Unfortunately, to satisfy Herr Greeley’s curiosity, I had described my winding process to him, and late last night I awoke to find him kneeling over me, tapping at my chest with a small wrench. I lifted my head; my shirt was untucked, the ends twisted, sweaty and wrinkled, the key exposed in its side pouch.
“Thought you was broke,” he said, roughly patting my shoulder. “Better be more careful.” He smiled. I was at first unsettled by his presumptive action; as I have mentioned previously in this volume, I consider my winding a private experience. But, despite his rough vocabulary and at times eccentric behavior, Herr Greeley is not totally lacking in charm. I did not share my true intentions with him, lest he panic or cause a scene. I simply said, “Thank you,” and rose from the floor.
After I wound down again, at 3:45 a.m. on the twenty-third, I awoke on my side twenty-three minutes later, my garments in a similar disheveled state. Herr Greeley sat cross-legged on the floor next to me, smiling. “Looks like old Greeley’s gonna have to keep an eye on you,” he said.
He has not left me since, and as I write this he is sleeping in front of the unhinged side entrance, curled into a fetal position on his coat, his satchel doubling as a pillow—perhaps offering himself as a barrier should I decide to flee and step off a bridge into a river, or wander into the street so a horseless carriage might run me down and end my misery. The thought has occurred to me, but I find the idea of such violent self-destruction abhorrent.
I have considered leaving him a note indicating my wishes, and inviting him to return me to Linnhoffer’s for whatever reward he might be offered, but I fear he would be accused of stealing me and incarcerated, or worse. I cannot allow that. And I suspect, as he is still basking in my novelty, that regardless of my wishes he would revive me yet again. So until our ways part, my fate is now bound to his.
Though this new knowledge has proven traumatic, I now see that the newspaper article on my theft gives me further incentive to maintain my existence for a while, having provided a brief background on how I arrived in this strange new world. Upon the Master’s death in 1946—he had, apparently, lived to the age of ninety-eight—I was discovered in the Gruber family mausoleum and, in order to pay the family’s debts, was sold to a museum in Vienna, where I resided until three months ago, when Herr Linnhoffer acquired me and brought me to America. The article names the party who sold me only as “Gruber’s son.” I can only assume it refers to Jakob, unless the Master remarried and had other children. The article also refersto him as a prominent member of something called the Nazi party, which is not familiar to me, but seems to hold some significance. I will have to add this to the list of mysteries to uncover.
Even now, it seems, I am regarded as an elaborate hoax; the unnamed author credits Herr Edison with exposing me not long after his visit to the Master’s home. Thus far, the authorities have regarded my disappearance as a theft, and the night watchman, whose name, I have learned, is Edward Czyznyk, is being held for observation at a local hospital facility after claiming I walked off on my own. I am not without guilt over this, though I am currently in no position to remedy it. Nevertheless, as soon as I am able, I will do everything in my power to vindicate him.
This much, however, is an immense relief: the Master did not send me away out of anger over Giselle’s passing. In fact, from the few pieces of information I have gathered from the newspaper article, I suspect he allowed me to rest beside her. In retrospect, I always knew he would never allow me to fall into unfamiliar hands.
I ought to be surprised that Jakob might circumvent his father’s wishes, but he never valued me as highly as the Master or Giselle had. I will not dwell on this. But my knowledge is sorely incomplete, and before I can return to silent oblivion, there are things I must know: the fate of Herr Gruber and his family once I assumed my long slumber; why, and from whom, the Master found it necessary to hide me; and whether he might still have descendants. In this I find one faint (and perhaps foolish) hope: if his family has endured, if they still value their legacy, I may yet regain some small part of the world I knew.
26 May 2005
4:38 a.m.
