Authors: Thomas Pynchon
"A mechanickal Duck that shits? To whom can it matter," Mr. Whitpot, having remov'd his Wig, is irritably kneading it like a small Loaf, "- - who besides a farmer would even recognize Duck Waste, however compulsively accurate? And when might any country person get to see this Marvel to begin with, if its only engagements were in Parisian Hotels?"
"Some," the Frenchman bristles, "might point rather to a Commitment of Ingenuity unprecedented, toward making All authentic,— perhaps, it could be argued by minds more scientifick, 'twas this very Attention to Detail, whose Fineness, passing some Critickal Value, enabl'd in the Duck that strange Metamorphosis, which has sent it out the Gates of the Inanimate, and off upon its present Journey into the given World.”
What I was told then (Armand continues), remains even today high treason to reveal,— this was bigger than the Man in the Iron Mask,— Kingdoms, Empires indeed, had begun to sway, since the fateful moment when one of Vaucanson's Servants enter'd the Atelier, to find the Duck hovering a few feet above a Table-top, flapping its Wings. There was no need to scream, tho' both of them did, anyway. The Secret was out. Within an hour, the Duck was well flown.
' 'Twas not of M. Vaucanson's Device, then?"
"Ha, ha ha, what a droll remark, I must tell Madame la Marquise de
Pompadour, next time we 'faisons le Déjeuner,' she will be so amus'd
No, ingenuous one,— the 'Design' was of quite a different order, an entirely new Bodily Function in fact, and no one, including the great Engineer himself, knows what happen'd...."
Vaucanson's vainglorious Intent had been to repeat for Sex and Reproduction, the Miracles he'd already achiev'd for Digestion and Excretion. "Who knows? that final superaddition of erotick Machinery may have somehow nudg'd the Duck across some Threshold of self-Intricacy, setting off this Explosion of Change, from Inertia toward Independence, and Power. Isn't it like an old Tale? Has an Automatick Duck, like the Sleeping Beauty, been brought to life by the kiss of...l'Amour?
"Oo-la-la," comes a voice from the corner, "and toot ma flute."
"Frenchies,— marvelous i'n't it," comments another, "ever at it, night and day."
"Savages," hisses the Gallic miniature.
"Pray, Monsieur, go on," Frau Redzinger with a glance of reproach at the room in general.
"For you, Madame." He gestures broadly with his giant Toque, and continues.—
My visitor had grown quite agitated by now. " 'Twas his own Hubris,— the old mad Philosopher story, we all know, meddl'd where he shouldn't have, till laws of the Unforeseen engag'd,— now the Duck is a Fugitive, flying where it wishes,— often indeed visiting the Academy of Sciences, where they have learn'd that the greater its speed, the less visible it grows, until at around a Thousand Toises per Minute, it vanishes entirely,— but one of many newly-acquir'd Powers, bringing added
Urgency to finding it as quickly as possible, before this 'Morphosis carries it beyond our Control. Which is precisely where you may do us a Service, Sir."
"But my gifts...scarcely lie in this direction."
"Recollect, cher Maître, as I do with senses even today a-tremble, your Canard au Pamplemousse Flambé. It is unique in Civilization. Not to mention the sublime Canard avec Aubergines en Casserole...mmhhnnhh! I embrace them! The immortal Fantaisie des Canettes...,"— and much more, including Dishes I'd all but forgotten. I should have stood unmov'd, but I'd gone a-blush. "Oh, those old Canards," I murmur'd.
"You see, when one looks in the files of the Ministries, and of other Detectives, for that matter, invariably, under the Heading, 'Duck,' the two Humans whose Names most often appear, are Vaucanson, and yourself. Again and again. Can there be a Connection?— the Automaton apparently believes so, having somehow, quite recently, become aware of you. Since then, its Resentment on behalf of all Ducks,— and not only those you personally may have cook'd,— has grown alarmingly. Without doubt, it is forming a Plan, whose details you may not wish to know."
"But this is dangerous! What if its Brain be affected by now? And if it be blaming me for Wrongs I never knew I was committing?"
"Ah! it might seek you out, mightn't it,— and, in the Monomania of its Assault, grow careless enough to allow my Agents at last to apprehend it. That would be the Plan, anyhow. Agreed, you must consider how best to defend yourself,— wear clothing it cannot bite through, leather, or what's even more secure, chain-mail,— its Beak being of the finest Swedish Steel, did I mention that, yes quite able, when the Duck, in its homicidal Frenzy, is flying at high speed, to penetrate all known Fortification, solid walls being as paper to this Juggernaut— One may cower within, but one cannot avoid,— le Bec de la Mort, the...'Beak of Death.' "
"Wait, wait," trying not to upset him further, "reprising this,— you wish me to act as a sort of.. .Decoy? to attract the personal Vengeance of a powerful and murderous Automaton...Bon.... For this, I might require a small Fee, in advance?”
