The Clockwork Man

by William Jablonsky

  “I’ll be damned,” one of the workmen, a stout, sweaty man of about fifty, said, running toward me. “You okay, buddy?”

  “Yes,” I said, without turning to face him.

  The young victim’s forehead was badly bruised, his skin reddened from the heat, but I could feel the subtle rise and fall of his chest and abdomen.

  A strong hand patted my left shoulder. “Never seen anything like that in my whole life,” he said.

  “He needs medical attention,” I said, keeping my voice soft. It has always held a certain unnatural, reedy quality, but the mechanism behind it seems to have deteriorated with age and the effect has worsened.

  The other man joined his partner, and knelt over the young man, whose eyes remained tightly closed. “Wake up, kid,” he said, gently slapping the boy’s cheeks. “Stay with us. Ambulance is on the way.”

  Moments later the vehicle was consumed, the crackling flames reaching perhaps ten feet into the air. As the workmen turned to the wreckage, the young man opened his eyes and looked directly into mine. His eyes were wide in the firelight, his mouth hanging halfway open. Then he screamed.

  I rose to my feet as the workers spun round to check on the victim. One of them looked up at me and, I am certain, saw my face in the bright orange glow; if not, both no doubt heard the low whine of my movements. “What in the hell …?” he began.

  “See to him,” I said, and hastily turned away. In a moment Greeley’s hand was on my back, pushing me forward.

  “Wait a minute!” said the one who had seen me, but before he could follow, Greeley and I had found concealment behind one of the concrete pillars. When the emergency vehicle arrived, sirens blaring, all attention was focused on the young victim, and we retreated to the garage in the shadows. For a moment I believed I had been lucky, that he had not seen my face after all, but in the distance I heard the breathless voice of our would-be pursuer. “You’re not gonna believe what I just saw,” he said.

  I had opened the door and taken my first step inside, when I saw my foot descend not on the concrete walk, but on the hardwood floor of the Master’s dining hall. Giselle was holding my hand gingerly and twirling gracefully beneath it, and the sound of sirenswas suddenly replaced by the grainy tones of a string section on a phonograph record.

  I am quite sure this was yet another manifestation of my defect; perhaps the heat of the flames has exacerbated my condition. In my state of confusion, my grip on her hand released, and she stumbled briefly before regaining her graceful footing. (This struck me as odd, as I recall no such moment from my past.)

  “That was unlike you,” she said. “Would you rather I lead?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  She clasped my hand and hooked her arm round my waist. “Just listen to the timing of the music: one-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three. See?”

  “No.”

  She sighed. “That was a good thing you did, Ernst. Not very smart, but good.”

  “Thank you.” I began to grow suspicious about my surroundings. “Who are you?”

  She laughed, kissed my gloved hand. “You know who I am.”

  “Yes. But you are …”

  “I know,” she interrupted. “Do we have to talk about that now?”

  “No.”

  I allowed her to lead me, responding to the gentle pressure of her hands.

  “Just tell me this,” she said. “Do you feel any better now? About what happened, I mean?”

  I believe I understood the question, and for twenty seconds I said nothing, considering. “No,” I said, finally.

  The smile slowly faded from her face. “I hope you can get over it someday.”

  “Never.” I twirled her once more and then she was gone, and I was standing inside the garage, feeling sluggish, as if my inner workings had been replaced with rocks.

  Greeley stood in front of me, tapping my forehead. “Hey,” he said. “Anybody in there?”

  “Yes,” I said, the confusion passing.

  “Heh. Went away again, huh?”

  “Yes. And thank you for helping me.”

  He beat his fists against his chest. “Man, that was amazing!” He laughed gleefully. “The way you tore that door off and carried that kid out, I thought I was watchin’ Superman in action.”

  “Who?” I am familiar with the concept, having read some of Herr Nietzsche’s works, but Greeley’s description did not quite match. He seemed perturbed that I would not know of this man, though in light of his detailed biography I find the comparison most flattering. Still, I knew my actions might prove costly, and I apologized for jeopardizing our freedom.

