The Experiment of Dreams Page 14

  My God, Ben thought. To think that all I was going to ask was to see a portion of one of my dreams. This is so much more.

  “It’s going to be a present for my wife. We’ll be married for thirty years next November. We went to Rome on our honeymoon, and the Sistine Chapel was—and still is—a favorite of hers. I want to see her face light up like it did the first time she saw it.”

  “I can’t … I don’t have words. How?”

  “I’m going to show you, Ben. I’m going to show you everything.”

  ***

  Dr. Wulfric joined Ben and Mr. Kalispell outside the lab, meeting them as they walked down the gravel driveway, stopping to shake hands. A moment later, Dr. Egan stepped outside with an unlit cigarette in his mouth.

  “I didn’t know you smoked,” Ben said.

  “I don’t smoke. Don’t tell my wife.” He lit the cigarette and walked with the group as Mr. Kalispell led them to a door on the opposite side of the lab, in the rear. Iain Marcus opened the door for everyone to pass. The mudroom was the same as in the lab, only a row of smocks hung from hooks on the wall instead of lab coats. Mr. Kalispell opened the second door.

  “After you.”

  Ben entered the large room. There was no second floor here, just one massive space from ground to ceiling. The concrete floor was soaked deeply with dark patches of motor oil and different colored splatters of paint. A noxious vapor cut through the air like gasoline and grease—both stinging Ben’s nostrils and making his nose itch.

  Dozens of various-sized tool chests, in fire engine red and dark grey, lined the sides of the room. Some had been wheeled out to stand beside thick worktables or alongside various unidentifiable pieces of machinery—motors with wires and tubes connected to metallic and greasy components that Ben could not begin to understand. Worktables were set in a ‘U’ shape around the room, with various gears and cogwheels piled in a haphazard, yet, somehow orderly manner. Stacks of sheet metal lay off to the left, some cut and some in the process of being welded, so that they yielded strange and jagged looking shapes. And in the rear of the room, on the far wall, Ben saw the large door, which connected to the lab. Dozens of time he’d stared at the opposite side of that door, guessing at what could possibly be on the other side—and now he was there, standing in the room.

  In the far corner, tucked in an exposed alcove to the side, was a small kitchenette, where several men wearing stained jumpsuits sat around circular tables, holding cups of coffee and looking their way.

  The main focus of the room wasn’t any of this: it was the gigantic machine sitting in the very center of the U-shaped worktables.

  “Ben, I would like to personally introduce you to one of our recent inventions.” Mr. Kalispell led him to the machine. “I know you’ve been curious about what goes on in this room, and I’m happy to finally show you.” He patted the slick, stainless steel side of the machine like the adoring owner of a pedigree horse. “We call this the Vitruvian Machine. Something the guys came up with. You know, like the Vitruvian Man?”

  “Yeah, I got it.”

  The machine was constructed of two large metal blocks, one on top of the other. The top block was about the size of a Smart car, the bottom about double the size. Bolted to the front was a sizeable stainless steel table. A long robotic arm emerged from near the top, coiled slightly like a snake, yet leaning out precisely over the exact center of the table. The arm was thick and hefty, with different sized plastic tubes running the length. Ben counted five separate joints along the length of the arm, causing it to look fluid in its coiled pose. Attached to the end of the arm was a rectangular metal contraption, about the size of a shoebox—like those Emily used to store her boots.

  Another long arm came straight out from the very top of the machine, arching to overlook the table. This arm was skinny and ridged, without any joints or gears. Additionally, two identical ridged arms jutted out from either side, arching slightly upward, so that they encompassed the table like a claw. The machine had various doors and openings in rectangular and square patterns, with blinking green and red LED lights indicating activity. Thick electrical cables and clear tubing ran from one area of the machine to another. Several high-speed cables trailed off from the back like a tail, connecting to various computer stations.

  A man stood from the table in the kitchenette and put his coffee down. The other men stayed where they were. The man wore a stained black plastic apron from neck to knees over his jumpsuit—the type Ben remembered wearing in his high school chemistry class. The front of the man’s apron was flecked with paint and patches of dark oil.

  “Ben, let me introduce you to Bernard Richter.”

  The man extended a calloused hand, stained deeply with grease and paint. His grip was tight.

  “Ahh, you must be Benjamin.” Bernard spoke in a French accent, his words smooth like the purr of a cat. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you. It’s as if we’ve been working together for some time now.” The right side of Bernard's lips moved as he spoke, and the left remained motionless, making his voice sound deep and slightly slurred. Ben wondered if Bernard had recovered from a stroke sometime in the past.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” Ben said.

  “I’m sure you would like to see the Vitruvian Machine in action.” He gestured to the machine, his hand waving overhead like a symphony conductor.

  “I … yes, I mean … sure. I’d love to see it, of course.”

  Bernard smiled, pushed his dark framed glasses up the bridge of his nose, and turned to the group of men around the table. “Jack, Stephen.” He looked back to Ben with a finger raised as if to say ‘one minute please.’

