((install)) — Mechanical Turk

Inside was a small, cramped chamber. A worn leather cushion. A single candle stub. A half-eaten loaf of bread. And a tarnished silver mirror, angled upward so that its occupant could see the chessboard through the Turk’s transparent chest piece. Paul touched the mirror. It was still warm.

He heard a footstep behind him. Johann stood in the doorway, his face tired, his eyes sad but not angry. He said nothing. He simply knelt beside Paul, pointed to the mirror, then to the chessboard, then placed a finger over his own lips. mechanical turk

A young nobleman, Count Frederick von Kesslau, accepted. He sat across from the automaton, his heart thumping in his chest. The Turk’s head moved, scanning the board. Its mechanical arm rose with a soft click-whirr , fingers plucking a white pawn and moving it two squares forward. The count countered. The Turk responded. The game went on for forty-seven moves. Finally, the Turk’s hand descended, tipped the count’s black king, and returned to its resting place. The room exploded in applause. The Mechanical Turk had won. Inside was a small, cramped chamber

For decades, the Turk toured Europe, defeating Napoleon Bonaparte (who played recklessly and lost in nineteen moves), Benjamin Franklin (who played carefully and still lost), and crowds of bewildered skeptics. The question haunted every parlor and salon: How does it work? A half-eaten loaf of bread

He never told a soul.

Paul understood. The secret of the Turk was not gears or springs or magic. It was a man—a living, breathing, thinking man—hiding in the dark, moving the arm by a system of levers, seeing the board through a mirror, playing chess in silence for hours, for years, for a lifetime. Johann was not an assistant. Johann was the Turk.