On Herr Greeley’s insistence, last night I allowed him to show me a portion of this city. I must admit, my curiosity was not great; since discovering the great length of time I have missed, I have had little motive to leave the garage. Now that he is reasonably certain I will not allow myself to run down again, Greeley has ventured out for brief periods to solicit funds from passersby and purchase hot dogs from a local vendor, and to relieve himself—which he does on the curb outside this structure. The Master would have been appalled that I had fallen in with such an individual—he detested beggars and tramps, whom he considered lazy and irresponsible. But I now believe Greeley’s concern for me is genuine; once again I find myself questioning the Master’s judgment. Perhaps the glitch in my workings has corrupted my other faculties as well, but until I know for certain I will continue the association.
As I already mentioned, I have been out of sorts since discovering my fate, having neither the interest nor the desire to do anything but stand in a dark corner of this garage. I have never behaved this way, not even after Giselle’s passing, though even in that dark time I had books to read, and duties to perform. But this evening, as soon as night fell, Herr Greeley indicated it was time for me to explore my new surroundings.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go out and get you a good look around.”
“Thank you, but I prefer to remain here.”
“Nothin’ doin’. You been cooped up in here for days. Can’t sit here forever.”
“I am not ready. And the police …”
“Aw, it’s safe enough. Nobody’s gonna notice you. This whole part of town clears out after seven.” He reached up and pulled my coat collar up over my face, my hat down over my eyes. “There. Nobody’ll notice you like this.”
“Are you certain?” I was unable to formulate a valid excuse, and feared he might cause more commotion and attract attention if I persisted.
“You gotta trust old Greeley. Come on, now.” He took me by the hand and began to pull me toward the door.
Had I truly not wished to move, he lacked the strength to move me; nonetheless, I sensed this was important to him, and followed him in slow steps, allowing him to gently guide me to the exit.
“That’s it,” he said, and led me out into the night air.
I had almost forgotten the exhilaration of exploring a new place. Save my time with Giselle, my fondest memories revolve around my travels with the Master, walking the streets of the great cities of Europe, standing with him amid the bustling squares as he built his magnificent clocks. Tonight, as Herr Greeley guided me through this city, along its immaculate sidewalks and through its alley walkways, I experienced it again. He was correct; our exploration was, but for a brief, unsettling encounter with a policeman, a welcome diversion from the confounding events of the last few weeks.
Though in the past several hours we have traversed only a small part of this city, I have learned much about my new surroundings. We are situated by an immense lake, so wide one cannot see the other side, and from our vantage point near the water’s edge, the view was stunning: a long blade of moonlight stretching fromthe shore to the horizon. Despite my fascination, I cannot help but think Giselle would have taken great joy from it. On a small peninsula jutting from the shoreline lies a structure resembling a winged sailboat, or perhaps a seagull with its wings folded at its sides. Sometimes, Herr Greeley explained to me, the wings open and spread themselves wide as if the whole structure might take to the air. I did not actually witness this, and the source is somewhat less than credible, but if true, I am eager to see it for myself. The Master would, no doubt, be impressed.
Shortly after midnight, and once Herr Greeley had stopped to rest on a park bench—it shames me that I ignored his wheezing and hobbling in my enthusiasm—we traveled to what he referred to as the “old” part of the city, a neighborhood dot
ted with shops in tri-corner buildings, sheer-faced public houses made of an odd cream-colored brick, and a magnificent clock with a copper tower, turned green with age. It was not as old as the cobblestone streets of Frankfurt, which still boasted structures from medieval times, but it bore similarities to the construction taking place in the city before my long sleep.
I must concede that Herr Greeley was correct in his assertion that we would go unmolested; on our travels we encountered many passersby, some close enough to look me in the face if they wished. Yet none acknowledged us; some seemed inebriated (imbibing being one of the chief pastimes here, Greeley later explained), but most went on their way without acknowledging us.
I find their behavior a bit odd—at home it was considered rude to pass a fellow Frankfurter on the street without at least a nod or brief hello—but under present circumstances, it was a blessing. Those who did glance at us retreated immediately when Herr Greeley held out his hand and asked for spare change.
