The Clockwork Man

by William Jablonsky

  The chapter also includes a brief biography—two paragraphs under a fuzzy, formal photograph of him, but information enough. He was older there than I had remembered, and a sadness had crept into his eyes, but he was still stout and hardy, not yet the bent, fragileman from my final snippet of memory. The date under the picture reads 1907, and he is smiling rigidly next to a droopy-eyed man with a tremendous shock of hair and a Jewish surname. The caption lists the man as an admirer of the Master’s work.

  The author has even detailed his institutionalization in the wake of Giselle’s murder; the passage does not say whether the butcher was ever apprehended, and I now find myself reevaluating Jakob’s suggestion that I track him down myself, regardless of the consequences. Sadly, time has eliminated that possibility, and I believe I am experiencing regret—a terrible and paralyzing state, one I am sure I was never meant to know. The Master was released in early 1895—a period which preceded his greatest achievements, some of which have fetched millions of dollars at auction in recent years. It is comforting to know that he did not forgo his art after her loss; I would have failed him doubly had I abandoned him to grief and isolation. The author credits him with an enduring legacy of magnificent work which, to this day, delights tourists and scholars of the arts, and I am glad.

  The book makes no mention of his descendants, but I do not take this to mean none are still living. My hope remains slim, but it remains nonetheless, and I did not expect to find such information so quickly. I will ask Herr Greeley to return this book on his next outing, but I am in no hurry; until he returns I shall continue to examine it, and think of home.

  2 June 2005 4:46 a.m.

  I do not know whether I have a “conscience,” except that in educating me, the Master instilled in me a strong sense of right and wrong. Presuming that this is what the term means, and I do possess one, it is deeply troubled. It seems as though every inquiry I make results in my attaining some unpleasant knowledge, and after reading today’s headline I am seized with a certain heaviness in my being, which I cannot more accurately explain or describe.

  Upon my request, yesterday afternoon Herr Greeley returned the volume on clocks; he claimed it was no great effort, as the library has a return slot in which he may simply toss the book, but I greatly appreciate the risk he has taken on my behalf. I did not wish to return it, but I am not a thief and I remain true to my word. I also asked him to find a newspaper, as the abduction of that young woman is still of great concern to me and I deeply hoped she was not harmed. I am loath to ask a great deal of him—the few dollars he scrounges each day are precious to him—but he insists he has a friend who gives him day-old newspapers free of charge. So I feel less guilt over asking the favor.

  Sadly, my fears were again realized. Greeley was hesitant to hand me the paper, his face somber. Considering his usual temperament, I knew what the newspaper would say before reading it. The newspaper headline read, Second Woman Found Slain, Attacker Still At Large, and featured two photographs: the first, of Nancy Petrakis, the woman whose abduction I witnessed one week ago; the second, of a young Negro college student named Eileen Johnson, apparently found theprevious week. Both had been found washed up on the beach near the museum where Greeley had brought me on my first tour of this city, and had apparently been violated, then strangled.

  “I could have saved her,” I said after reading the article.

  “I’m real sorry,” he replied. “I am.”

  I must report being somewhat off-kilter, my ticking reaching excessive levels, so much that, until eleven minutes ago, it kept Greeley from falling asleep. The Master desired that I be a gentle, civilized being, and I find such violence nearly unendurable. Though I have resolved never to relive the memory of that terrible December night, it now threatens to enter my thoughts, regardless of my wishes. I should rather wind down permanently than experience it again.

  The unnamed author mentioned that before the first abduction, the victim had last been seen on the corner of Fourth Street and Michigan Avenue—according to Greeley, this is only a few blocks from where we witnessed the second. No suspects have yet been arrested.

  “Can we do nothing?” I said to Greeley after reading the brief article.

  “Man, you just can’t let it go, can you? I tol’ you there ain’t a thing we can do about it. Cops won’t listen to me; they damn sure won’t listen to you.”

  “I do not accept that.” Greeley sighed and shook his head. “You in Greeley’s world now. Things ain’t always nice and simple here, and you best learn that.”

