long.”
Arago did not react to this comment. He rose, put his hands in his pockets, and poised an eye behind the telescope. He rested there for several moments, cigar in his mouth, squinting through the eyepiece.
“How are the stars these days?” Louis asked.
“Still there. You wouldn’t believe the idiocy we endure. Paris is full of madmen, I tell you. When we announced that Neptune had been proved, a man came to us declaring that the world was still flat and showed us a map of Atlantis. Off the coast of China, it was.”
“If Atlantis were real, Napoleon would have tried to colonize it.” “The emperor may have been a little hotheaded, but he got things done.”
“Beheadings, mostly,” Louis said.
Arago took his eye from the telescope and they looked at each other, leaned into this old disagreement.
Arago took a notebook and pencil from his desk, looked at his watch, and wrote something down.
“What are you doing?” Louis asked.
“Take a look for yourself.”
Louis crossed to the telescope while Arago held it in place. He positioned his eye and looked out onto a rooftop where a very old Muslim man stood in a tunic on the edge of a prayer rug. The man bowed slowly, his head down, before moving into a kneeling position. There was something otherworldly about this feeble man suspended above Paris, facing Mecca, and moving with a halting reverie. Everywhere people were preparing.
“He prays five times a day, and I have been writing down the exact time of three of those prayers for years. Midday, late afternoon, and just after sunset. I have no faith of my own, but it gives me a great deal of comfort to watch this man. We keep time for all of Paris, and in some strange way, I keep time from this man’s prayers. I have a precise record of his devoutness.”
Louis straightened and took the notebook from Arago. It was meticulously ruled, and each prayer time had its own column. He returned to the eyepiece and watched as the man pressed his nose and mouth to the rug.
Arago said, “One day he’ll die and I’ll be very sad not to see him out on his rooftop.”
Louis felt he was witnessing something deeply personal. He pictured Arago watching from this spot, measuring time by another man’s prayers, and understood that his friend was full of regret. Arago had waited his whole life for greatness to arrive; he dressed like a man who expected to discover a planet. Louis felt impossibly sad that Arago’s hopes and ambitions would come to naught, that darkness would descend from the very sky he’d spent his life studying. Louis backed away from the telescope, keeping his face down.
“François, before I take the daguerreotypes of the sun and moon, there is a favor I’d like to ask. There isn’t much time.”
“Please, sit.”
Louis returned to his seat. “I am looking for a storage area for my portraits, and I was wondering if I might get access to the catacombs via the observatory basement.”
Arago returned to his chair and thinned his lips in speculation. He was a man who counted right angles and noticed a wall out of plumb upon entering a room. “But surely it’s too dusty and filthy down there. Our revolutionary brothers are buried below.”
“Yes, I’m aware. But I need somewhere protected. The daguerreotypes will all be under glass, so the dust won’t damage them.”
“I see.” Arago tapped his fingers gently on the edge of his desk. “You realize that access to the catacombs is controlled by the crown. They are off limits to citizens.”
“I didn’t realize.”
“Of course, we have a key to the gate because—and this is not widely known—one of our founders is buried down there. Cassini, the man who mapped the moon. The key is in this very drawer. But this is madness. Your images belong in museums, not catacombs full of bones.”
“The circumstances are special.”
“The truth is special.”
Louis looked into Arago’s face. A perfect meridian ran vertically down his
Arago did not react to this comment. He rose, put his hands in his pockets, and poised an eye behind the telescope. He rested there for several moments, cigar in his mouth, squinting through the eyepiece.
“How are the stars these days?” Louis asked.
“Still there. You wouldn’t believe the idiocy we endure. Paris is full of madmen, I tell you. When we announced that Neptune had been proved, a man came to us declaring that the world was still flat and showed us a map of Atlantis. Off the coast of China, it was.”
“If Atlantis were real, Napoleon would have tried to colonize it.” “The emperor may have been a little hotheaded, but he got things done.”
“Beheadings, mostly,” Louis said.
Arago took his eye from the telescope and they looked at each other, leaned into this old disagreement.
Arago took a notebook and pencil from his desk, looked at his watch, and wrote something down.
“What are you doing?” Louis asked.
“Take a look for yourself.”
Louis crossed to the telescope while Arago held it in place. He positioned his eye and looked out onto a rooftop where a very old Muslim man stood in a tunic on the edge of a prayer rug. The man bowed slowly, his head down, before moving into a kneeling position. There was something otherworldly about this feeble man suspended above Paris, facing Mecca, and moving with a halting reverie. Everywhere people were preparing.
“He prays five times a day, and I have been writing down the exact time of three of those prayers for years. Midday, late afternoon, and just after sunset. I have no faith of my own, but it gives me a great deal of comfort to watch this man. We keep time for all of Paris, and in some strange way, I keep time from this man’s prayers. I have a precise record of his devoutness.”
Louis straightened and took the notebook from Arago. It was meticulously ruled, and each prayer time had its own column. He returned to the eyepiece and watched as the man pressed his nose and mouth to the rug.
Arago said, “One day he’ll die and I’ll be very sad not to see him out on his rooftop.”
Louis felt he was witnessing something deeply personal. He pictured Arago watching from this spot, measuring time by another man’s prayers, and understood that his friend was full of regret. Arago had waited his whole life for greatness to arrive; he dressed like a man who expected to discover a planet. Louis felt impossibly sad that Arago’s hopes and ambitions would come to naught, that darkness would descend from the very sky he’d spent his life studying. Louis backed away from the telescope, keeping his face down.
“François, before I take the daguerreotypes of the sun and moon, there is a favor I’d like to ask. There isn’t much time.”
“Please, sit.”
Louis returned to his seat. “I am looking for a storage area for my portraits, and I was wondering if I might get access to the catacombs via the observatory basement.”
Arago returned to his chair and thinned his lips in speculation. He was a man who counted right angles and noticed a wall out of plumb upon entering a room. “But surely it’s too dusty and filthy down there. Our revolutionary brothers are buried below.”
“Yes, I’m aware. But I need somewhere protected. The daguerreotypes will all be under glass, so the dust won’t damage them.”
“I see.” Arago tapped his fingers gently on the edge of his desk. “You realize that access to the catacombs is controlled by the crown. They are off limits to citizens.”
“I didn’t realize.”
“Of course, we have a key to the gate because—and this is not widely known—one of our founders is buried down there. Cassini, the man who mapped the moon. The key is in this very drawer. But this is madness. Your images belong in museums, not catacombs full of bones.”
“The circumstances are special.”
“The truth is special.”
Louis looked into Arago’s face. A perfect meridian ran vertically down his
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