Read Online The Invention of Exile by Vanessa Manko - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Vanessa Manko
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preserve sheetsâtheyâd think him mad. And, well, perhaps he is.
From out the window, the close and distant noises comeâdoors opening and closing, trucks spitting out exhaust, a bus screeching.
Austinâs inventions. They are based on principles that cannot be seen: a belief in ether, wind, in force and gravity. He wants to harness the power of wind. He understands ether as a mode of transference. Gravity itself a power to work with, instead of against. He is still waiting for the one great invention of his life. Then, surely, heâll be allowed in, praised even. Lauded. A personal apology from Truman himself! On official letterhead! With the presidential seal! A communication from the White House. He will soon show them, theyâll soon see. He knows the rules that govern induction, how to measure amperes and voltage, how sound travels on waves, and how the voice can overcome distances through a combination of oscillation and crystal conductors. That amazes him still, even during the long days of work when he looks up to find himself quite alone in the mournful hollow of night.
He sits now tracing circles with the tip of a pencil that is neither too sharp, nor too dull. The late afternoon sunlight falls in shards: bars of light along notebook bindings, lines of light thin as string imprinted on a compass leg, the tableâs edge. Already the drafting paper is half filled with arcs he has made by compass. It is a messy process. The lead pencil marks, the rubber residue of the eraser shavings, his hands covered with the resin of lead, the coal marks along his left palm. He draws and calculates, numbers the figures, writes out specifications for each section of the hydropropellerâpropulsion turbines, the rotation mechanism. He sets down his pencil and picks up a ruler, sets down the ruler and switches it for a compass, and repeats the same exchange of instruments until he is ready to transfer the designs to a final draft.
When he needs a break he stands, walking back and forth between his roomsâimmaculate rooms, nothing on the surfaces. All unblemished and blank, the better for ideas to emerge out of the space of life. In the mornings, he does not turn on the lights. He prefers to wake with the dawn, the light bright and blinding, fingering its way into the room of grays and blues. The wood floor is gray. His door is gray. The walls a faded blue. He has little furniture. A small sofa. A table heâs made himselfâthe wood unfinished. It doubles as a work and dining table. This is where he eats. This is where he invents. The lights stay off in the afternoons too. In the evenings, long after dinner, he measures, setting numbers into equations. He likes to work as the natural light fades, as night comes on, the windows purpling. When it grows too dark for him to work, he clicks on a lamp, gold and black, a lamp heâd fixed, though the customer never returnedâhis abandoned lamp. It reminds him of home, the first home, Varvarovka, in Kherson province.
He will need to write to her, he knows. He runs a hand through his hair, pulling, tugging at the ends. He sighs, pacing through his two rooms. Over the years, he has pieced together their lives. By now he knows that Julia works in a bakery, that she is lucky to have any work at all. She, a single mother, raising three children through the Depression. There is still no money. Her mother helps when she can. The boys had collected scrap metal and rubber tires for the early war effort. There was Russian school at night and Russian Orthodox services on Sundays. Julia had sent letters, of course.
How it would be if you could see them dear
. They were always encouraging letters, sometimes scolding ones tooâ
do not fall into too much gloom, keep your mind occupied
. And she wrote of her efforts with the senators, how much interest they took in the case. In the first years apart, the letters came with notes from the children, drawings.
From out the window, the close and distant noises comeâdoors opening and closing, trucks spitting out exhaust, a bus screeching.
Austinâs inventions. They are based on principles that cannot be seen: a belief in ether, wind, in force and gravity. He wants to harness the power of wind. He understands ether as a mode of transference. Gravity itself a power to work with, instead of against. He is still waiting for the one great invention of his life. Then, surely, heâll be allowed in, praised even. Lauded. A personal apology from Truman himself! On official letterhead! With the presidential seal! A communication from the White House. He will soon show them, theyâll soon see. He knows the rules that govern induction, how to measure amperes and voltage, how sound travels on waves, and how the voice can overcome distances through a combination of oscillation and crystal conductors. That amazes him still, even during the long days of work when he looks up to find himself quite alone in the mournful hollow of night.
He sits now tracing circles with the tip of a pencil that is neither too sharp, nor too dull. The late afternoon sunlight falls in shards: bars of light along notebook bindings, lines of light thin as string imprinted on a compass leg, the tableâs edge. Already the drafting paper is half filled with arcs he has made by compass. It is a messy process. The lead pencil marks, the rubber residue of the eraser shavings, his hands covered with the resin of lead, the coal marks along his left palm. He draws and calculates, numbers the figures, writes out specifications for each section of the hydropropellerâpropulsion turbines, the rotation mechanism. He sets down his pencil and picks up a ruler, sets down the ruler and switches it for a compass, and repeats the same exchange of instruments until he is ready to transfer the designs to a final draft.
When he needs a break he stands, walking back and forth between his roomsâimmaculate rooms, nothing on the surfaces. All unblemished and blank, the better for ideas to emerge out of the space of life. In the mornings, he does not turn on the lights. He prefers to wake with the dawn, the light bright and blinding, fingering its way into the room of grays and blues. The wood floor is gray. His door is gray. The walls a faded blue. He has little furniture. A small sofa. A table heâs made himselfâthe wood unfinished. It doubles as a work and dining table. This is where he eats. This is where he invents. The lights stay off in the afternoons too. In the evenings, long after dinner, he measures, setting numbers into equations. He likes to work as the natural light fades, as night comes on, the windows purpling. When it grows too dark for him to work, he clicks on a lamp, gold and black, a lamp heâd fixed, though the customer never returnedâhis abandoned lamp. It reminds him of home, the first home, Varvarovka, in Kherson province.
He will need to write to her, he knows. He runs a hand through his hair, pulling, tugging at the ends. He sighs, pacing through his two rooms. Over the years, he has pieced together their lives. By now he knows that Julia works in a bakery, that she is lucky to have any work at all. She, a single mother, raising three children through the Depression. There is still no money. Her mother helps when she can. The boys had collected scrap metal and rubber tires for the early war effort. There was Russian school at night and Russian Orthodox services on Sundays. Julia had sent letters, of course.
How it would be if you could see them dear
. They were always encouraging letters, sometimes scolding ones tooâ
do not fall into too much gloom, keep your mind occupied
. And she wrote of her efforts with the senators, how much interest they took in the case. In the first years apart, the letters came with notes from the children, drawings.
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