  Two men rose from the kitchenette table, one going to a tall cabinet in the wall where he removed a rectangular blank canvas. The man nodded to Ben, smiling as he approached the stainless steel table in front of the machine. “Hello,” he said. He secured the canvas with a set of custom-made vises. The other man took a seat at a desk behind the great machine, hidden from view. Ben peered around to see the man sitting before two computer monitors, rattling on a keyboard with such speed that there was no break in the sound of keys being struck. Taped to the back of the machine, about eye-level, was a paper copy of the Vitruvian Man by Leonardo da Vinci—the iconic sketch of a man standing inside a perfect circle with four legs and four arms. The paper was tattered and smudged, and a buildup of Scotch tape at the top showed how many times the paper had fallen and been reattached.

  Then Ben heard the noise—the deep noises he had heard so many times from behind the wall of his bedroom in the lab: the hum of various motors, gears grinding, the rhythmic ticking of a cab-like timer, and random clicking and popping sounds. Only this time the sounds were much louder, much deeper, vibrating the soles of his feet through the ground.

  The hairs on his arms stood on end.

  The master robotic arm and hand came to life. It first went rigid, and then began to move in a circular fashion, slow and deliberate, each of the joints turning with a certain life-like grace. Then, quickly, it moved to the center of the canvas. The box-like hand held an array of natural bristle brushes—large, small, flat, fantailed, skinny, and thick—in a drum-like device hidden inside. Ben bent over the table and strained his eyes to watch closely. The heads of the brushes darted in and out from the bottom of the hand, at times moving with a slow grace, and other times in short, rapid mechanical jolts.

  Bernard Richter fished a rubber band from his breast pocket, holding it in the corner of his lips as he pulled his long dark hair from his eyes.

  “The machine is quite simple,” he murmured, barely audible over the rumble of the machine.

  Dr. Wulfric shot Bernard a look. “Please, Bernard.”

  “Well,” Bernard cleared his throat, “maybe not simple, but it’s easy to understand the basic principles. Whatever you want painted is transmitted to the machine by the computers, over there. The first Lucy was hardwired into the system, but the newer models rely on memory cards, o
r the data can be transferred via a USB cable from a laptop. We are not wireless yet, but that is something simple to add.

  “These three skinny arms you see are sensors. They determine the exact shape and depth of the canvas, how the paint should be applied, and so-on-and-so-forth. There are many small sensors on the bottom of the master arm as well—the arm doing the actual painting. The sensors guide the arm to paint exactly what the computer has programmed. This machine will make an exact replica of the original. Not like a photocopier, but a complete three-dimensional replica with real paint and exacting brush strokes. It can mix colors precisely as it should—the exact shades and colors of the original—better than a human could ever replicate, and follow each brush stroke and crest in complete and accurate detail. It will never create a flawed painting. In fact, if the original in question already has flaws, damage done over the years, the machine can be programmed to either make the copy with the flaws and damage, or paint it how the original looked when it was first created. Imagine that—a copy of history’s lost art, displayed how the artist first created it, how their hands moved over the blank canvas or sheet of paper to bring it to life. Can you imagine that?”

  Ben’s mouth opened but Bernard went on. “On the very top of the machine there is a door that opens to many small wells. We use a funnel to fill each well, or bladder, with different paints. There are over eighty wells as of today to incorporate the many different colors and paint mediums—oils, watercolors, acrylic, and even latex. Once the machine is programmed, it determines the various colors and shades that are needed and mixes the paint accordingly with the correct brushes to match. Many of the paints are mixed using the original pigments used by the masters hundreds of years ago. A process that is very labor intensive. Many artists mixed their paints from scratch, prior to the nineteenth century, and each brush stroke could be as unique as a thumbprint. Egg yolks were a common ingredient, as well as dried herbs, clays, ground minerals, and even insect shells. Lead was used as an additive—before people realized it was dangerous—as well as linseed oil.”

  Ben was leaning over, his face close to the table, watching the many brushes dart in and out of the robotic hand, painting with both the fluidity of a human hand and the precise rapid and rigid movements of a machine. It produced a whistling sound, like a songbird, from deep within its interior, in contrast to the harsh sounds Ben had grown familiar with. And then suddenly … it stopped.

  A beeping noise came from the computer. The arm raised, circled like before, and contracted back to the coiled position. Ben looked up. It was over so quick that he never saw what the machine was painting on the canvas—not that he could see much behind the large master arm. Bernard stepped before him, blocking his view.

  “We wanted to make you something to show our gratitude for all you have done. I don’t know the significance of this, but according to Dr. Wulfric, it is something you hold very dear. I hope you like it.” Bernard leaned over the table, releasing the canvas from the vises. Ben strained his neck trying to look over his shoulder.

  “It’s done?”

  “Yes, it’s done.”

  Bernard turned, holding the corners gingerly in his palms. “Be careful. It needs time to dry.”

  The painting was that of a cabin in the woods.

  Ben knew it well.

  ***

  Mr. Kalispell took Ben and Iain Marcus back toward the main house. A new path led them away from the gravel driveway in the direction of the excavation and the incomplete metal-framed tent. They walked in single file, as the path was nothing more than matted down tire tracks from the heavy excavators and equipment. Mr. Kalispell stopped at the end, opening his arms to present the open space.

