The Clockwork Man

by William Jablonsky

  She clapped her hands and smiled broadly. “You’re getting better all the time.”

  She laughed. “Wasn’t that amazing?”

  It took a moment to find my voice, as if I had forgotten how to speak. Then a weak tinny voice echoed involuntarily from my throat: “Absolutely splendid.”

  29 November 1893

  10:55 p.m.

  For the past two days the Master has been in his study, a small square of a room adjoining the den, attempting to compose a rebuttal to Herr Edison’s claim that I am a fraud. He believes that, if published in The New York Times or some other highly circulated newspaper, he will gain moral vindication, and has tossed aside a score of drafts as being unworthy of a gentleman. Giselle and Fräulein Gruenwald have been charged with preparing food for the upcoming family gathering, while for most of that time I have been at his side, or fetching him carafes of coffee and wine, only leaving to check on Giselle and Jakob or to wind myself. He instructed me to inform the children that he is finalizing arrangements for the Nonnberg Abbey clock—the detail is primarily for Giselle, who would balk at a less specific excuse—and was not to be disturbed. Jakobhas spent most of this time trying to sled outside, though the snow is hardly deep enough; for her part, Giselle continues to suspect her father’s distress is not the product of fatigue, but has thus far respected his request for privacy. He has slept only sporadically since beginning the letter; from time to time he falls face-first at his writing desk in midsentence. He ordered me to prod him awake if he should doze, but on Fräulein Gruenwald’s suggestion I have taken to letting him sleep up to an hour before rousing him.

  It appears the Master is attempting to enlist me as his silent partner. From time to time he consults me on his choice of words, reading me short passages and waiting for my reaction. I tell him I am sorry, I have no experience writing this kind of letter, and he glares at me sternly before ripping the page from the typewriter and beginning anew. The floor around his desk is so littered that one can no longer walk within five feet in any direction without hearing crumpled paper crunching underfoot. (He has forbidden Fräulein Gruenwald and me to clear them, in case he wishes to revisit some previously rejected thought expressed therein.)

  He was interrupted only once, yesterday evening, when Fräulein Gruenwald knocked at his door to inform us that our neighbor, Herr Brundt, thought he’d seen someone prowling behind the house. The Master was unconcerned—in this part of the city crime is very rare—but ordered me outside to look around, just to ease Fräulein Gruenwald’s mind. It was 8:11 p.m. and quite dark, the only light the glow of gaslights from the windows. I trudged in the snow for minutes, scanning the road for several blocks on either side and the grove of trees in the park across the street, but saw nothing.

  I was about to give up when I saw him—a tall, rather lankyman bundled in a thin black overcoat and black hat, standing at the edge of the trees behind the house. I very nearly missed him. He appeared to be staring at the house’s western face, unmoving as he stood in the snow. I assumed he was a traveler whose carriage had lost a wheel and who was seeking assistance—not unusual this time of year, when the roads can be quite slippery—and shuffled out toward him.

  “Good evening,” I said. “May I help you with something?”

  His gaze briefly turned toward me; I could not make out his features, as they were obscured by a thin plaid scarf and a wide-brimmed hat. He remained still, neither answering nor moving, and I thought he might be frightened of me.

  “Are you hurt?” I asked.

  When I had come within twenty feet of him he pivoted on his heel and began to walk away, rather quickly. I followed him to the edge of the yard, continuing to ask if he was in some kind of distress, but he soon disappeared from view. The Master would likely not have approved of my following him through the park, so I made my way toward the back door. Perhaps he was lost, or searching for another house. On my way back I looked up at the west wall; in the darkness I saw a warm glow from one of the upstairs windows—Giselle’s room, to be specific—and inside, barely visible through the crack in the curtain, Giselle, in her nightgown, running a round brush through her long reddish-blonde hair. I stood in the snow and, for just a moment, watched her hair spilling repeatedly over her shoulders, then rejoined the Master in his study.

