The Last Days of Night(37)

Agnes requested a glass with two fresh raspberries dropped inside. “A present for getting to the bottom,” she said.

She introduced Paul around. He was good with names, good with noting the telltale details that might accumulate into memories. Mr. Honeyrose with the salt-and-pepper muttonchops, Mrs. Sheldon with the Spanish accent, Mr. Farnham with the short stance and silver walking stick. Paul clocked them all as he shook their hands.

Agnes seemed to know everyone. At each kiss of her hand, she deployed a joke; with each curtsy came a story she’d been simply dying to share. She took to the party as if she’d been born into it.

In a way, she had. From what Paul knew, the Huntingtons were an old family. They’d settled into America at the roots. They’d flourished in the western industries, in California gold and Colorado trains, as well as the eastern halls of the House and Senate. The Huntingtons had bloomed so colorfully across the vista of American money and power that, Paul realized, he didn’t know from which branch of Huntingtons she had descended. Her family connections had gone unmentioned in the newspaper accounts of her career.

Yet she’d come to him for representation, not to someone older or more well known. Agnes and Fannie must have lacked the protection, then, of someone more powerful than Paul. As Paul was not particularly powerful, this must mean that they came from some lesser tributary of Huntingtons. But wherever they were from, the young woman Paul watched charm her way through the Players’ Club seemed happy to be here.

“Tesla,” said Paul after what felt like the thousandth handshake. “I need to find Tesla.”

“He’ll be with Stanford, I’m sure. Grab us two more flutes and then let’s pop upstairs.”

The second floor was thick with cigar smoke. A quartet of musicians was cramped into one corner, the fiddlers sweating as they sawed their horsehair bows. The clomp of hard leather shoes against the floorboards threatened to drown out the music. Agnes led Paul across a floor of tipsy dancers stumbling to the rhythm of the fast waltz.

On the third floor Paul saw a clump of partygoers assembled around a pair of couches. The guests had organized themselves into a half circle. All eyes seemed to be focused on the thin man whose head poked up in the center.

Tesla. By the crooked grin spread across the inventor’s face, Paul saw he was enjoying the scene. Paul could not believe that someone who took so little delight in other people seemed to find such pleasure in other people’s delights.

“A magnet and a coil,” said Tesla to the crowd. “These are the tools you need. Think of it thusly: The magnetic force we have been knowing for some time. The coil is to be found in each of your mattresses.” The assembled snickered gaily at the mention of bedding. Tesla seemed not to know what had caused their laughter, but appreciated it nonetheless.

“But where does it come from?” asked the man standing next to Tesla. Considerably shorter, he wore a bushy, unkempt mustache and a trail of gold buttons up his starched white wing-collared shirt. Paul looked to Agnes for confirmation. This was Stanford White.

“Electricity arises from nowhere,” said Tesla. “Everywhere. The air everywhere and all around. It is not created. It is harnessed.”

“Like a horse?” asked White as the crowd laughed.

“Like the strength of steam,” said Tesla. “From where does water come? It does not. It is. Then men learned to heat it. And to direct the clouds of air that flew up above the hot water…” He clapped his hands. “There you have it! Power.”

Paul watched the ladies turn to each other and smile while the men shared approving looks. They all strove to indicate both that they were impressed by what Tesla was saying and that they understood it.

As Tesla continued to speak, Paul noticed that he kept his body carefully removed from the others. He swayed stiffly to avoid the well-coiffed hair dangling precariously from the women. His various insanities read, to the assembled, as fascinating eccentricities.

White turned to the crowd with a wink. You don’t hear this every day, he seemed to be saying to his friends. Tesla was the party’s resident curio.

“Your friend seems less like a guest,” said Agnes quietly, “and more like the entertainment.”

Of all the roles he had imagined that Tesla might play, that of court jester to Manhattan’s artistic royalty had never been among them.

“He loves a good novelty, Stanford,” Agnes continued. “He was dragging around a Chinese magician, last I was here. Sleight of hand for the slight of mind. This is the first time I’ve seen him make a show of a scientist, though.”

Tesla, still monologuing colorfully on the nature of electricity, finally caught sight of Paul. He stopped in his speech. “Mr. Paul Cravath,” said Tesla. His eyebrows rose in wonder.

The crowd, confused, turned to see to whom Tesla was speaking. Their confusion was in no way ameliorated when they realized it was Paul.

Stanford White spoke before Paul could. “Does Mr. Tesla have a friend?”

“He does,” answered Agnes. “This is Mr. Paul Cravath. He’s my lawyer.”

White regarded Agnes warily.

“Might we give the old boys a minute to talk?” suggested Agnes.

“Only,” said White, “if you’ll honor us with a song.”

Agnes smiled. “If you’re very lucky, perhaps.” She drew White back into the crowd, tactfully giving Paul his chance.