the floor underneath it. A small sign on the door said, BIBLIOTHECA LIBRORUM IMAGINARIORUM.
He paused for a long moment, unsure of himself. He could hear nothing behind the door. He thought he could hear the Turk speaking, inside his head. You are a pawn, it said, laughing at him. Pawns can never go back. They can only move forward. To capture or be captured.
This isn't chess, he wanted to say, but the Turk had already faded away, had never been there to begin with.
He pressed the door handle down and pushed, and the door opened.
The basement was in reality a small, rather comfortable room. Bookshelves lined the walls here just as they did upstairs. An old sofa sat against the wall and doubled up, as far as Orphan knew, as Jack's bed, though he had never seen his friend sleep. Three tables sat at opposite corners, covered in books. Through that small room a doorless opening led onto a second, slightly larger room.
Inside the second room was Jack.
He was hunched over a small desk with a large headset nearly covering all of his head. Apart from the desk there were more bookshelves in the room, a small stove, and a rather large dresser.
"Jack," Orphan said.
There was no response. Jack was hunched over the desk, listening to sounds Orphan couldn't hear, scribbling furiously onto a notepad.
"Jack!"
He approached the sitting figure and tapped him on the shoulder.
For a few moments, nothing happened. Jack continued to scribble on his pad, seemingly unaware of Orphan's presence. At last, however, he put down his pen, stretched his back, and removed the headset.
"Orphan, what happened?" He did not seem pleased at this intrusion into his personal space. "I've not seen you since last night. Are you all right?"
"No," Orphan said quietly.
"No?"
"No, I'm not all right."
Jack looked irritated. He rubbed his face with his hands, then said, "It's late."
"Or early," Orphan said. "Depends on how you look at it."
"What are you talking about? Look, did you want anything? Because I'm quite busy and if it can wait for tomorrow–"
"No, it can't," Orphan said, and suddenl
y the gun, the Colt Peacemaker, was in his hand, and pointing at Jack.
Jack stood up, his hands making a nervous, calming motion at Orphan. "What the hell are you doing? And where did you get that thing?"
"It's loaded," Orphan said. His voice shook, but only a little. "Don't make any sudden moves."
"I don't doubt it is," Jack said. "Look, what is this about, mate?" He glanced at the gun and then looked into Orphan's eyes. "Please put that thing away."