"Of course. Here is your small Fee,— you see this Pistol? I will not fire it into your head, eh?"
"Only a thought.—
"
I was sav'd, if that is the word, by a loud terrifying Hum outside. The Detective, with a frighten'd cry, ran swiftly and irrevocably from the Room, leaving me in great Anxiety, as reluctant to follow, and continue in his arm'd company, as to stay, and face an Arrival perhaps even more perilous. I stepp'd out to the Terrace, to look. The Noise was circling overhead, as if its Source,— surely the Duck,— were contemplating a course of action,—
And there! there it was, my future Nemesis! Ah! As I watch'd, it began its long glissade, directly toward me,— the Stoop of an unreasonably small and slow Predator. With plenty of time to escape, quite unlike ordinary Prey myself, I remain'd staring, whilst in defiance of Newton the metallick Marvel floated gently down...till it alit near me, upon one of the Railings of the Terrace, with barely a sound. It faced me...its ominous Beak crank'd open...it quack'd, its eye holding a certain gleam, and began to speak, in a curious Accent, inflected heavily with linguo-beccal Fricatives, issuing in a fine Mist of some digestive Liquid, upon pure Faith in whose harmlessness I was obliged to proceed.
"So," spray'd the Duck,— "the terrible Bluebeard of the Kitchen, whose Celebrity is purchas'd with the lives of my Race. Not so brave now, eh?"
"Thousands in France slay, cook, and eat Ducks ev'ry day. Why single me out?"
"What more natural Enemy for the most celebrated Duck in France, than the most celebrated Chef?"
Hadn't M. du T. made nearly the same remark about the two Dossiers? Had the Duck gain'd access to these? How? "I am not your Enemy," I protested. "I may even be your Friend."
"At least until you contrive to make a dish of me, eh? Be advis'd, I am provided with extensive Alarms, that not a feather be molested, but 'twill trigger Consequences disagreeable. Would you like to try it? eh? go ahead, the Breeze from your moving hand will be enough.”
"Be assur'd of the total Safety, when I am present, of ev'ry excellent Feather," surpriz'd to hear a strange Flirtatiousness in my voice, "yours, may I say, being most uncommonly—
"Attend, Flatteur,— there may be one way for you to deflect my Wrath,— an inconsequential Task you may wish to do for me. I've a request to make of Vaucanson, and the Clock-work is ticking."
"Why not just fly over there and ask him?"
"Sir, he does not wish me well,— I cannot say why,— I hear, that he
has hired an Attorney,— an infallible sign of Hatred, if you ask me
"
"Then, perhaps, you must hire one yourself."
"You wish me," the Duck spreading its wings as if to invite inspection, "to walk in, hand him my Card, 'How d'ye do, spot of bother with the Human who design'd me'?— I think not. Withal, my Case would be weak,— he would no doubt present me as some poor Wretch ever connected, by way of this celebrated inner Apparatus, to Earth, but to nothing as transcendent as,"— a wing-shrug,— "l'Amour— Whilst presenting himself as doing me a great Favor,— failing to consider that I might not miss what I never possess'd."
("Hear, hear," Mason tapping the side of his Coffee-Mug with the Jam-Spoon.
Dixon looks over. "Eeh,— are you crazy yet, Mason?"
The French cook moves his Eyebrows about. "That was what it said, Messieurs. And by then, Curiosity overcoming my good sense...")
"So," I ask'd the Duck, "— is this why you're suddenly able to fly, and whatever else by now... ?"
"That's certainly what it feels like...tho' as for this 'Love,'— I still don't even know what it's suppos'd to be."
"Indeed,— then, do you meet no other Ducks, in your,— um that is,—
"Exactly," ruffling all its Feathers excitedly, "- - aside from the clock-tower Cocks of Strasbourg and Lyon, how many other mechanickal Fowl have I, exactly, to choose from?— excepting, bien entendu, the Fatal Other...."
"Pardon— who?"
"My Duplicate,— that other Duck, which Vaucanson has kept ever on hand, ready to waddle into the Lights to become the 'Vaucanson's Duck' the World would come to know, should this experiment upon me've fail'd. In the Atelier we have often cross'd Paths. In fact our Thoughts have not remain'd so philosophique as to avoid the growth of a certain. . .Fascination.
"So it is that I now commission you, to go to my Creator, and pray upon my behalf his Permission, to take this very Duck out for the evening,— I have tickets to the Opera,— 'tis Galuppi's Margherita e Don Aldo. We could stop for a bite at L'Appeau, they have my table there, you must know of Jean-Luc's Insectes d'Etang à l'Etouffée,—
"Wait, wait, this other Duck,— it's male? female? For that matter, which are you?"
"Moi? Female, as it happens. The other, being yet sexually unmodified, is neither,— or, if you like, both. Any Problem?"
