Description: I find it strange that something as simple as a picture, a portrait of a small, frail, cagey, scowling old man accompanied by a little less than five-hundred words can so drastically change the course of events. Had I not been assigned to photograph the great inventor, Mr. Darius Tinker, I wouldn''t have been present for the events that unfolded over the next few days. I would have ascertained no knowledge of the grave injustices being committed, and the men who do so. I would have been unable to play my small part in sparing the lives of countless innocents... but I get ahead of myself. It was a sunny, late April morning that I quit my lodgings on Duchess, on the eastern end of the city, and took to the warm Toronto streets. The city was in its usual throes of chaotic business, exacerbated by the impending opening ceremonies for the New World Exhibition. Kodak camera in hand, I was unperturbed by the busyness--indeed, I revelled in it; the soothing hum of people going about their lives, punctuated by screeches of machinery, whinnying of horses or curses of derelicts. An enchanting, heady haze dappled the city''s rooftops. I decided to forgo a trip on the horseless streetcar--still quite a novelty among city folk, even though Toronto had been fully outfitted with the technology the previous summer--to enjoy a walk in the vibrant, intoxicating spring weather. I made my way down bustling Adelaide, taking in the sight of small repairs being completed on the Grand Opera House, no doubt in anticipation of thousands seeking entertainment during the World''s Fair, occasionally bidding a hearty "good day" to familiar neighbours. A shopkeeper and I chatted a moment, remarking on the Opera House''s advertisements for the world-famous Lady Song''s appearance next week, sure to be a sold-out run of performances and a boon to local businesses. With such a novel piece of equipment under my arm and, as it''s been described to me, my signature dazed sense of wonder, many took passing notice of me. As a youth of eighteen, even in a tailored sack coat and trousers, I managed to appear in a constant state of slight dishevelment, through no conscious design. Unlike my father, brother and many of my peers who, even when in their shirtsleeves or athletic dress, appeared wholly proper and on the edge of fashion, my more liberal sensibilities shone through preparations made in the morning. My father had often remarked affectionately on my "bohemian" appearance, untamed hair, clothing slightly askew, a camera case strapped to my shoulder or a sketchbook wedged beneath my arm, my fingers stained with charcoal or graphite dust. I looked wholly an artist, as many observed. I chose to take that as a compliment, though many, including my father and brother--secretly and not, respectively--would not consider it such. My aim was to be a great journalist and writer, though I''d been warned by multiple published authors that the profession was undervalued--not to mention woefully underpaid--and seen as ignoble. Ironic, as there seemed to be no small public interest in the humble scribblings of word mercenaries. I planned to couple the skill of setting ink to paper with some small talent for photography and join the growing rank of "photographic journalists." The problem: I was an idle, moneyed boy with nary a journalistic credit to my name. One of the worst sorts to boot. I was a well-heeled child desperate to make a name for himself independent of his family fortune and reputation--while relying on those very things to do so. My father had purchased my camera for my eighteenth birthday. My comfortable apartment in the city, my well-tailored wardrobe and my exceptional education were all the products of my parents'' success. My father had even offered to put me in touch with members of the press in hopes that I would make something of myself, but I had politely declined. The only thing that was all my own was my ambition, whatever good that was worth. To Lionell Hackerman, the Globe''s editor, it was worth little enough. "I''ve got no need of more writers, Quigley. The useless lot are thick on the ground here," Hackerman had put it bluntly when I had turned up at his office a day previous. He had barely glanced at my photographs and had completely ignored the few writing exercises I had prepared for the impromptu interview. I''d been inquiring after a number of other publications, but had been politely and roundly rejected for lack of experience or reputation. The Globe was the only game left in town for me, and I had reluctantly included my pedigree when I called on the secretary of Mr. Hackerman. I had been unwilling to do so leading up to this interview, so with little choice, I figured the only thing that would get me into his office was my family name. I still hadn''t counted on such an obstinate wall of a man hunched behind his desk. "Perhaps I can