The Chemistry of Tears Part 24

"What is that one called?" I asked.

"Leucine enkephalin." He smiled. I wrote it down.

The leucine enkephalin did its job and I laughed to hear how Eric took my darling to his club to learn to swim.

We did not talk about Amanda's "enthusiasm" and I did not ask if her grandfather had been amongst the loots and suits at the viewing of the swan. I spoke only about the sense of awe that a wind-up machine had induced in men you might have thought beyond all human feeling.

I told my anthropological stories about growing up in Clerkenwell and then being dumped in the not quite posh school in High Wycombe. I said my sorries. He was kind and funny and when we had tottered out onto West Street he got me a cab and kissed me very sweetly, very chastely, on the cheek.

I came over Waterloo Bridge and did not cry too much.

I gave the cabbie a ridiculous tip, and as the taxi departed I noticed that awful old car backed down in the neighbours' parking s.p.a.ce again. This time, seeing the front of the old ruin I realized it was an Armstrong Siddeley, a grand English dinosaur from 1950. The paints of the period were all toxic toluene nightmares, polluting the air even as they began their life. In 2010 its skin was cracked and chalky, more like dead fish than a dinosaur, a skate, dead shark skin amongst the sand and seaweed.

I was at my door when the hand touched my shoulder. My scream must have echoed all the way to Waterloo.

It was Angus, frail and ghostly.

"All right down there?"

That was the neighbour two doors up. "Sorry," I said.

He slammed his window down and Angus flinched. Then a young woman in dark grey overalls emerged from the shadow. Of course it was Amanda, her hair stretched back off her face, and looking excited enough to give one pause.

We never think something unusual is happening, even when it is. When they were side by side on my Nelson day bed, I offered them a cup of tea.

"We're good," said Angus, leaning forward and gazing at me intently. "How are you?"

Amanda was also studying me. She had her sketchbook on her lap and I thought-in the middle of all this-that we must get those drawings back from her because they, the ones she had done at work, were the property of the museum and would be needed for the glossy catalogue. It would be something, really something, and it seemed that we would now really get the money to produce it. Crofty had won his bet. The silver swan had pleased the patron of the British Arts. It would be a "profit centre."

It seemed that Angus wished to tell me something, but had lost his nerve.

"Go on," Amanda told him. I saw little to remind me of the young woman who had actually held my hand at the unveiling.

"What is it, Angus?" I touched the back of his big rough hands, my Matthew's little child.

"Ask her, will she X-ray the swan? Will you?"

"Amanda, you must not continue with this."

"Please sit down, Miss Gehrig. I am not going to do anything, but what would you be frightened of discovering? What if I was Leeuwenhoek? Would you refuse to look into my microscope? The world would look different to anything you knew."

"Mandy, there isn't anything inside it," Angus said. "You just want there to be." He touched her shoulder but she shook him violently away.

"OK. What if there are ghosts?" she demanded of me.

"But there aren't."

"You'd call it mumbo jumbo but what if it was consistent with modern physics, or string theory? You would be like those people who insisted the sun went round the earth."

"Very well. I stand with them."

By then she was opening her notebook and I somehow knew she had a "proof" or cosmology of some sort. I was not exactly anxious, but wary, and very careful. I followed her into the kitchen where she began frantically pulling out loose leaves and laying them down on the table like a hand of patience, careless of the spilled jam and b.u.t.ter which polluted those exquisite lines which crossed the borders between one waxed sheet and the next, continuous, as in a map. I immediately appreciated that the a.s.sembled whole was exceptionally beautiful, but I was slow to recognize that what lay on my kitchen table was a close reading of Henry Brandling's notebooks which she had presumably conducted in this kitchen and in Annie h.e.l.ler's lair. It was, like all close readings, very personal, but the combination of her mature talent and her relentless abstract logic had a quality I shrank from.

What if there are ghosts? I thought.

Amanda could not have been more than twenty-three years old but she had produced a detailed and graceful architecture all driven by her strong desire to find "deep order" amidst chaos.

It took some minutes to grasp that its visual hub was a plan of the city of Karlsruhe as Sumper had presented it to Henry Brandling-the city of the wheel, but also, as she noted boldly: "Home of Karl Benz." She had sketched or traced a formal portrait of Karl Benz, ghostly in grey graphite, and beneath it she had written in a facsimile of Henry's script: "Karl Benz looks back at the home of his childhood: blue mountains, a valley he wandered through, a valley well familiar to him with green mountains and foaming creeks, fir trees clinging to the cliffs and up above the small Black Forest village."

She had made little Carl into Karl Benz. "Born 1844," she wrote. Good G.o.d, I thought-can that be right?

This same earnest girl who had tried to prove the blue cube was a Christian cross had decided that the hull was a kind of wooden horse whose double skin had been produced to smuggle, not only a blue cube, but the "secrets" of an internal combustion engine, and these "secrets" she had rendered with such skill and care that it was almost impossible to believe they were not "true." I know enough about engines to recognize the cam shaft and the valves and tappets, but there were also devices, and variations on these devices, rendered just as "truthfully" that resembled manufactured objects with functions one could not imagine.

