John Case -2006- Ghost Dancer.HTML by txt2html (WordMagus internal version) by DukeLupus (http://dukelupus.pri.ee)

Author:txt2html (WordMagus internal version) by DukeLupus (http://dukelupus.pri.ee)
Language: eng
Format: epub

The desk clerk was looking almost hurt. “Nikola Tesla,” he said. “The inventor. He is Serb.”

Jackpot, Burke thought. “So he was meeting this inventor?”

Milic snorted in derision, and shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. Tesla is dead, maybe fifty years.”

“Oh,” Burke said, the enthusiasm draining from his voice.

“Your friend—”

Burke started to correct him, but thought better of it.

“—he’s here for meetings. I don’t know the word in English. But many people come ”

“So, it’s like a symposium,” Burke suggested.

The desk clerk shrugged. Then he cocked his head and peered at Burke. “You don’t know Tesla?”

Burke looked apologetic. “I forgot,” he offered.

Milic couldn’t believe it. “But this is the most famous Serb of all time! He is more famous than—” he looked up, as if searching the ceiling for the names of celebrated Serbs. Finally, he grinned. “More famous than Vlade Divac!”

“Really!”

“Yes! Is true. He’s inventing electricity!”

“I thought that was Edison,” Burke suggested.

The desk clerk scoffed. “This is what you Americans say. But Tesla, he invents one kind of electricity, Edison invents the other, not-so-good kind. Then, Tesla is inventing many, many things. Twentieth century! This is his invention.”

Burke laughed.

The desk clerk scowled. “Your friend, he knows about Tesla.”

“Does he?” Burke asked.

“Yes, he gives speech! At the symphony.”

Burke didn’t know what he meant. Then he understood. “Symposium.”

“Yes! First, he studies at the Institute—”

“What institute?”

“Am I talking to wall?” Milic demanded, as if Burke were a student with attention deficit disorder. “Tesla Institute! After this, he goes to symphony, and gives speech!”

They were interrupted. First one guest, then another, came to request their keys. No card keys here. These were in the old European style, big keys attached to metal eggs so heavy that only the rare guest would be tempted to take his key along.

“So this symposium,” Burke asked. “Where was it?”

But the spell was broken. Either the twenty euros had been used up, or Milic had decided that he’d said enough. He averted his eyes and began stacking some papers into a little pile. “More, I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe in the cafe, someone knows.” He shrugged. “Also there is the possibility of Ivo.”

“What’s Ivo?”

“Doorman. He is back tomorrow.”

The bar was empty except for two women perched on stools at a tall table. A girl with spiky hair and bad skin stood behind the counter, rinsing glasses. She did not remember anyone named d’Anconia or, for that matter, an American by any other name. “I’m here in the day,” she told Burke. “Tooti, she’s coming at seven. You could try her.”

Burke said he would, then asked if there was an Internet cafe in the neighborhood.

She lit a cigarette and gave him directions.

The Web was fantastic. He’d arrived at the Sava Cafe with nothing more than a name. And now, barely an hour later, he knew enough about Nikola Tesla—thanks to Google and the Wikipedia—to pass a third-grade Serbian science class.

A Serb born in Croatia, Tesla was a prodigious inventor, responsible (as the desk clerk had claimed) for alternating current, the Tesla coil, and scores of other devices.

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