> Purchase Even Animals Are Machines by Andrés Vaccari
1
Where Francine Descartes is rescued from the sea by a kind gentleman, architect of the play.
Glimmers from the sailors’ eyes leave trails in the grey firmament, like comets of ill omen. Grimaces of fear and fascination detach from their faces, drifting across the surface of the enraged sea. Among the tumult, disfigured by the watery prism, she seeks the sketch of a familiar form.
‘Mon père?’
She tries to scream his name and her mouth fills with brackish, icy water. The torrent enters her body and courses through it, filling it completely. The weight drags the girl down.
‘Pater, pater. Ut quid dereliquisti me?’
Vortices blur the world into darkness, and the memory of her father’s voice reaches her.
It is as though I have fallen into a deep vortex that throws me from side to side without being able to touch the bottom or swim to the surface.
A mute flash of lightning shatters the sky for the last time, and the sea draws her to its bosom of stone, far from the hatred and stupidity of men. Far from her father.
Wrapped up in a peaceful, endless night, she closes her eyes and crosses her hands on her belly, mimicking the dead at rest. She welcomes her fate as papa would have advised, stripping herself of all passion. His voice returns, as though lulling her to sleep.
Someday we will be together again, and nothing more will separate us. Soon there will be a new star in the sky, the star of your soul that will accompany me for the remaining nights of my life.
Judging by the stillness of her eyelids, she has abandoned herself to death—to the idea of death. Things without form lurk in the half-light of her imagination, rough movements, echoes of screams and blows. In her mind, her body sways to the beat of the waves, even though there is no more sea or darkness. The thunder rolls on but no longer provokes fear, having acquired a flat, hollow quality.
The girl opens her eyes. She is lying on a smooth, grey-stone floor in the middle of an infinite platform. With her drenched white nightgown and golden halo of hair, she could be a Medusa dragged from the ocean floor. She props herself up on her elbows, swallowing air, as though she has just learned how to breathe.
She is not alone, wherever she is. Twenty paces away, a tall, broad-shouldered man stands in the gloom. With a circular motion, his forearm drives the crank of a cylindrical machine supported on four wooden feet. A drum rotates on its axis. Inside the drum, rocks and sand produce the sound of thunder and rain.
It is but a glimpse until her sight clouds over. Water flows from her eyes, tracing streams on her cheeks. She appears to be crying, profusely.
The storm ceases with a last creak, and the air carries a whiff of burnt gunpowder. The man takes his walking stick and approaches her, limping slightly. His face is long and narrow, with a prominent nose and deep eyes. His goatee and moustache are as thin as the strokes of a quill. He wears a short-skirted doublet, breeches, flared black-silk trousers, polished riding boots, a sleeveless waistcoat, and a black coat with gold buttons and forked tail down to his knees. His unstarched shirt is bright red with a discreet lace ruff. The attire is completed by a bandolier and a broad-brimmed hat with silk flowers.
The man removes the hat and leans before her, taking her hand. He does not wear a wig and his hair is jet-black, curled in perfect ringlets.
‘With your permission, damoiselle.’ His resonant voice shakes the girl. Her hand looks pale and small in the embrace of those knotted, dark fingers. ‘Welcome back to terra firma, my Empress.’
The girl, about twelve, stands on her feet and expels a stream of water through her mouth. ‘Merci monsieur, whoever you are.’
‘You do not have to treat me formally, my dear. Your spirits are very agitated on account of what has preceded, and this has affected your ability to remember. I am Señor Vicente de la Vega, at your service.’
He puts on his hat and gestures towards the stage, a hulk about ten metres wide and three metres high. ‘That was the conclusion of the play, also its beginning.’
The scenery represents a stormy sea. Parallel rows of wooden waves sway along the stage. A toy ship bops up and down, disappearing to the right. The momentum of the mechanisms is exhausted, and the scene comes to a standstill.
‘Who are those men? Why do they want to destroy me?’
‘Brutish sailors, damoiselle. You must not worry about them anymore. Right now, our most pressing duty is to attend to your well-being. We must hurry before you catch a fatal cold.’
‘Tell me, monsieur, is this Heaven? Do I deserve Heaven? Me, a creature without a soul.’
‘I see you are beginning to remember!’
‘With all due respect, you do not look like an angel.’
‘Don’t be afraid of my appearance! For I am your faithful friend and servant. I fear there is no Heaven or Hell for us. Anyway, we do not have time to delve into metaphysical questions. There is a lot of work to do!’
De la Vega walks to the side of the stage, leaning his stick against a hatchway. He pulls a thick rope with both hands and the curtains on the opposing wings begin to unfold. The light fades as the curtains are drawn until all that is left is penumbra, one breath away from complete darkness.
Resting his weight on the cane, de la Vega bows before her. He offers his arm, and the girl accepts. He leads her into the dark, skilfully deploying the cane to conceal his bad leg. With her skirts tucked into her hand, it is an effort to follow him. The Señor’s perfume is sweet and sharp, like the aroma of a good cognac.
‘Unlike those simple and ignorant people, you are reserved the most important role in the play.’
‘All I remember are confusing things. They seem to be the memories of someone else.’
‘They are indeed, my princess, but before you worry about them, you must recover, lest the damp spoil those exquisite mechanisms in which so much art has been invested.’
She perceives in the darkness the silhouettes of other stages scattered throughout the immense enclosure. Above their heads—in gaping vaults spaced at regular intervals—a network of ropes, pulleys, beams and counterweights supports angels, crowds, tigers, forests, lightning rays, mountains and gods. Oil lamps hang from long chains, projecting a grid of diffuse, criss-crossing shadows.