  “Don’t you worry ‘bout it. We’ll find us another hideout. I know lots of places.” He playfully punched at my arm again. “Better get you some new clothes, too. You a little toasted.”

  I looked down at my greatcoat, which was covered by patches of soot. Upon later inspection I discovered my face bore similar marks; it may be more difficult to hide my identity now. I urged Herr Greeley to lie down and rest while I wound myself, still unable to reconcile my strange hallucination with any memory. I can only hope the condition does not worsen, lest it threaten the authenticity of my memories; they are all I have left of home. But this is a concern for another time. At the moment I fear I may have exposed myself before finding the answers I seek; as often as I have risked this it was certain to happen eventually. The cause, at least, was a fitting one.

  Perhaps I will be fortunate; like my own strange visions, the workman and the young crash victim might well dismiss me as a mirage brought on by the fire’s intense heat and light, and will simply have an amusing story to tell their comrades.

  5 June 2005

  1:32 a.m.

  As I expected, as soon as night fell Herr Greeley and I abandoned the garage. Not long after the accident, policemen began prowling the area near us. Whether they were looking for me I do not know, but their presence prompted us to move on. We are currently residing in an abandoned facility once dedicated to the cleaning of automobiles, perhaps two miles from our former hideout.

  For his part Herr Greeley seems to enjoy this place more than the garage; in back is what he termed a “Port-O-Potty,” which seems to be a portable outhouse, and thus at night he is no longer required to evacuate on the street corner or in an alley. (I am somewhat relieved to discover he finds the practice objectionable; for a time I was uncertain.) Though the office door was locked when we arrived, I easily broke the latch, and we discovered an old davenport inside. Its upholstery was ripped and bore many unidentifiable stains, but Herr Greeley wasted no time in curling up on it and falling fast asleep.

  Thus far we have remained hidden; this facility is flanked by an abandoned warehouse and an Asian market that is only open fromnoon to four o’clock. Our only visitors have been a rather spindly, gray-haired Negro named Vernon, who came looking for cigarettes (apparently Greeley disclosed our new location to him on a panhandling session yesterday), and a girl of about sixteen, with slightly greasy shoulder-length hair dyed a faded pink, and soft, elegant features despite her rough appearance. Greeley had not mentioned her previously, but seemed to know her well, embracing her tightly when she entered. Greeley often takes part in bartering sessions with his associates, trading what few necessary items they have procured, so this is nothing unusual; however, this is the first time he has done so at our hideout. Vernon did notice me standing in the shadows of a washing bay, and began to approach. “Who’s that, Greeley?” he asked. “That ain’t your mechanical man, is it?”

  “Oh, that just Ernest,” Greeley said. “He new. I’m just teachin’ him the rules around here.”

  While this, and half a pack of cigarettes assembled by means of various donations, seemed to satisfy Vernon, the young woman’s curiosity had been piqued. She crept toward me as the two men exchanged various small parcels, tiptoeing silently into the wash bay where I stood. Up close her pink hair appeared unkempt and sweat-soaked, her young, soft features beginn
ing to grow haggard.

  “Hi,” she said quietly. “Haven’t seen you around here before.”

  “I am new here,” I said.

  “I’m Carrie. I’ve known Greeley for a while now.”

  “I can see that.” I took a small step back and pulled my hat down over my eyes.

  “It’s okay. I won’t hurt you.”

  Though I was ashamed of my behavior, I did not wish her tocome any closer. “It is not you. I am ill.” (It pains me that lies come more easily now, but one does what one must.)

  “Ain’t none of us the picture of health.”

  Before she could come any closer Greeley emerged from the manager’s office to usher her away. “I think Ernest here wants to be by himself for a while. He ain’t too friendly.”

