The Night Tesla Died

An old man grumbled into his glass, while I listened from across the bar. He caressed a black book with yellowed pages and a threadbare bind. He was protective of it, tucking it against his chest whenever someone would get too close.

It was well into the night. Most of the patrons had wandered off when the tavern door opened, the bells above the frame jingled merrily betraying the gloomy feel of the room. Only the old man and I saw two well dressed young men slide into a booth near the bar. Immediately, the old man’s mood soured. He forced down the last of his drink, slipping the book into an inside coat pocket. Standing to leave, he growled in their direction before stumbling out into the streets. They wasted no time following him out.

I sensed trouble so I gulped down my beer and slipped out too.

It was a frigid January night and snow piled high against buildings and street lights. It was easy to see the trio of footsteps in the drifts. I followed their paths into an alley where one of the younger men held the old timer against the brick alleyway and the other flipped through the book. It was obvious the old man had tried to put up a fight as blood trickled from a scrape on his bony cheek. When he saw me, he began to call for help. The men looked at me, taking in my size, and released the old man. He fell to the icy ground, gasping for breath.

The fight was over quickly, young guys from some office I bet. They got a few good ones in, I would feel it in the morning, but it felt good to let out some of the frustration. The war was raging on, rations were cutting into life, and with this leg, I couldn’t return to battle. But it didn't mean I couldn't help some poor sap in the street.

I helped him to his feet, shocked by how little he weighed. I tried to lead him away from the unconscious men, but he whirled suddenly, clamoring to search the pockets of the fallen men. “My book!” He frantically searched their pockets and then the ground surrounding them.

I found it dropped to the side of the alley. Curiously, I opened the pages. Scribbles, diagrams and equations, some in German, some English, were scrawled across the pages in barely legible penmanship. Before I could ask anything, he snatched the book from my hand, his eyes wide with anger and distrust.

“Let me help you home.” I offered apologetically.

He seemed reluctant, but after looking at the unconscious men and the slippery sidewalk ahead, he sighed and resigned himself to my aid.

As he led me up 46th St., I observed him against the backdrop of the frozen city. He was incredibly thin, his cheekbones jutted from his face and tightly drawn lips stretched under a prominent nose. His eyebrows were still dark though the rest of his hair had gone silver. He wore his hair in the stylish cut of the upper class and tried to walk with a sense of confidence, but his frayed and patched coat showed he struggled financially. His eyes however were bright with an electrical spark.

“What’s your name, old timer?” I asked as we rounded 8th avenue.

At first he looked at me with offended eyes, but slowly the look gave way to acceptance and eventually sadness.

“No, of course you would not recognize me. Not like this.” He swept his hand over his clothing and current physical state. He looked around at the city lights and sighed, dropping his head and staring at the ground.

I was confused though. Did I know him from somewhere else? Should I recognize him, had I met him before? I tried to think back, before the war, when my life had been simpler. I opened my mouth to ask, but he made a sudden turn to head into the Hotel New Yorker.

“You live here?” I asked as he strode through the glass doors and into the opulent lobby. He only grunted. He stopped at the elevators, turning to look at me. It was clear he was uncomfortable with my presence but wasn't quite sure how to dismiss me without seeming unappreciative.

“At least let me make sure you get to your room safely, Sir. Then I’ll be off.”

He opened his mouth to object, but suddenly gripped his chest and gasped in pain. He stumbled a bit, but before I could catch him, he righted himself and took a deep but choppy breath. Slowly, his hand dropped from his chest. When he opened his eyes, I could see he was tired. Now that he was home, the stress of the night would probably begin to take over him. He looked at me, looked back at the elevator, then mumbled something and nodded.

The attendant did not speak to us as we rode the elevator to the 33rd floor, where the old man had a two room suite that was small and cramped with chests and books in every corner. His tables were spread with papers that contained diagrams and mathematical equations. Newspaper clippings on the advancement of electricity adorned his wall. It was then I knew why he was heartbroken that I did not recognize him.

“Tesla.” I realized with a whisper.

He chuckled and dropped into a beaten chair. His breath was short and hissed through strained lips. I noticed his hands shook and he began to fight back a cough.

“Should I call you a doctor?” I asked. He waved me off, instead fishing in his coat pocket for the black book he had had at the bar.

“What is your name?” He wheezed out in a thin voice.

“Robert.” I answered.