  “I will try,” I said, though I did not mean it. I only wished the conversation to end.

  3 June 2005 4:48 a.m.

  Yesterday evening Herr Greeley determined that enough time had passed for the incident at the library to, as he put it, “blow over,” and that I might safely leave the garage again. I might have been satisfied to remain here and read accounts of my homeland—I have just started the book on German history, and find it most intriguing—but as my thoughts still stray toward the two murdered women, I thought a brief respite would be wise.

  Once it was dark we walked through the less-illuminated streets, careful to stay out of the glow of the streetlamps.

  I asked Greeley where we were going; he said it was to be a surprise. I could only wonder what new marvel he was about to show me. Only after we had gone over a dozen blocks did Greeley announce his intentions to me: we were traveling to a nighttime shelter for transients so that Greeley could replenish the food he had reserved in his bag and take a cup of coffee. Then, I would meet some of his acquaintances so that he would no longer be accused of, as he put it, “seein’ things.”

  Upon hearing those words, I stopped abruptly, nearly knocking him over when he collided with me.

  “What the hell you doin’?” he asked, after he had regained his balance.

  “I cannot do that. One of them might turn me in, and you would be incarcerated.”

  Greeley scowled. “Aw, come on. You can trust these folks. They won’t tell on us. Besides, they all think I’m crazy ‘cause of you.”

  “I am sorry, but that is a risk I cannot take. I will wait outside.”

  He thrust his index finger hard into my chest. “You promised.”

  “Yes, but the time is not yet right.”

  My refusal was not without guilt. I have, to some degree, already cost him his credibility (perhaps placing other young women at risk in the process); for that reason, and for his continued kindness to me, I do owe him vindication in the eyes of his peers and the law. Those who may one day read these words may call this selfishness, and there is some truth to that interpretation. As yet there seems to be no reward for my return, and the police cannot be looking for me as diligently as a missing person. But the Master always believed I would develop something like intuition, that I might better sense danger or deception. I think it is intuition that spoke to me at that moment, and I felt the danger to Greeley and myself was too great to risk departing the shadows. And there is much more to uncover before I may stop hiding.

  He was not pleased, invoking God’s condemnation on more than one occasion. We walked the rest of the way silently, Greeley several paces in front of me, until we reached a small rectangular building of worn gray stone, spotted with dirt and fragments of ivy.

  From the scratched-out logo on the window I gathered it had once been a bicycle shop, but over the door was a white cloth banner that read St. Ignatius Shelter.

  We stopped across the street from the shelter, in an alley between an abandoned tavern and carpet shop.

  “Wait here,” said Greeley. “I might be a while.”

  I remained in the alley just out of reach of the light while he crossed the street and went inside.

  The shelter was mostly darkened in front, with some faint light in the back. I could see silhouetted figures inside, though not clearly. One, which seemed to match Herr Greeley’s profile, stepped into the light and seemed to be pointing in my direction,
before throwing his hands up. Then the figure disappeared.

  I had waited outside alone for thirty-five minutes when the front door opened. It was not Herr Greeley who emerged, but a small woman of middle age, with wide spectacles and ashy red hair that reflected the outside lights. She was carrying a foil-wrapped bowl and a paper cup, and seemed to be dressed more discerningly than Greeley or the other transients I have seen. Though my alley was dark, her gaze seemed to be fixed on me. As the alley dead-ended at a large waste bin, I could not exit without calling attention to myself, so I simply held still, hoping she would pass me by.

  Instead she looked at me and smiled.

  “It’s all right,” she said softly, when she was within ten feet of me. “I won’t bite. Are you hungry?” As I had no other recourse, I responded. “No.” She stepped closer, not three feet from me; I bowed my head low to conceal my face.

  “Don’t be shy. You should come in where it’s nice and cool. We have a few beds free.”

  Again I declined.

  “You should take this anyway. It’s not much—just some beef-noodle soup and hot cocoa. You can always eat it later.” “Please,” I said, hoping she might finally go away, “you needn’t trouble yourself on my account.”