I thought, she is stark raving mad. I also thought: am I too stupid to see this is a critique of the industrial revolution?

"Amanda, please." I wished to gather up the pages, to take them straight to Eric.

"No!" She slapped my hand.

"Amanda, these are the parts of an internal combustion engine."

"Duh."

"And they are inside a hull constructed in 1854."

"And do you have a good memory for what you have read, Miss Gehrig?"

"Pretty good."

"I have an excellent memory," she said, and took my hand and held it. I resisted the urge to pull away. " 'You are in the same state as a fly whose microscopic eye has been changed to one similar to a man's. YOU ARE WHOLLY UNABLE TO a.s.sOCIATE WHAT YOU ARE SEEING WITH WHAT YOUR LIFE HAS TAUGHT YOU.' "

I began to speak. She cut me off. " 'You have no idea of where you are. You have no idea of what will happen here. In this very room, I promise, you will witness wonders such as have been never known.' Do you know what that meant?"

"Amanda."

"It meant that they will kill us all. That is what the machine is for. It is not the work of humans."

With this fierce announcement she opened her sketchbook where I was confronted with those familiar sentences that begin on one end of the line and end with their toes on the edge of the abyss.

"This is Henry Brandling?" I asked.

"Of course."

So clearly she had written it herself. She now carried her forgery to the sitting room where she knelt on the carpet beside me.

"Please," she said, and held my hand again. I thought, the skin is the largest sensory organ of the body. It contains more than four million receptors. It is our skin that lets us feel the gentle blowing of air, our lover caressing our body. Our skin experiences our reading too, or at least it did in my case: covering me in goose-b.u.mps as I read that eerie facsimile of Henry's hand: "And the filth shall spew forth from the depths, like black bile, like gall, and the ocean shall be as a mother giving wormwood from her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. The truth will be like a razor no tongue dare touch. A mult.i.tude of idiots shall flee back and forth on rivers of tar, an awful honking like generations of geese." (Angus sat heavily. I thought, this is the first time he has really seen beyond her beauty.) "The cruel famines, the droughts-all will be enigma and injustice. And any who sees the truth will be called mad. Is it you, unlucky woman? Then you will be stoned and thrown into a moat.

"Mysterium Tremendum. There were ghosts, fabulous beings, but they were our enemies and we died, not knowing what had happened, all and every one."

Amanda closed the book and clasped it to her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

"Of course," she said quietly, "none of this can possibly be true."

I felt her despair and confusion like sunspots in my brain. Perhaps I was a blow fly. Perhaps this gorgeous creature was a genius. I will X-ray the d.a.m.n thing, I thought, why not? Why wouldn't I? No one will dare stop me.

Angus was curled up beside me. Amanda put her head on my lap and her filthy hands around my legs. "I am so tired," she said.

And then the three of us are standing, crouching, united and I am not certain of very much at all, only that our essence is enveloped by the largest sensory organ, a universe itself, our human skin.

I hold Amanda's hand as I once touched Matthew's skin as I now touch his son's wet cheek. Machines cannot feel, it is commonly believed. Souls have no chemistry, and time cannot end. Our skin contains four million receptors. That is all I know. I love you. I hold you. I miss you forever. Mysterium Tremendum. I kiss your toes.

Acknowledgements.

The author wishes to thank Frances Coady, Sonny Mehta, Diana Coglianese, Ben Ball, Angus Cargill, Lee Brackstone, Hans Jurgen Balmes, Kate Ward, Eleanor Rees, Meredith Rose, Jenny Uglow, Marion Kite, Matthew Read, Jane Whittaker, Howard Coutts, Edna McCown, Susan Lyons, Paul Kane, David Smith, Robert Smith, Jefferson Mays, Thomas Mogford, David Thompson, Jon Kessler, Richard Powers, Patrick McGrath, Maria Aitken, Jack Gaiser, Garry Craig Powell, Quinn Slobodian, Stewart Waltzer, Elizabeth Estabrook and, of course, Charles Babbage.

A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR.

Peter Carey received the Booker Prize for Oscar and Lucinda and again for True History of the Kelly Gang. His other honors include the Commonwealth Writers' Prize and the Miles Franklin Literary Award. Born in Australia, he has lived in New York City for twenty years, where he is now the executive director of the Hunter College MFA program in creative writing.

ALSO BY PETER CAREY.

Parrot and Olivier in America.

His Illegal Self

Theft

Wrong About j.a.pan.

My Life as a Fake

True History of the Kelly Gang.

Jack Maggs

The Unusual Life of Tristan Smith

The Big Bazoohley.

The Tax Inspector.

Oscar and Lucinda.

Bliss

Illywhacker.

The Fat Man in History.