  “Well?” He pulled yet another sheet of paper from the typewriter, crumpled it in his two hands, and tossed it over his shoulder. Hedid not seem in the mood for a detailed account, so I decided not to burden him further.

  “Nothing,” I said. “A traveler who had taken the wrong route.” I felt it unnecessary to tell him more, though for a moment I admit I wondered if he may have been an agent of Herr Edison’s, meant to pressure the Master into selling my designs. In any case, he has not returned.

  “I thought as much,” the Master said. “That Brundt worries over everything. For now, no more interruptions.”

  “Of course,” I said, and closed the door behind me.

  30 November 1893

  11:47 p.m.

  After mailing off his letter to The New York Times—a ten-page document decrying Herr Edison’s treachery and bemoaning the rise of mass production at the expense of the artist’s unique vision, the Master announced that, come spring, we would be traveling to America to personally unravel the lie Herr Edison has perpetrated, starting with New York City and, if necessary, ending on his doorstep in Menlo Park, New Jersey. I very much look forward to seeing New York, in particular the Statue of Liberty, which the Master says is quite spectacular, especially at night.

  Once the letter was finished, the Master’s mood seemed to improve significantly. The timing is fortunate: his extended family will be arriving tomorrow for the festivities, and I have been enlisted to help with the preparations. In keeping with Giselle’s mother’s tradition, Giselle and Fräulein Gruenwald are preparing to make amagnificent feast of several courses. Today I accompanied Fräulein Gruenwald and the children to market in the city to purchase the many foods they will be serving: geese and pork loins for roasting; several varieties of potato, for mashing and roasting (while Frau Gruber will not approve of the potatoes, the children and the Master certainly will); bread, apples, celery, and raisins for stuffing; milk and molasses for pudding. I followed close behind them in my hat and overcoat, carrying their parcels in hemp sacks over my shoulder. As I have previously stated, I am well known here and attracted little attention, save for a pair of errant children who ran up to poke at me before their parents fetched them. Jakob attempted to trip me once, but I sidestepped him easily and Giselle slapped him away. A pair of old women on the street crossed themselves and backed away when I passed; Giselle laughed at them—a mocking laughter that, strangely, retained some of its sweetness. “That’s it, run away,” she called after them. “If you’re not careful he’ll recite poetry to you.” Thus confronted, the old women bundled themselves in their thick shawls and hobbled away.

  Fräulein Gruenwald says the key to a successful feast is to prepare ahead of time, to minimize the work on the actual holiday. She has thus enlisted the entire household to help—even Jakob. Once home I was put to work in the kitchen chopping apples and celery, a task which I am able to complete in seconds and perform at length, as my wrists do not tire and I need not fear cutting myself. She seemed quite pleased with my efforts; no sooner would she transfer one bowl of chopped celery to the icebox than I had already filled another. This, of course, is the extent of my dabbling in the culinary arts; Ican neither smell nor taste, so the fine nuances of cooking are lost on me. I was simply happy to be of assistance.

  Giselle, who as of this year has assumed the duties of hostess, aided us as well, both in planning the menu and preparing the dishes. Within an hour her arms were caked with white flour up to the elbows, with a thin coating on her face and apron. Late this afternoon the Master came in to ask after her progress; as he watched her work, he smiled, a hint of sadness in his eyes, then grasped her shoulders from behind and kissed
the top of her head. “Do you know how much like your mother you are?” he asked.

  “I don’t know how she did it,” Giselle said, fatigue creeping into her face. “It’s so much work. And she didn’t even have Eva to help.”

  He laughed. “When we were first married, she would cover the whole kitchen with sugar and flour almost every time she cooked.”

  “I miss her.”

  “So do I,” the Master said, releasing her and brushing a bit of flour off her nose. “But I’m sure everything will be wonderful.”

  After he left, Giselle looked at her reflection in a stew pot, blew some of the flour from her chin, and glared at Fräulein Gruenwald. “Why didn’t you warn me this took so much effort, Eva?”

