CARNOT'S BOX

My name is Linda, Linda Wagner. I am, or rather I was at the time, a senior consultant for European Historical Manuscripts in association with the Smithsonian Institute in Washington. Quite a mouthful! I was tasked with the discovery and preservation of selected 17th through 19th century documents, a pretty daunting task involving literally mountains of paperwork. Often this consisted of piles of accounting records or trade transactions. Not very interesting stuff but the discovery of an occasional gem of a diary or even a treatise on some dull subject would once again pique my interest. At the time of the manuscript’s discovery, I had taken time off from my usual work schedule and was in Paris attending a conference as an observer on the progress being made to date on the Dead Sea Scrolls translations, an interest of mine. One morning, after a particularly boring two hour struggle trying to stay awake to listen to a young Israeli with an annoying high-pitched voice describe the partial recovery of phrases from a copper scroll I broke loose for my own sanity and wandered outside the lecture hall. The foyer was the usual insipid antiseptic architecture one often finds in government buildings worldwide. The floor was a rather cold black and white mosaic marble hosting the sort of repeat pattern that after a few drinks would make you nauseous to look at. I was after some sort, or to be honest any sort, of sugary confectionery from the vending machine that would give me the necessary lift when my cell phone rang. An old colleague of mine from Stanford days, John Forrester, was on the other end. John, being true to his character that had not changed despite the intervening years, immediately launched into the subject of his call without any of the expected standard pleasantries even though we had not talked in a decade. Luckily I was sitting down on one of those soft sofas people park in Government buildings as my knees slightly buckled at the sound of his voice. I had a personal history with John. I had just enough time to say “Hello” before he took over any further conversation. “I’ve been working with this company for the last year renovating old historical buildings across Germany. The latest historical site is an old tavern in Magdeburg. The other morning, in one of the bedrooms quite by accident I stumbled upon a very intricate hiding place. In it I discovered a small box and inside, wrapped in cloth, was, well I guess you’d call it a journal or diary. It’s all pen and ink on vellum. I opened it, very carefully mind you, and it’s in old French. Not my favorite language so I was back to school day interpretation with a dictionary and then I thought of you. Luckily after a few days of research, I found your number. There aren’t many Linda Wagners in your field. Can you come and translate?” I thought rapidly. Boring conference that won’t get any better, I could skip the last day, drive to wherever John is, and spend the weekend reading some old guy’s memoirs and seeing John again. It was tempting. But there had to be more to make it less of a daydream and much more of a serious investigation instead. . “I’m interested, but where in Germany are you and what’s the name of the author?” The magic words came floating across the airwaves. “I’m in a little town called Magdeburg fairly close to the French-German border and the manuscript is written by some guy by the name of Lazare Carnot.” Pictures and words flashed through my mind as it tried to make sense from my mental data bank that I was now desperately accessing. Then it came up in bright bold letters and again I sank to my knees. Again I felt like I had personal history here. Carnot, one of Napoleon Bonaparte’s ministers during Napoleon’s second reign of one hundred days as Emperor of the French before the battle of Waterloo and Napoleon’s final exile. And before then he was one of the most influential men during the early days of the French Republic. Could it be the same man that I had been looking for? I knew Carnot had been exiled to Prussia, the predecessor of Germany, by Louis, the Bourbon King who was returned to the French throne after the defeat of Napoleon. So I asked. “John, how old is the house?” “ “Not sure, about 250 years old I think,” came the reply. It all seemed to fit. Here was the right time, the right place for the last days of Carnot’s life. In retirement, he could have written an intimate narrative of what were some of the most turbulent times in French history. It was worth the risk of discovering a new perspective on those days. Regardless of my relationship with John, I could not miss this opportunity.