The Last Days of Night(20)

Three courses into dinner, and they were still only on the lobster. He had no idea how he was going to get all of this food into his already bloated belly. The buttons of his trousers, newly purchased at R. H. Macy’s, felt ready to rip. His never-worn white shirt was growing damp with sweat. His bow tie pressed his wing-tipped shirt collar into his neck as if to pop his head clean off, like a boiled shrimp. Business dinners such as this were pure blood sport: How much meat and wine could a man pour down his gullet while still managing to conduct himself in even a slightly professional manner?

At Delmonico’s, the most elegant and fashionable restaurant for New York’s ruling class, delicacy of cuisine was defined not as much by complexity as by volume. Too much? There was no such thing. Quails, cakes, cardamom, and coins—there would never be enough to go around. If Paul could be blamed for any of this, it was only that he was a man of his time. It was with a tinge of longing on his wet tongue that he had to admit, if only to himself, that he genuinely loved the taste of sauce béarnaise.

Paul took a sip from his port and gestured to the identical plate of lobster à la Newburg that lay before his dinner companion.

“Have you had this lobster before, Mr. Tesla?” said Paul. “It’s the best in New York.”

This was not a lie per se. It might very well be the best lobster in the city, even though Paul had never eaten it before. Carter and Hughes had taken clients here frequently, but Paul had never been invited along.

Paul’s goal this evening was to make an impression. The night before, after Tesla had quickly accepted his offer to dine, Paul had found Westinghouse at his hotel and they had hatched their plan: Westinghouse and his team would analyze Tesla’s newly acquired A/C patents. If they could modify the bulbs that the company was selling to work on alternating current, they would gain an undeniable technological advantage over Edison. Their lights would not only be powered more efficiently, but they could be powered over far greater distances as well. At the same time, Paul would let Nikola Tesla know on which side his bread might be buttered, rather literally speaking.

“I have not tasted this crustacean,” replied Tesla. “Fish is not welcomed by my palate.” Tracing his finger in a circle around the plate, Tesla continued with an odd question: “How many centimeters do you think? Thirty?”

“Excuse me?”

“The plate. Thirty-five centimeters? Yes, I think thirty-five. And four centimeters deep.”

“I suppose so…”

“Quite a bit, is it not? One hundred and forty cubic centimeters of this smelling-sweet broth, minus the broth dispositioned by the tail of lobster. So only…” Tesla paused as he measured the length of the lobster meat with his finger, counting the knuckles. “Yes, one hundred five cubic centimeters.”

“You’ve a good head for figures,” replied Paul. He could not tell precisely what the topic of conversation was, so this seemed as good a shot as any at remaining on it. “I’d imagine that’s a valuable trait in your line of work.”

“It is the unevenness of the shape, that is what makes difficulty in calculation. I could be otherwise greater in precision.” Tesla stared at his food.

“Might you like to try eating it?”

“I cannot.”

“Because you don’t enjoy shellfish?”

“Because it is not one hundred five cubic centimeters, Mr. Paul Cravath; I think that we both know. And approximations are worthwhile only to the degree of their precision. That is saying not at all.”

“You can only eat the lobster once you’ve accurately measured its cubic dimensions?”

“Well, of course not; please do not mistake me for a crazy. I can only ingest a dinner the cubic volume of which adds to a number divisible by three.”

To think that Paul had once found Westinghouse difficult to talk to.

Four waiters worked in tandem to slide ris de veau onto the table as Paul launched in. “What my client can provide you is a laboratory and a staff in which to pursue your devices. You have built some marvelous inventions, but you’ve not yet developed them into products for the marketplace, have you? Westinghouse possesses the resources to do just that. It sounds like a beautiful marriage. And as its humble clergyman, I’d advocate a spring wedding.”

Tesla gave no indication of being either moved or unmoved by what Paul had said. He seemed in a different place entirely.

“Products?” said Tesla, as if even pronouncing the word felt wrong.

“Yes. Your designs. The wonders you’ve theorized. George Westinghouse is in a position to build them. To make them real. To bring them to life.”

Tesla frowned. “It matters not at all whether these things are built. I have seen them in my mind. And I know that they work. Whether they are products in your markets—what concern is that to me?”

Paul wasn’t sure how to respond. What creator did not live to see his creations brought to life?

Paul had to change tactics. Whatever animated Tesla, whatever spirit moved him, was a force unknown. But no matter how otherworldly Tesla might be, Paul hoped that he might at least possess some of the baser instincts known to all men.

“And Thomas Edison?” asked Paul. “Would you like for him to see your designs brought to life?”

“Mr. Thomas Edison would be unable to understand the designs I have done if even they were built before his eyeballs. He is not inventing. He is not science. He is a face for the photographs. An actor on the boards.”