offer my photographic expertise," I suggested, wincing. "I''ve made an extensive study of airship workers, and the working cla--" He bristled at this. "What good are pictures of the downtrodden when all the world wants to see are photographs of this blasted carnival?" He punctuated the rhetoric with a dismissive wave of the hand. The editor returned to eviscerating a draft of writing on the desk before him, ignoring me as I gathered my samples off his desk. I was reaching for the doorknob when I heard an annoyed grunt behind me, and I turned for fresh rejection and abuse. "I''ll admit, having a Quigley could be useful, would drive the competitors mad," he admitted. I suppressed an urge to groan. Here I was trying to prove I could be more than just a name, yet that was all I was to the world. "I''ll give you one chance and one chance only, and I don''t expect you to succeed, no one else has." He laid out my probationary assignment. Mave Teston, one of the founding inventors behind the Teston & Tinker workshop here in Toronto, had been documented widely in the lead-up to the World''s Fair. She gave interviews freely and was well liked enough by the public, despite her feminine sensibilities listing toward "sturdiness" and "ungainliness." Teston was a celebrity, sure, but the real public obsession was her elusive compatriot, Darius Tinker III. While his work in the venture was prodigious, he was rarely seen and was remembered as an eccentric, but not the entertaining kind--more an anti-social recluse. The inventor had eluded the public eye, to the annoyance of investors and the confoundment of the public. With no small amount of sneering, Mr. Hackerman admitted that a photograph of Darius Tinker coupled with a few hundred words about him would capture the imagination of the public. "We''ve sent a hundred reporters before you to speak with this mad old codger, and they have yet to catch a glimpse of him," he growled, aggressively organizing a pile of papers in front of him. "I''m starting to believe the only tinkering in the enterprise is with the patience of those of us with a serious job to do. "I''ve got no faith in you, Quigley," he repeated a third time. I only nodded but was secretly thrilled at the assignment. Even if I was unsuccessful in the endeavour, I could simply add this failure to the long list of ways I didn''t live up to my family name. I assured Mr. Hackerman that, indeed, the endeavour was futile--I had heard from a few other writers that pessimism in the face of existence always seemed to calm editors--although I pointed out that there''d be no shame in allowing myself to become the hundred-and-first reporter to fail to meet Mr. Tinker. Begging "more important things to do than speak with a writer," with a few expletives thrown in for good measure, Mr. Hackerman shooed me away. "And don''t come back without a ruddy photo." This is how I found myself cutting through the city to the corner of Adelaide and Brock the next day, my destination now in sight. My fate as a journalist rested on doing the impossible, getting a picture of a world-famous inventor who had not been seen in decades. Down on the corner of Brock and Adelaide, I could see that edifice of industrialism, the Teston & Tinker Workshop, looming above the garment factories, synagogues and such on the west end of town. The three-storey stone building assumed a more palatial front than the warehouses and factories surrounding it. Large windows adorned the sides of the building framed by dramatic arches; whimsical, cylindrical towers broke up rusticated walls. Above the main entrance was an enormous, elegant clock held in place by exquisitely wrought iron fretwork. Below the dial, shaped into the fretwork, read: ET IPSA SCIENTIA POTESTAS EST Once within, I expressed my business to a young Ojibwe man in the vestibule who I (to my mortification) took to be a clerk or attendant. He peevishly waved me down a hallway before returning his attention to a section of an enormous clock--I had failed to notice he was sitting within the carriage-sized machinery. Flushed with embarrassment, I proceeded onwards, peering when I could into the dozen or so workshops. Only two were occupied; one by a Negro woman immersed up to her elbows in a large steam engine; the other by a boy of a swarthy complexion, no older than myself, snoring lightly, propped up at a desk, surrounded by cogs and switchboards of varying sizes. The other rooms, only affording a soft light diffused through heavily glazed transom windows, were mostly steeped in shadows. Outlines of various grand technologies loomed in the dark. Within one workshop a half-finished brass automaton turned to watch me pass. I found myself at the designated room. Crude signs, the result of some small trickery, adorned the door frame that read "TOYMAKER" and "Enter at your own risk". Clutching my camera in both hands, I

Please Wait