A Blank Page
Von Knepper was leaning over a delicate mechanism that resembled a musical instrument: glass pegs tightened very fine strings that would make a sound at the slightest touch.
“We need to find another way to make automatons talk. The human vocal system is extremely difficult to control. The slightest imperfection and the melody of the inanimate starts to play. One day I’ll resort to magic. I once read that Hermes Trismegistus could make a statue so perfect that life was inevitable.”
“A statue that comes to life must also then die.”
“Maybe the Egyptian sorcerers watched theirs weaken and expire and abandoned the method forever. Who knows, maybe their creatures reverted to statues, only this time they were abominable, or maybe they shattered into piles of marble shards.”
I picked up a hand that was on the table and tested it. The bones were made of black wood and the joints of gold.
“I found Clarissa,” I said nonchalantly.
Von Knepper’s hands leaped to my neck and he repeated his daughter’s name, as if it were a threat. He squeezed my throat with professional rigor. I fought in vain for the air that would allow me to speak. In the midst of our struggle, we fell on the table. The tiny harp—future throat—fell to the floor, making a strange sound, like an animal cry. Heeding this plea, Von Knepper released me. I backed into a corner of the room.
“I don’t have her, but I know where she is. I saw her myself. I’ll take her somewhere safe today.”
“And do you think I’m going to just wait here, doing nothing, while you …?”
“You won’t be doing nothing. I have a job for you.”
I pulled a ball of paper from my pocket. The documents that change a country’s history, the secrets that send some to the throne and others to the gallows, aren’t safely tucked in folders and covered in wax seals. They’re wrinkled sheets of paper, dampened by the rain, that some insignificant person carries deep in his pocket, with coins, a penknife, and a bit of bread.
“This is the text the bishop is to write. Three envoys from Rome will be meeting with him the day after tomorrow.”
“Yes, I know about that meeting. I was told to make the final adjustments.”
“Those adjustments are written here.”
He read the page.
“You’re crazy. If the bishop writes this, his skull will become an inkwell and my blood the ink.”
“I understand the danger, but there’s no other way for you to see your daughter again.”
Disheartened, Von Knepper read the message over and over. It may not have been the thought of Clarissa that changed his mind but the message itself: after all, it was the truth.
“Once the new text has been written, you won’t able to come back here. At least not while Mazy remains in power.”
“I have somewhere to hide. I’ve spent my life living under aliases, in houses rented for three months at a time. What about my daughter?”
I handed him a blank page.
“She’s here.”
He turned the sheet over and, seeing that it was blank as well, threw it in my face. I handed it back.
“It’s invisible ink. The message will appear in a little more than forty hours without you doing anything. Forget about using sulfur, alcohol, saltpeter, or any other thing you might think of; all you’ll find then is an illegible smudge. Keep your promise and the secret will be revealed.”
When I left Von Knepper’s, I walked to the Seine and quietly asked at a bookstore for The Bishop’s Message.
“Sold out,” the bookseller said. It was hard to know if he was telling the truth or was afraid I was an inspector.
Voltaire’s first message was already in print and was being passed from hand to hand all over the city. His second would soon be engraved on an iron plate and fill the bishop’s memory with forty-two words.