“See?” he said. “Told you they wouldn’t pay us no mind.” They seem, in fact, not to want to notice us. I think it is not so much a question of his race, as we encountered several mixed groups of whites and Negroes on our stroll, but perhaps of his appearance. By association I am also unworthy of notice.
On our way back to the abandoned garage we passed a restaurant built of pale stone with stunted, gothic towers, styled after some of the old castles in the German countryside. The sign above the door read Schroeder’s Gasthaus. Facing the street was a picture window backlit by strings of tiny white bulbs. I looked closer; in the dim light I could just make out a familiar object: an automated clock in the shape of a birdhouse—perhaps five or six feet high—with a series of swallows extending from various trapdoors, wings extended. Its wood had darkened to a dull grayish-brown with age, and its figures were frozen, their mechanisms long rusted out, but I knew the design well—one of the Master’s early creations, built for a wealthy spice merchant in Frankfurt long before I was assembled.
When it was new, the birds were meant to emerge one at a time at the noon hour, spreading their wings with a fluttering motion. I recall the Master’s sketches on his workshop wall, where he kept diagrams of all his old projects.
I crept toward the window to get a closer look, eventually pressing my hands against the glass; the clock was, in a sense, a distant cousin. For reasons I am unable to explain, I could not move away from the window.
Herr Greeley hobbled up behind me. “Hey, what you doin’?” he asked, and tried to nudge me along. “Somebody’s gonna see you.”
Finally I remembered the gamble I was taking. “Forgive me. Shall we return to the garage?”
“Okay. Man, you crazy. You tryin’ to get caught?”
“No.” I was about to explain my interest in the clock when a uniformed officer approached us, holding an electric lantern similar to that used by the security guard in the store, the beam shining in Herr Greeley’s face.
“Restaurant’s closed, boys,” he said. “Besides, you won’t get a handout here.”
“Sorry,” Greeley said. “Just takin’ a look around.”
The officer looked closely at Greeley. “Oh, it’s you,” he said, and pointed the lantern toward the ground. “Seen that mechanical man of yours lately?” he asked, laughing. “Maybe he’s out wandering the streets.”
“Nah, I ain’t seen him,” Greeley said, his hoarse voice shaky.
“Hmmm.” The officer glanced at me briefly, turning the light upon me. “And who’s your friend?” I ducked my face down lower beneath my coat collar; fortunately the beam came to rest upon my chest.
Herr Greeley looked terribly nervous, and I certainly recognized the peril we were in; at any moment the officer might find me out, and I would be forced to surrender. “His name’s Ernest. He’s just passin’ through.”
I resisted the urge to correct him.
“Ernest, huh?” the officer said. “Haven’t seen you around here before.” He stared at me for a moment, one eyebrow raised, and I did my best to shroud myself in my greatcoat to muffle my ticking, which, in moments of stress, tends to grow louder. I did not move, lest the soft whining of my joints give me away.
Again I heard a half-whispered voice in my ear, feeding me a response. “I just arrived.”
“That’s a hell of an accent you got there, Ernest. Long way from home?”
“Yes.”
Herr Greeley gently took hold of my arm. “He from up around Wausau. I’m just showin’ him around.” The officer nodded. “I gotcha. You boys got somewhere to sleep tonight?”
“Shelter on Vliet,” Greeley said. “We headin’ there now.”
“All right, then. Need me to take you there?”
“No, thanks. We fine walkin’.”
“All right. You boys stay out of trouble.”
“Thank you, sir,” Greeley said. “Thank you. And good night to you too, sir.”
After we were out of earshot, Herr Greeley turned and slapped my chest with the back of his hand. “What the hell you doin’? We was fine all night, then you go and pull a stunt like that.”
“I’m sorry. I … remembered the clock. From a long time ago.”
“The guy who made you?”
“Yes.”
“Oh,” he said solemnly. “Well, I guess that’s different. But you gotta be more careful.”
“I will.”