  She smiled. “I know I’m not much of a cook, but I worked hard on this. If you won’t come in, at least take it. It’ll make an old lady happy.”

  I took the cup and bowl from her; they were hot in my hands. “Thank you.”

  “There now. That wasn’t so hard. What’s your name?”

  “Ernst.”

  She smiled again, with a softness in her face I had only previously seen in Fräulein Gruenwald and Giselle. “That’s a very unusual name. I’m Judith. Sister Judith, actually.”

  “Hello, Sister Judith.”

  “I know it’s hard being out here. But this is a safe place where you can eat and rest. Please, let us take care of you.” Slowly, her hand moved toward my cheek; as my hands were full, there was no way I could stop her without startling her. The tiny wires beneath my weathered suede skin registered the touch of her fingers as a light, warm tingle—the first time in over a century that they had done so.

  The moment her fingers made contact with my cheek, she withdrew her hand, stared at it, then into my eyes, unblinkingly, as if unable to look away. She only turned from me at the sound of Greeley’s voice, uttering many curses, fast approaching.

  “Judy!” he said once he had reached us, and quickly threw his arms around her. (It was, in my estimation, a rather brilliant rescue, and I quickly stepped back into the darkness of the alley.)

  “Hello, Greeley!” she said, returning the embrace. “You’re not heading out already, are you?”

  “Good night for walkin’ the earth. My buddy and me got a place to crash for the night.”

  “Yes … we just met.” She cast a brief glance toward me, then at him.

  “Oh, don’t mind him,” Greeley said, the orange streetlightsglimmering on the sweat trickling down his face. “He a little jumpy. Not used to the streets yet.”

  “I gathered that. Won’t you both come in for the night? We’re locking up in an hour. It’ll be safer.”

  “We’ll be fine. Nobody’ll mess with ol’ Ernest.”

  “You mean Ernst?” she said, looking directly at me.

  “That’s what I said.” Greeley walked past her and took hold of my arm. “C’mon, buddy. Time to get back.”

  “Take care, you two.” As we passed she gently laid her hand on my shoulder. A thin strip of orange light washed over my face, and she looked directly at it, her view unobstructed.

  “She knows,” I said, once we had walked out of earshot.

  “She don’t know nothin’,” Greeley reassured me through a mouthful of the noodles she had given me. “And if she does, she won’t say a thing.”

  After several blocks we reached the concealment of the garage, and Greeley rolled out his pack and prepared to go to sleep. It is strange, but I find its grimy floors and dark walls welcoming, in their own way. It is at least our sanctuary, if not our home.

  I now believe Herr Greeley was right in his estimation of my need for distraction; despite the awkwardness, I found it refreshing to commune with people again, and for this I am grateful. My head is clear, my incessant ticking muffled, and these remaining books await. I am once again eager to discover whatever knowledge I may glean from them.

  3 June 2005 8:30 a.m.

  It is but a few hours since my last posting, but much has happenedin a short span of time. Though the cause required it, I fear I have been found out, and while we remain in this old garage until daylight passes, Herr Greeley thinks it best that we move from here at the first opportunity.

  Herr Greeley had drifted off to sleep within an hour of our return, and I took the opportunity to resume my research into the Fatherland’s history, that I might discover the eventual fate of my home. I am gravely concerned about two vague mentions of an attack on the city; though it is my ultimate wish to return home, perhaps even to locate the Master’s descendants and offer my services to them, I wonder if there is even a city to return to.

  Accompanied by the sound of Herr Greeley’s snoring, I had begun to read in the dark. The street outside our makeshift home had been quiet for some time; the only sounds were the distant mechanical whine of a tool-and-die factory several blocks away; and the light, muffled tones of a guitar from the dimly lit window of a third-story loft two blocks away. I found it refreshing to hear music again, and I quietly stepped outside to listen. Greeley had chosen to sleep in a darkened corner of the garage, and so no longer obstructed my path to the side door.