  She shrugged her shoulders and began to follow him. In the doorway to the office, however, she turned once more, and seemed to catch a glimpse of my face; she waved her fingers, and said, “See you around, Ernest.” I immediately bowed my head low to obscure my face, and judging from her lack of reaction I believe I was successful. They continued their business for several minutes more; then Vernon and Carrie left. As he closed the door behind them Greeley glanced at me briefly, one eyebrow raised severely, as if to chide me for my unfriendliness.

  After they had gone Greeley informed me the girl ran away from home three months ago—he suspects it is because she prefers the company of women—and he and his associates, Vernon in particular, have taken a paternal interest in her, sharing food, escorting her to the shelter each night—all meant to, as he put it, “keep her from whorin’.” This seems to me a noble goal, and I must wonder if I have been wrong not to place my trust in anyone save Greeley.

  On his last expedition for provisions I requested that Greeley obtain another newspaper. I wished to see if my presence had yet been noted, and (though I know the fixation is not constructive) to see if the murderers had yet been brought to justice. Sadly, the authorities have not yet found them, and two more women have vanished: a middle-aged nurse named Mindy Carlisle, and a young cocktail waitress named Judith Hunsberger. I cannot fathom why they would wish these women harm; their murders are the callous acts of thugs, and it is my fervent wish that he be apprehended.

  I, on the other hand, have become something of a local chimera. There is a brief mention of me in yesterday’s edition, in the editorial section. The columnist amusedly points out that there have been several “clockwork man” sightings around town in the past two weeks; in addition to other encounters, he credits me with the rescue of that young man two nights ago. Because his reported sightings also place me in an establishment called “Hooters” (where I am rather rudely and incorrectly accused of leering at waitresses) and eating a bratwurst at a place called Miller Park, I cannot take him entirely seriously. However, he is now encouraging his readers to write in about their own sightings, and I am mildly concerned that a few individuals might go out in search of me, or that those who knew of my prior reputation might take this as a sign to resume their search.

  Upon our arrival Greeley discovered cleaning supplies in the office closet, and after our guests had departed, sat me down and attempted to scrub the soot stains on my face and coat with window cleaner. As he dabbed at my burnt skin and clothes, he muttered softly to me, like a parent. “That’s it. Hold still now. Just let ol’ Greeley get you cleaned up.” Though he is a gruff and sometimes surly man, he is capable of much warmth; as he tended to me I was reminded of Fräulein Gruenwald’s ministrations after Giselle’s passing.

  He was partially successful, though I fear I now sport lightly bleached patches on my face and coat.

  Unfortunately, after he was finished with me he saw fit to remove his coat and shirt and, before I could warn him, sprayed thewindow cleaner underneath his armpits. “Gettin’ a little ripe,” he said. “Ain’t had no deodorant in about a month.” He sniffed his wiry-haired underarms (an inappropriate act no matter the company) and nodded in satisfaction. However, in a moment he began to scowl and then curse as the window cleaner burned his skin.

  I quickly came to his aid, dousing his underarms with water from a bottle in his pack.

  He patted my shoulder. “Thank you, brother. Don’t know what I was thinkin’.”

  Without the fear of imminent discovery I have been allowed to read more of my homeland’s history, having now completed the chapters leading to the early twentieth century. (It still awes me that the century has turned twice since last I inhabited this world.) Thus far I have been impressed with what I have seen: a land of art and industry and science, respected throughout Europe for its civility and technological advancement. As one of the few Frankfurters who supported our city’s entry into the German state, I am certain the Master took great pride in this, and no doubt flourished in such an environment.

  The book contains many photographs of new buildings and monuments, constructed in places I once knew, not long after my descent into oblivion; should fortune smile upon me, I would like to see them firsthand one day. And it is with a mix of nostalgia and sadness that I look upon pictures of the Iron Bridge, stretching stately and tim less across the Main; and the quaint shops of Elisabeth Street, where I once walked with Giselle and Fräulein Gruenwald, aiding them on their errands. I should like to think that some things remain unchanged, even after all this time.