We have since returned to our garage hideout. Herr Greeley, who at present is asleep on his pack, shrouded in my greatcoat, feels it is safe to remain here, for now. I should perhaps be moreconcerned about our encounter with the policeman, having nearly revealed myself, but seeing the Master’s clock in the restaurant window has made me all the more determined to learn his ultimate fate. I must have books. If they can give me the answers I seek, I may finally be able to rest.
27 may 2005
2:37 a.m.
I have, at last, procured a few precious books, which I hope will provide me some enlightenment as to the fate of the Master and his family, and as soon as Greeley begins his oblivious snoring, I will examine them. Yet my exhilaration at finding them is tempered by having witnessed something potentially dark and terrible. Herr Greeley says I ought not concern myself with such things, but I cannot help but wonder if, by inaction, I am now an accessory to a terrible wrong.
I can happily report that the function of my limbs has become less cumbersome and noisy, and I seem more flexible than I was in the Master’s service. It is somewhat fortuitous that Herr Greeley and I have chosen this place as our hideout. It is all but stripped bare inside, but strewn across the floor and shelving are a few small, rusty tools and other accessories which we have found useful.
Yesterday afternoon Greeley discovered a partial can of a miraculous substance he called “WD-40,” which he claimed would ease my movement, as well as lessen the noise. He instructed me to peel back my trousers and the suede skin on my legs, and sprayed it through the thin red tube onto my knee and ankle joints.
“Come on, now,” he said. “Don’t be shy.”
As I have never exposed my skin or inner workings to anyone but the Master, I found the experience unsettling, but stealth being crucial, I complied. Though the faint metallic whine is still present, it has lessened considerably. Afterward I located a small wrench on the floor and used it to tighten my ankle fixtures, which had been slightly loose for some time.
For a moment, I even considered examining myself to find the supposed “glitch” which has caused me strange hallucinations, but even if I were to find it, I lack the knowledge to repair it—or more precisely, to tell Greeley how to proceed. The Master was never able to see to that part of my education. Also, though I have come to trust Greeley’s intentions toward me, his balance and precision are another matter; he often shakes uncontrollably or suffers jerking spasms of his wrists and elbows, and I fear he would damage me irreparably.
When he had finished I asked Herr Greeley if we might search for books, that I might
learn something of the Master’s fate.
He shook his head and laughed in his low, gravelly voice. “Don’t want much, do you? Hell, I don’t even have a library card.”
Nonetheless, I insisted that books were essential to my search, and thus worth whatever risk I might take.
“All right, all right,” he said. “I’ll take you to the library. But you gotta lay low, and let me do the talkin’.”
The attempt did not begin well. We did not have the advantage of darkness, as the library closes promptly at 8:00 p.m., so for the first time since my escape, I was forced to venture out into daylight. We waited until the great rush of traffic had subsided, then walkedthrough the park beside the lake as far as we could, allowing the trees to conceal us; when the trail ended, we flitted in and out of alleys on our way there. Once we reached the library, we went inside through a side entrance. The structure itself is magnificent—a tremendous, sheer building with rounded windows and a large dome on its roof reminiscent of some of the state buildings in Vienna and Berlin—and I suspected we could easily become lost inside it. Herr Greeley assured me we could browse without being seen, as parts were already dark and the vast rows of bookshelves could hide me from view. (He claims to have snuck in from time to time during the winter and slept there for warmth, hidden among the stacks.) Luck was also with us, as there were only a few others inside—mostly young people reading in booths or at tables, and I saw no evidence of electric eyes on the walls. I have not been surrounded by so many books since the Master granted me access to his personal library, and it made me think of home.
We had little time; when we arrived it was nearly seven o’clock, and the library would be closing within the hour, so I was not able to search freely, but Herr Greeley made me promise to stay hidden among some nearby shelves while he searched the catalog for several headings, which I jotted down on a scrap of paper he took from the circulation desk. The lights had already been turned off above that particular section, and so my concealment was easy. Through the stacks I watched him sitting in front of a square of silver light, typing random words onto a flat panel with typewriter-like keys.
The Clockwork Man Page 14