  Fräulein Gruenwald shrugged. “I thought you’d want to be surprised.”

  Giselle smiled oddly, then drew a handful of flour from the bowl. “Thank you so much.” She threw it at Fräulein Gruenwald, dusting her face and hair.

  When the day’s preparations were finally finished, Giselle withdrew to the attic observatory to recuperate, and bade me follow her up. Itwas a particularly clear night, and she wanted to get a good look at Jupiter, which at this time of year is relatively close to Earth. She has already composed the letter to the astronomical society, detailing her discovery of the comet, and so felt it was time to move on.

  She fiddled with the telescope for some time, in turn adjusting the mirrors and eyepiece and peering into the night sky until she finally settled on a bright, unflickering point in the heavens. “There,” she said, smiling contentedly. “I think I’ve got it now. Come look.”

  I placed my eye over the scope and looked at the dull brownish sphere with its red spot and faint splotches of light tan. “Very nice.” As I peered into the lens I noticed the magnification was more powerful than it had been before our travels began. “You’ve made more improvements.”

  “I just changed the lenses. It gave me something to do while Father was away.” She sighed, ignoring the leather armchair in favor of slumping onto the floor. “Today was excruciating. I’ve never done so much work in my life.”

  “Your father was very proud. And I’m sure the feast will be wonderful.”

  Giselle laughed. “Eva says it’s good practice for when I get married. I’ll become the good little hostess and spend my days decorating the house and planning meals.” The tone in her voice was rather strange, a tired harshness, and in the dark her face seemed much older. “The idea seems so … boring. I want to go off and build things like Father, or discover something. Don’t you think I could do that?”

  “Of course.”

  “Father does, too. I think he’d like to send me to university. But Grandmother would have a fit.”

  “She might understand.”

  Giselle snickered in the moonlit attic. “You really have no idea, do you? About women, I mean. Father has left such gaps in your education, Ernst.”

  I must confess to a slight irritation at that point—a subtle heaviness in my tin shell, a mild quickening of my winding mechanism. Giselle had never before been so critical of me, and I did not know how to respond. “I wish I could help. But as you say, I know very little of such matters.”

  She looked up at me, and her expression grew gentler; she was once again the kind girl I had always known. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t take it out on you. You’ve already helped, just by listening.” She patted the floor next to her. “Come sit with me.”

  With some difficulty—getting in and out of chairs is easy, but sitting on the floor is challenging—I lowered myself to the carpet and leaned against the wall by her side. “There.” She laughed. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

  “No,” I said. “But I may not be able to get up.”

  She crawled over to me and rested her head on my chest, her hair spilling over my lap and onto the wood floor. “Don’t worry. I’ll help you.” Her eyes soon closed, and from her nose and mouth came a light, airy snore. The time drew near to wind myself again, but I was unable to reach the key without disturbing her, so I sat against the wall in the dark, listening to my ticking gradually slow and grow fainter, the dim light fading to nothingness. As my insides clicked their last, an image flashed briefly before my eyes, like nothing I had ever experienced: Giselle, in her robe and nightgown, spinning beforeme in the snow, her hair catching the morning sun like a fiery halo. At that I surrendered to the dark. Had it been my final moment, I would have met oblivion with perfect contentment.

  I had no illusions about the propriety of the situation, which as the reader has no doubt deduced, was far too intimate for the boundaries of our relationship. But at that moment there was something else indefinable, a small, quiet thing beyond thought that told me this was the truest sensation I had ever known.

  She rescued me, of course, some time later. My eyes again absorbed the dim light and saw her standing over me, felt her delicate arms helping me regain my feet. Silently, she lifted my hand to hers and pressed her lips to it with the softest touch, then tiptoed slowly downstairs and retired to her room.

  2 December 1893

  10:52 p.m.

