Tesla by Vladimir Pistalo Read Free Book Online Page B

clean,” Kulišić responded with composure.
    It was easier to laugh than fight. Kulišić, who had a broken nose and the eyes of a bear, suffered tremendous pain because of the current bloodbath near his native town of Trebinje. Whenever Kulišić put on a brave face, it seemed to Nikola that he was barely able to contain his tears. On Sundays, Graz was quiet as if inhabited only by butlers. The two roommates lingered in bed. Frost dotted their window and they could see their breath. Nikola told Kosta about his flying engine while the wind swayed their room.
    “Where do you think hell’s located?” Nikola suddenly asked.
    “I don’t know,” Kosta said, “but it must be closer than we think.”
    Kosta could not follow most of what Nikola talked about. He also did not understand why his roommate had to get up so early on the coldest weekdays.
    “How can you get up when it’s still dark?” he murmured. “God hasn’t created the world yet.”
    “It’s a shame to miss a single class. They’re such great professors,” Nikola explained.
    In Nikola’s opinion, the most brilliant lecturer at the university was Doctor Allé, an expert in integral and differential equations. Allé considered stupidity a form of brazenness. At the end of each class, he looked for Nikola and asked, “Shall we?”
    For an entire hour he would make him solve special problems.
    “Bravo!” Allé shouted.
    After these mathematical sessions, they left the building together. The student surprised his professor with a question: “Do you see these carriages on the streets of Graz?”
    Allé’s eyelids fluttered in assent, magnified by his spectacles.
    “Many of them are mounted on springs, and their upholstery follows the fashion of the nineteenth century.”
    “Yes?”
    “But in principle, those are still the same carriages found in Homer and the Old Testament.”
    “So?”
    Nikola opened his bag and produced the blueprints for a flying engine powered by electricity. “Isn’t it time for people to fly?” he asked.
    During that first year, Nikola had no interest in the world outside the library and the lecture hall of the School of Polytechnic. He was not impressed by the region’s temperate climate or the hot springs in Tobelbad, and he didn’t care for the sixteenth-century watchtower. Not for the Mura. Not for its bridges. Not for the breweries. In the city known for its hatmakers and lensmakers, his only interest was in electrical engineering and books.
    He pretended not to be surprised by the life of the city and its incomprehensible fashions. Ladies wore what looked like lace bibs, while gentlemen’s overcoats were fastened just below the chin so that they resembled tents. In rooms, people danced to Schubert’s “Graz Waltzes.” Gentlemen in black and ladies in lace swirled underneath chandeliers. In those circles, Plato’s animus and anima seemed to merge. Officers softened their bows with subtle smiles. People discussed the Herzegovina uprising, the recent economic crisis, Czech cuisine, and the advantages of the academic style in painting over French impressionism.
    And Nikola?
    Nikola was free. Until recently, he had appeared to be an imaginary character and was only now becoming real. Every day he took a walk on top of the Schlossberg, where an invincible fortress defied first the Turks and then Napoléon. He claimed to like the “electric air” of the place. Soon, Murko the tailor made him a suit and a few shirts on credit, with interest. Up until then, everyone had called him Nikola. Now they started calling him Tesla. Mr. Tesla.
    Mr. Tesla spent every evening in the library. Hegel’s reptilian eyes stared at him from the wall. Baroque angels fluttered under the ceiling, and it smelled like the seventeenth century. In his head, Father continued to gripe and to cast doubt on Nikola’s decision.
    I see that Progress is now your God , Milutin said in his son’s head. But even if progress exists, it doesn’t