"The arrangement you wish me to make for you.. .'twould fall, I regret, in a Realm of the Erotick, where, alas, I've no experience,—
"For a Frenchman, this is refreshing. Unhappily, my 'Morphosis ever proceeding, I enjoy as little choice of a Broker, as of a Partner."
"Why should Vaucanson agree? If he is your enemy, he may also demand a price, such as your return to his Atelier."
"Details for you to work out. In Italian opera, the young Soprano's Guardian may always be deceiv'd." The Duck flapp'd its Wings, rose in the Air, and with a Hum, singing a few bars of "Calmati, Mio Don Aldo irascibile," crank'd up to speed and vanish'd.
"But this is French Tragedy!" I call'd after. Had the shock of acquiring an erotick Self driven the Creature insane? Was that it? I was a Chef, not a Match-maker for Automatick Ducks. Merde!
Nonetheless, in nearly total ignorance of the path I was choosing, nor knowing even how to reach Vaucanson, I set out to see what favors I might convert,— so entering the little-known world of the Automatophile Community, learning swiftly that the Duck's curious 'Morphosis was a common topick of Gossip at Court, with Mme. la Marquise de Pompadour, as Hervé du T. had hinted, vitally interested. Spies were ev'rywhere, some working for this redoubtable Lady, with her Jansenists and Philosopher, others for Parties whose Fortunes would have intermesh'd more and less naturally with those of any Flying Automaton,— the Jesuits, of course, the British, the Prussian Military,— along with Detectives upon missions Bourbon and Orleanist, Corsican Adventurers, Martinist Illuminati, a Grand Melange of Motive— As no one was what he,— and, for the most part delightfully, she,— claim'd, no one told or expected the truth. Long were the nights, as a-riot with Hepatomachy and Pursuit, as the days a-tangle with Rumor and Faithlessness,— not to mention wayward Barouches, opiated Chablis at Pick-nicks unforeseen, Ear-rings lost and found, invisible Street-Singers echoing 'round the Corners, the Melancholy of the City at sunset,— a descent, like passing into sleep, uneasy and full of terror till we be establish'd once more within the Evening, as within the Evening's first Dream—
My efforts to reach Vaucanson were not without Repercussion. Engagements disappear'd. People cross'd streets to avoid me. Unfamiliar men loung'd against the walls of my neighborhood, as if waiting for instructions. I spent much of my time at the Soupçon de Trop, a local Repaire for Kitchen-Workers of all Ranks, finding in their numbers Safety for a while, at least from human Enemies,.. .but soon enough, the Duck got wind of my Whereabouts,— having learn'd in the meantime that vibrating back and forth very quickly, whilst standing still, would produce the same effect of Invisibility as linear movement,— and, at first to the Amusement, and later to the Annoyance, of my Colleagues, began paying regular visits, emerging to deliver me one reproof upon another, announced only by that distressing Hum.
Only in that Phase of Night when Drunkenness prevail'd and less and less imported, did I even dare reply. "Why do you obsess me? go seek out Vaucanson yourself. I know he's dangerous, but, my God, you're invisible, faster than anything known, you penetrate walls,— you're more than a match for him." I knew as I cozen'd thus the Duck, how carelessly provoking it all must sound, yet such was the Desperation I liv'd in, redefining Shame with each sunrise, that what might once have matter'd to my Pride, now quite often fail'd even to claim my Attention. Whenever I began to list for her the Obstacles, the Daily Intrigues, the Assaults and Deceptions that ever delay'd my Mission upon her behalf, she would proclaim, thro' candle-lit iridescences of vocal Spray, "Duress? Duress is not an Issue,— for Life is Duress."
I once would have inquir'd coolly, what an Automaton might know of Life, but now I only sat silent, unconsciously having assum'd what I later learn'd was that Hindoo asana, or Posture, known as "the Lotus." At what moment the Duck may have taken her leave, who but the Time-Keeper knoweth? Time, however, had acquir'd additional Properties.
Mysteriously, from about that date, I found myself beneath a Protection unseen, yet potent. Thugs who approach'd me in the Street were suddenly struck in mid-Body vigorously enough to throw them for Toises along the Cobbles, where they lay a-cowering, trying to remember their Prayers. A Wine-cask, falling spontaneously out of an upper Window directly at my Head, was invisibly deflected, to smash open harmlessly, in spatter'd red radii, upon the Pavement. In the path of a runaway coach-and-six, I was suddenly lifted by the back of my collar, into the Air, above the Hats and Faces of the rapidly gathering Crowd, and con-vey'd to Safety. I could attribute such a degree of Protection (in which I fail'd, till too late, to see the component of Love) to nothing but the Duck,— which soon enough declar'd her Sentiments, leaving me a plain opening,— but to my shame, I could say nothing. How could anyone? I took refuge in wild theorizing,— if Angels be the next higher being from Man, perhaps the Duck had 'morphos'd into some Anatine Equivalent,