Chapter Paris Exposition Universelle, May 7, 1900
Paris Exposition Universelle,
Erich leans against the stone rail of the Pont Alexandre III bridge. The new one, the wonder of engineering, made in a single arch to span the entire Seine. Art and beauty and technology, all in one.
He stands there, next to one of the lamps with their scrolling black iron and delicate seashell glass, people walking by and gazing in amazement at the beauty of the electric lights and the gilded statues, others floating on boats under the bridge, necks craned upward as they take in the steel might that allowed it to leap across the water without any other support, and he thinks about the fair.
The Palace of Electricity. The electrified trolley.
The moving walkway. The telescope. The diesel engine.
The phono-cinema. The endless displays and demonstrations and declarations that this is it.
Humanity at last has conquered the unconquerable, and science and technology and progress have reached a pinnacle.
But if this is it—if it’s never going to get better than this—then how can Erich keep going?
He looks on these marvels, presses his eye to a telescope piercing the veil of outer space, stands beneath creatures of the deep never before brought to the surface, and he feels nothing. He’s never been emptier.
He can’t keep going. Not if this is truly the best it will ever be.
Erich leans down and begins unbuttoning his shoes.
They’re new. It seems a waste to ruin them.
He hopes someone enjoys them the way he can’t enjoy anything at all.
But “hope” is too strong a word. Really, he just doesn’t deserve the dignity of being found fully clothed. He should be barefoot and embarrassing.
He tries to imagine it, tries to dredge up horror at the idea of his bloated, swollen, waterlogged corpse with bare feet, and still: nothing.
Erich gives up on removing his shoes and puts his hands on the railing to hoist himself up. His pockets are filled with rocks, which makes the movement awkward. Before he can manage it, a hand comes down on his shoulder.
Erich turns to find himself face-to-face with a man.
Neither old nor young, neither handsome nor ugly, the strangest, most blank visage he’s ever looked into.
It’s like looking into Erich’s own soul.
He focuses on a wild pink rose pinned to the man’s lapel, because it hurts to try and make sense of the man’s face.
“No,” the man says. “Not like this. You should feel something.”
Erich wants to explain that’s exactly the problem, but the man just shakes his head in disapproval. “Not until you feel it.” He wags a finger like he’s scolding a small child. “Otherwise, it’s a waste. When you’re ready to feel again, come find me.”
And just like that, the man turns and walks away along the bridge.
Erich takes a step in the same direction.
His foot comes out of his unbuttoned shoe.
He stumbles, laughing, and then sits, shocked at his own laughter.
He didn’t think he could still laugh. And, even more surprising, he’s curious.
Genuinely curious, about that strange man and why he bothered to stop Erich when he didn’t seem to care about the act itself, merely the motivation.
Erich doesn’t know how the man expects to be found without leaving a name or any information, but something prickles in the back of Erich’s mind. A strange certainty that, when Erich’s ready, the man will be found.
In another startling development, Erich is certain he doesn’t want to ever be ready for that. He buttons his shoe and hurries away from the bridge.