Curiosity by Gary Blackwood Page B

asked Mulhouse. “Here.” He draped his jacket over my thin shoulders.
    â€œThank you.” We walked on in silence for a time, then I said, “Why did you stop operating the Turk? Because it was too cramped?”
    â€œPartly. But also because of this cough of mine—a result of being shut up in that infernal cabinet for so long, with a burning candle next to me. It became such a problem that Maelzel feared the audience would hear me, and he let me go.”
    â€œYou’re not worried that you’ll disappear? Like Mademoiselle Bouvier?”
    â€œ Non . I believe he trusts me to keep his secret.” He leaned in closer to me and said softly, “Speaking of secrets, you must not let Maelzel know how much I’ve told you. He would be angry.”
    â€œWhy did you tell me, then?”
    â€œBecause. Because I put you in this position; it is only right that I warn you of the risks involved.”
    â€œIt’s a bit late for that, isn’t it?”
    He shrugged apologetically. “ Oui , I suppose it is.” He patted my shoulder. “But not to worry; you’re perfectly safe as long you do not make the mistake of telling anyone about the Turk. And in any case, I’ll be around to make certain that nothing happens to you.”
    Somehow, I didn’t find his reassurances very comforting. A chill went through me, but not the sort I was used to. This was not a symptom of ague; it was the sickening feeling of having fallen into dangerous, dark waters that were over my head. I shivered and pulled the jacket close around me.
    Regular visiting hours at the prison were long past, but when Mulhouse slipped a banknote into the keeper’s hand he readily let us into the debtors’ apartment. My father was sitting on the stone floor of his cell with his blankets wrapped about him; he had a small notebook propped on his knees and was making entries in his meticulous handwriting by the light of an almost-extinct candle. His cellmates were asleep, two of them on stained straw mattresses. Softly, I called, “Father?”
    He looked up muzzily, like a man waking from a dream. When he saw me, his face brightened. “Rufus!” One of the sleepers stirred and grumbled, “Be quiet, would you?” My father whispered “Sorry” and, rising stiffly, ushered us into the hallway. He embraced me carefully, as he always did, as though fearful of crushing my slight frame. “I’m so pleased to see you. I’ve been wondering how you were getting along. Is Mrs. Runnymead looking after you?”
    â€œI’m not at the boardinghouse, Father. Monsieur Mulhouse got me a job with—with—” I remembered my promise to Maelzel, that I would reveal nothing to anyone. For the first time in my life, I had to lie to my father, and I couldn’t quite manage it.
    â€œWith a firm that constructs dioramas and automata,” Mulhouse finished smoothly.
    â€œReally?” said my father, with obvious delight. “Like those at Peale’s Museum?” Peale’s, I should explain, was a popular attraction at the time. Billed as “An Encyclopedia of God’s Wondrous Creation,” it contained a dizzying display of exhibits and curiosities, from mammoth bones and Egyptian mummies to Siamese twins and a cow with five legs and two tails.
    â€œExactly,” said Mulhouse. “Rufus is apprenticing to one of the craftsmen.”
    â€œIndeed! I always imagined he might become a schoolmaster one day, but this is far more interesting!” He grabbed Mulhouse’s hand and shook it energetically. “Thank you for helping my son. As you see, I’m not in a position to do much for him at the moment. Do they provide him with room and board?”
    â€œHe sleeps on the premises. And I suppose they feed you well, don’t they, Rufus?”
    â€œOh, yes,” I lied. “I’m to receive wages, too. When I do, I’ll pay