  Through the window of the loft I could see a long-haired young man picking at the strings. He was not proficient with the instrument, but the serenity on his face suggested this was not important to him. Every few seconds he began to sing over his instrument’s slow arpeggios in a raspy tenor. Though I was intent on my reading, I stopped at the end of the chapter on the 1890s to listen.

  A few minutes into the song—he had stopped and started again several times, making errors in a chord progression after the secondverse—I heard another sound on the street outside: a vehicle approaching far more rapidly than the few that normally drive past this place. For a moment I thought it might collide with this structure; were that to happen the thin metal walls would tear like dried leaves, and I readied myself to snatch Herr Greeley and pull him outside. Instead it shot past at alarming speed, causing a rattling in the walls and rusty tools on the floor. Not two seconds later it was followed by a loud crash farther down the street, the sound of metal collapsing and glass shattering.

  The guitar stopped abruptly. For a moment there was silence, then the faint crackle of flames in the distance.

  The young man had put down his instrument, and his head emerged from the window, looking in the direction of the crash. He uttered a loud expletive, then slipped back inside. Inside the garage I heard Greeley stir.

  “Hey?” he said. “Who dat? What’s goin’ on?”

  “Something has happened,” I said, though I could only see a few traces of black smoke. Finally, unable to see, I risked poking my head halfway out. Four blocks down, I saw it: a bright-red automobile whose front end had twisted around a wide pillar supporting an elevated road. Even from four blocks away I could see the tongues of flame spreading from the point of impact.

  I found myself wandering closer to the blaze.

  Two men clad in jumpsuits and thick yellow hats—presumably from the factory—were running toward the vehicle. They tried to pull open the door, but drew their hands back painfully because of the heat. I stared through the smoke until I saw the object of their attention: a lone figure slumped over in front, too far away for me to see his face, but nonetheless in distress.

  “Aw, Jesus,” Greeley said, several steps behind me. “Somebody in that thing?”

  “Yes.”

  Since my escape from the display window at Linnhoffer
’s, I have been determined not to sacrifice the well-being of others to ensure my freedom. While I believe I have failed to keep that vow in the case of the murderers, believing others might yet apprehend them, in this particular crisis there was no one else to help. The two men near the burning vehicle seemed unable to perform the rescue, and the fire threatened to envelop the hapless driver in a matter of seconds. So I raced toward them in the cool, dark morning, toward the crash scene, with no attempt at stealth. I lack the flexibility and coordination to run, but my stride is long and quick. Greeley, in nearly a full run despite the hobble in his stride, followed me, but fell behind.

  I was wearing my hat and greatcoat, which I have seldom removed since my liberation, but knew that, in this instance, it would not fully disguise me.

  “Get back!” one of the men circling the vehicle shouted at me as I neared the burning wreckage. “It’s gonna blow!” They started toward me, perhaps trying to restrain me for my own protection, but once again Herr Greeley came to my rescue.

  “Oh, my God!” he shouted, waving his arms frantically. “Somebody call 911!” He jumped about violently, his eyes wide, mouth agape. “Somebody help! Help!” He began to run toward the fire, but the two workers intercepted him.

  “Just keep back,” one said. “Fire truck’s on the way.”

  Greeley’s distraction gave me just enough time to slip past the twoworkmen. I was close enough to see my reflection in the firelit window, tongues of flame brushing against my greatcoat and singeing the lapel. Inside was a pale-skinned young man of perhaps twenty, with long hair the color of coal, unmoving, partially trapped behind a large inflated sack emerging from the steering wheel. Though I feared he might already be dead, I dug my fingers into the crevices around the door frame, depressing the thin metal, and with a single heave pulled the door off its hinges. Though I am well-insulated against heat and cold, I sensed a strange warmth from inside my chest—no doubt due to the complex web of copper wiring being heated to an alarming degree. Had I lingered any longer it might have melted and deprived me of some vital function. But I swiftly reached inside and pulled the young man out, carrying him several yards from the burning wreck. I paid no attention to Greeley’s argument with the workmen, except to hear him cursing loudly, and the men repeating their warning to stay back. When I lay the young man down on the pavement, all argument stopped.