  The house has been full of life today. The Master’s family arrived late yesterday, and are all gathered here for the night, having greatly enjoyed Giselle’s enormous feast and heaped lavish praise upon their hostess. I, of course, was sent away, though the Master allowed me to choose between the workshop and the attic observatory. Giselle objected strongly, insisting I had every right to be there, but he commanded her to be silent. I was not troubled by my quiet exile; after all, I do not eat, and at last year’s festivities Giselle and Jakob’s cousin Kurt, then four, pelted me with bits of cabbage as I stood in the corner.

  I have spent most of the day here in the attic, reading a volume from the Master’s library on the history of Florence. He has been innegotiations with that city’s municipal government to build one of his creations, and plans to travel there with the children and myself in March to find the ideal location for it. I very much wish to see its many artistic and cultural wonders in person, and the Master says the local inhabitants, who are accustomed to being in the presence of masterpieces, will appreciate me there.

  Later, after the younger children were put to bed, Fräulein Gruenwald instructed me to watch over them and intercept them before they went downstairs and disturbed the adults, who would by then be drinking and playing cards. When together, the Master’s extended family tends to talk bawdily about neighbors and absent relatives, telling stories inappropriate for children, all the while Frau Gruber insisting they will suffer in hell for it. Tonight’s topic was the Master’s second cousin Dieter, who recently emigrated to London to become an actor and likely preferred the company of men.

  I moved quietly (lest I cause a scene with Frau Gruber, who believed I was safely locked in the basement), answered several calls for water and warm milk, adjusted blankets, obtained several mugs of brandy-laced hot chocolate from Fräulein Gruenwald to help them sleep. The children—five in all, ranging in age from three to eight—jammed their fingers into the pockets of my jacket, flicked my monocle to the floor, and tugged at the ends of my mustache. It was all I could do to keep them from unraveling it completely.

  Once the hot chocolate began to take effect, five-year-old Kurt, the Master’s youngest nephew, demanded I read him a bedtime story. I told him I had several memorized, and asked him to choose one.

  “Pinocchio,” he said. (Though I might have wished it be another, considering certain rude and uninformed comments leveled at me in the past, I know the story well and was happy to oblige.)

  So while his sister Deirdre, aged three years, curled up on the bed next to him, I began to recite the story as I had read it. They seemed more interested in listening to me speak than hearing the actual story, and several times interrupted me to ask how I talked when I had no lips, how I had memorized the whole story, whether I ever needed to make use of the water closet. I answered each question in turn and then c
ontinued. As I recounted Pinnochio’s transformation into a donkey and subsequent conscription into the circus, Giselle entered quietly behind me, sat on the bed and held Deirdre’s hand, smiling as I told the story.

  Finally, when I was done, Kurt looked up at me thoughtfully. “Do you ever wish you were real?”

  I looked at Giselle, covering Deirdre with the blankets. (The child had fallen fast asleep in the middle of the story.) “No. Though sometimes I should like to be able to taste hot chocolate.”

  “Ernst is real,” she responded. “As real as you and me. Uncle Karl made him very well.”

  “Oh,” Kurt said. “Will you stay until we’re asleep?”

  “Of course we will,” I said.

  “Will you leave the lamp on?” Kurt asked, throwing off his little slippers and climbing under the covers.

  Giselle tucked him in tightly. “If I do that, you won’t be able to sleep. But Ernst can see in the dark. He won’t let anything happen to you.”

  “All right,” he said, and laid his head upon the pillow. It took him one minute, twenty-two seconds to go to sleep.

  Once they were both sound asleep Giselle and I left their room quietly. “You’re very good with children,” she said. “I wish you’dbeen around to read me to sleep when I was their age.”

  I remarked that I would have done so gladly, and she smiled.

  “I’m sorry Father sent you away. Grandmother actually believes you’re some sort of monster who’s going to harm me or Jakob.”

  “Never.”

  She laughed her light staccato laugh. “I know. And so does Jakob—that’s why he teases you so. I’d like to lock Grandmother in a small room with you so she can see just how gentle you are. Or die of a heart attack. Either would be fine.”