  I might now close these books but for a lingering doubt—in these middle chapters many districts are referred to as “prewar” and “postwar,” which leads me to believe the calamity that befell the city was worse than I had thought. But as the Master often pointed out, our land has withstood numerous trials, and I have little reason to believe it unable to survive a few more.

  6 June 2005

  1:35 a.m.

  In the last twenty-four hours I have discovered the true fate of my homeland.

  For the first time since I was initially wound and brought to life, I have been rendered speechless. I do not understand how this has come to pass—I lack the physical capacities necessary to become, as some Americans say, “choked up”—but at the moment speech seems less than relevant. I remained silent all day, since before Greeley returned from yet another “shopping” expedition. At first he believed I was experiencing a glitch of some kind, and tapped at my forehead and chest to be sure I still functioned. I handed him the history I had just completed, open to a particularly gruesome set of photographs, and he turned quite somber, saying only a muffled “Oh, that,” before walking away, disappearing into the office, where he has remained ever since. I am gravely discomforted that he already knew the history I have just discovered, yet neglected to tell me. He claimed he had not thought about it since our first encounter and subsequent association, nor was he well versed in history. The Master’s greatest complaint about Americans was their lack of educationcompared to German students, and in this, as with so much else, I believe he was correct. Thus, I will hold no grudge.

  But this much is clear: my home as I knew it is gone—reduced to smoldering rubble while I slept undisturbed in the family mausoleum.

  Had I the ability to do so I would surely wipe the account from my mind. But there in front of me, in text and pictures, is the proof: a series of misbegotten alliances plunging all of Europe into war; the Kaiser, despondent and defeated, abdicating his title and throne; a million-mark loaf of bread; proper German ladies and gentlemen, still in their finest attire, begging for scraps of food. Were this the end of it—our nation’s people humbled and humiliated—I should be alarmed enough. That this nation I now call home had some hand in our defeat is also an unpleasant realization. The Master held America dear to his heart, and were it not for national pride and the hold of fond memories, he might have moved his family here. But to think of my land enveloped in the barbarism that resulted is nearly too difficult to bear, and, perversely, I should be grateful to anyone for ending it.

  I must again ask forgiveness of those who might one day read this account, but this history is new
to me, having transpired while I lay insensate on a marble floor. But now, in these pictures, I am able to piece together that which I have lost: a peculiar and slightly effeminate man with a tiny square mustache and straight black hair hanging limply over his eyes (and bearing so keen a resemblance to the young boy who drew my portrait so many years ago I might swear it was him), his face a grimace of rage and madness; an odd symbol which once represented fertility, turned backward and emblazoned on flags and armbands and military uniforms; the Jewishquarters of several of our cities (my own included) burnt and ravaged, the windows of homes and shops shattered, storefronts and people marked with Stars of David; piles of gray, emaciated bodies stacked high as hilltops, pushed by bulldozers into immense ditches—more death than I could ever think possible.

  And at the last, my homeland in ruins: Berlin a burnt-out heap of jagged brick and stone, the gleaming city of Dresden so reduced to blackened rubble that I wonder how any of its people could have survived. Sadly, I see Frankfurt and, by association, my home of Sachsenhausen, were not spared. The book on Frankfurt’s history has been most enlightening, though I now wish I had never found it. In its pages I may bear witness to the personal toll my countrymen’s atrocities incurred: the Iron Bridge broken in two and hanging twisted and useless in the Main; the quaint, cozily packed shops of Elisabeth Street, smashed, their walls caved in as if a tremendous wind had come to push them down; the old medieval towers burned out, rising over piles of rubble; the Master’s prized clock—the representation of Giselle with angel wings—shattered, the head lying on a heap of demolished brick and mortar surrounded by dozens of artificial feathers—hundreds of hours of the Master’s labor, shattered in an instant. Other photographs detail the rebuilding efforts, but the structures rising from the demise of the old city seem stark and characterless in comparison to the ancient streets and buildings.