  “What do you think?”

  “I’m not sure what I’m looking at.”

  The field was stripped down to bare earth and leveled off. If it were a football field, they would be standing in the end zone, right around the goal post. But the size of the leveled area was much larger than a singular football field. The metal frame in the center covered only a small fraction of the excavated space. The end of the field opened up to the sandy beaches and ocean beyond. Even from his distance, Ben could see the waves glimmering in the sun as they broke on the shore.

  “I’ll explain as we walk. I know this area is rough, so try to visualize what I tell you. Use your imagination.”

  They stepped out on the muddy soil.

  “This, Ben, will be my garden, my greatest artistic achievement to date. We’ve taken the Vitruvian Machine to the next level. Well, maybe not the next level, but the next step of its evolution. What good is it to reproduce art if you are limited to one media? Once the walls of that tent are constructed, it will house a machine so advanced and gigantic in scale that even I have a hard time visualizing what it will look like once complete. It will be a machine capable of carving stone—pure stone—on a scale never before seen. It will cut and mold granite and marble boulders like butter, with the exact precision you witnessed the Vitruvian Machine painting oil masterpieces. These sculptures will be so large and exact that it would take an army of men years to reproduce them.

  “I’m sure you’re wondering, why build these machines? Why not use a 3-D printer? The answer is simple: these machines create the artwork just as the artists themselves first created them. They are not entirely unlike 3-D printers; only these machines use the same brushes, chisels, hammers, and paints, as the master artists had at their disposal centuries ago. These machines don’t put the art together in layers, or cut the stone using lasers and modern tools; these machine will create the art the same way as the originals.”

  “Right, that makes sense.” Ben had little idea what he was talking about, and had an even smaller idea what a 3-D printer was or how it worked.

  “This, Ben, this, will be the most beautiful garden you will ever lay your eyes on … and it’s going to require a massive amount of work. I’m presenting you, Ben, with a very large assignment: years of work—full time employment. A salary.”

  Ben stared, transfixed at the massive clearing. “Damn, I wasn’t expecting this. I wasn’t expecting any of this today. I need time to think.”

  “Of course. I know this is a lot to take in all at once, but stay with me. It’s important that you become a full-time employee, a member of the team. Your job—the work you’ve done so far—is invaluable. That’s why I felt it was time to show you everything. I want you to understand that you are part of something bigger, not just working a mindless job. Now, let me explain my plans for the garden.” Mr. Kalispell stopped a quarter-ways into the massive field.

  “I’m listening.”

  “Picture this area: a perfect rectangle, perfect angles, the length running from here to the water. It will be divided into three separate lanes, from one end to the other. The two strips of land dividing the plot into three will be impeccably gardened with trees, rocks, and all sorts of plants—you get the idea. The middle path will be the widest of the three, so that the paths on either side will be about the width of a single-lane road.”

  “I can see it.”

  “Of course, you would be able to cross back and forth between the three lanes. There will be pathways cut across, and arched bridges going over koi-fish ponds. Now, on the far walls to the left and right, there will be nearly hidden passageways cut out from the tall hedges. There will be circular trails in the woods leading to hidden alcoves, round clearings with stone benches around sculptures and fountains. The great fountains from Rome and Paris, the strange, umm …” he cleared his throat, pronouncing the word precisely, “Kin-dlif-resser-brunnen, a statue in Bern, for example. These little fountains and statues will be hidden in niches, tucked into the trees. The small path will wind around until you are face to face with the art. Now, all along the main straight side paths will be some of the most famous pieces of sculpture in the entire world. The Caryatid Porch from the Acropolis, for example, will be displayed in all of its grandeur. The six columns, each chise
led to display a female form draped in loose tunic, will be life sized and as exact as the original.”

  Ben nodded. He knew what it looked like.

  “The Fontaine de Medicis, from the Luxembourg Gardens; the Horses of Saint Mark and the Tetrarchs from Saint Mark’s Basilica in Venice; the famous David in Florence—they will all be here, mixed in with the colorful flowers and trees and shrubs of the immaculate landscaping. These sculptures will be arranged along the paths, with benches and gazebos provided along the way to study and admire the art in leisure. Academics and artists from all over the world will pay good money to spend time on these grounds.”

  Ben looked from left to right. It was difficult imagining the layout with the ground so rough in its current state, but Ben could visualize it.

  “Now, for the piece de resistance. Picture it as you stand here, Ben, with the ocean off in the horizon. In the center lane, you will see the famous obelisk from Paris’s Place de la Concorde jutting out from the exact middle, pointing to the heavens above. Far behind the obelisk, visible from where we’re standing, will be the Arc de Triomphe, in all of its grandeur. Now, in the far back, framing this entire garden will be the Trevi Fountain from Rome. Have you ever seen the Trevi Fountain, Ben? Do you know what it looks like?”

  “Um, yes. I mean, I think I do. I’ve never seen it in person, but I think I know what it looks like. It’s the one with the horses, right?”