They stop in front of another platform, and de la Vega disappears behind the curtains. She hears the sound of pulleys, and the light around her grows in intensity. The curtains open to reveal a rectangular room with low ceilings pierced by thick wooden beams.
The most prominent object on the stage is an iron stove encased on the wall. It is adorned with raised floral patterns and features a ceramic column adjoined to the ceiling. There is a bed, two chairs and a small desk. De la Vega helps her to climb the steps. The stage is narrow, and she realises that its apparent depth is the product of a trompe-l’œil canvas in the background.
The gentleman heads straight to the stove and opens the hatch. With the iron handle, he scrapes the flint and the flame lights on the third attempt. The girl notices the personal objects on the desk and bed: a leather bag, a green hat with an orange feather, a compass, writing implements, a sheathed sword, a bottle of perfume. The objects seem to await the imminent return of their owner.
De la Vega urges her to come closer. She extends her arms in front of the stove, closes her eyes and lets the warm glow filter inside, restoring her body. As he prepares a concoction in a bronze pot, his expression changes. When he looks at her, his eyes fill with sadness and compassion.
A bell peals in the distance, and she counts four strokes. De la Vega has disappeared. The pulleys screech again, and a wooden slat descends, suspended from two ropes, carrying garments and bags.
‘I’ll draw the curtains and come back in a moment to finish the necessary details.’ His voice seems to come from everywhere at once. ‘You will have complete privacy. Do not drink from the pot yet. The infusion is very hot.’
She counts the dresses, caressing the fabrics in her fingers: silk, velvet, taffeta, lace. ‘Quatorze, quinze…’
Her eyes fill with scarlet and yellow, crimson and vermilion, each material giving rise to a unique shudder.
From the bags, she takes a chemise of thread, a pair of black slippers, white socks and a Chinese fan as long as her forearm. She manages to loosen the bodice, removing the gown and skirts with difficulty. She roughly strips away her stockings and chemise, as if struggling against a drunken suitor.
The girl is not so much naked as uncovered. The surface of her limbs and upper body is a flexible material. Resembling finely carved ivory, it is a perfect mimicry of human skin. The lower torso, stomach and pelvis expose the mechanisms of an automaton. A network of ducts can be seen, some as thick as veins, others as thin as threads. Small elastic receptacles contract and dilate, impelling the movements, sensations and ideas of the machine through the bundles of tubes.
Once the stockings and chemise are in place, the girl becomes a natural creature again. The illusion is masterful, and she is more perfect than reality because she is indifferent to death.
The young woman puts on her clothes and slippers. She has chosen a doublet of crimson taffeta with bluebell flowers and fanciful branches embroidered in silver. The dress has sewn-on valances of scarlet velvet and wide skirts of ochre silk. Only the cords on the back need adjusting.
Once dressed, she returns to the stove. She unfolds the Chinese fan, revealing the figure of a majestic peacock with splayed feathers. A sigh of pleasure and surprise escapes her throat. Her gaze flickers across the stage to the desk, where she discovers a half-finished letter among the writing instruments. With a quick and accurate movement, she takes it between her fingers and reads.
I’ll be honest about my project. What I want to produce is not something like the Ars Brevis of Lull, but a completely new science that will provide the general solution to all possible equations with any kind of quantity.
The bell interrupts her reading, six chimes this time, followed by the voice of de la Vega rumbling through the air.
‘Are you done, damoiselle?’
‘You can come in.’
She hears boots treading on the wooden steps. Upon seeing her, de la Vega performs an exaggerated bow, catching his hat before it slides to the ground.
‘Oh, my eyes should not deserve to contemplate such beauty. It is as though you cast your own light!’
‘You are a shameless sycophant, but continue if you wish. As Cervantes said, there is no woman in the world who does not like to be told that she is beautiful.’
‘Ivory from Morocco, crystals from Venice, refined rubber shipped from the Portuguese kingdoms in America—but you, my princess, are so much more than the sum of your parts.’
The girl smiles and perfectly circular blushes form on her cheeks. With a broad gesture, the gentleman points to one of his sleeves, then the other, demonstrating that nothing is hidden there. He shakes his hands theatrically and a heavy hand mirror, forged in silver with ruby inlays, flips from out of nowhere.
Applauding the trick, she accepts the mirror with a bow. She marvels at her image. Her fingertips brush against her lips, forehead, eyelids. The effort of her gaze reveals an idiosyncrasy. She is cross-eyed. When the girl focuses on nearby objects, her left eye leans slightly towards the tip of her nose.
After obtaining her permission, de la Vega adjusts the loose ribbons and cords at the back of her dress, then attends to the brew cooling at the foot of the stove. He pours a quantity into a wooden cup and passes it to her.
De la Vega takes care of her hair. With a comb made of bone, he untangles and smooths it out. The golden threads glimmer.
‘These hands may seem coarse, but they confer me a manual skill superior to that of the most talented craftsman.’
Drinking in silence, she observes his work in the mirror. Once her hair has been properly prepared, he separates six handfuls of equal thickness and interlaces them.
‘What is my name?’ the girl asks.
De la Vega stammers, as though struggling to remember.
‘Francine,’ he says. ‘Your name is Francine Descartes.’ He collects the braids on a bun and fastens it with an ornamental comb.
She savours the sound. ‘Francine Descartes.’
He retrieves three necklaces from the porcelain box and shows them to her. Without hesitation, she chooses a choker of tiny pearls that fits around her neck to perfection.
‘That is correct. You are Francine Descartes, the main character of our play.’
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—René Descartes