“You were in the war?” He looked pointedly at my leg.

I nodded my answer. Somewhere in my mind, I was back there for a second; gunfire, screams, blood, ash, and gunpowder. I blinked away the memories forcing myself to focus on him.

“I wonder, did you enjoy killing the enemy?”

“No sir. I wanted to defend my country, but I-” I stopped, remembering as smoke cleared and bodies around me fell on both sides. “No, sir, I did not enjoy killing.”

“You could end the war?” He held the book up, shaking it back and forth at me.

“What’s in the book, sir?” He sighed and opened the book to a very stained page. It was obvious he had stared at this page many times before.

“The answer and the curse.” He looked up at me, a glint in his eyes. He was overcome by a coughing spell and when he could finally speak again, his voice was barely a whisper. “When you looked in here, could you read it?”

I snorted a laugh. “It was chicken scratch, sir, illegible mostly. German, English, probably another language too. No sir, I didn't understand any of it.”

“Good.” He struggled to his feet, grunting and gasping. For a long moment, he stood still, his hand pressed against his chest, his eyes closed. His mouth moved silently. Finally, he took a deep breath and moved to a small chest tucked behind a stack of papers. From within, he pulled out a smaller leather-bound box. I could see the lights bounce off various trinkets, small keepsakes that were probably worthless to anyone else. Then he pulled a rolled wad of cash from the box.

He tossed me the roll and I immediately noticed several large dollar bills throughout the bundle.

“That is the rest of my money.” He said as he made his way back to his chair. “I will give it to you. I fear I will have no use for it soon enough.” He collapsed into the fabric, so small and frail that the cushions barely moved under his weight. “You must do one thing for me.”

“Nikola, sir, I can not take your money, sir.” I began to hand it back to him, but he held his hand up at me.

“You are not taking it, Robert, I am paying you to do a job. You have ten, twenty thousand dollars in your hand? I don’t remember. It should be enough to set you up nicely. But you must protect the book. Never read it, never let others read it, keep it safe from the governments.”

“Governments?” I glanced up from the money roll in my hand.

“Imagine being able to stop a war with a single blast of energy; to protect everyone you love with a barrier so powerful…” he broke into another fit of coughing and when he wiped his mouth this time, i saw blood on his hand. He took several difficult breaths. “Imagine the ability to destroy anyone and everyone that opposed you.” He looked at his book with so much love and sadness my heart ached for him. “I was a fool and mentioned my idea to someone and since then, young men like the two you stopped tonight have been chasing me, trying to steal the plans. I haven't written anything down since, I've kept it all in my head. Except for this book, this book that no one knows about. No one except you, Robert, and you only know of it because you were there tonight. To protect me. I take it as a sign that you were meant to protect my secrets.”

I was overwhelmed with what he told me, with the money in my hand, with the thought of it all being a sign or some act of something bigger than myself. And I told him that, but he just smiled and laughed it off. He was quiet for a long time before turning to me, pinning me with his stern gaze.

“I am dying, Robert, I fear I may not last the night. My heart is beating rather irregularly in my chest. It hurts to breathe. But I am done with this world, this greed, this betrayal. I am ready to move on to the next. If I could take my books with me,” he paused and looked around his room at all of his chests, notebooks, diagrams and small models, “but I must leave only with what I was born with, a curious mind and a love for mankind.” He stretched out his hand to me, the book in it. “Please, Robert, I can tell you are a good man, why else would you have followed three strangers out into the freezing night? Take the money, take the book, live well and keep it safe.”

I took the book from him and turned away. I looked at his newspaper clippings, his books stacked in towers across every surface, papers strewn here and there, all his chests and boxes filled with God knows what else. When I finally turned back to him, he sat with his eyes closed, his body still, chest unmoving.

I looked away from his body, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror. In one hand was enough money to set me up for the rest of my days, bum-leg and all; in the other, the deepest secrets of one of the greatest scientific men to have ever lived. I knew what I had to do.

Two days later, the United States Government seized everything in Tesla’s rooms, claiming it was a matter of national security. After researching his files, officials declared nothing of any use could be extracted from the details of Tesla’s properties and the boxes and notebooks were locked away for safekeeping.

I moved out of New York into a small town in Ohio. I made farming my business and hid the book away in the floorboards of my attic. I never spoke of Tesla. In time, I would have to pass it on, but until then the book is safe.