I wonder how I might go about seeking employment. Minutes pass. Weak daylight grows stronger through the barred windows high in the wall. Further down the line of pallets a man is stirring, and when he stands up I call out to him.
‘Are you going to work?’ I ask.
He does not answer, sliding into his jacket and coughing as he does so. I ask again, a little louder.
He turns in my direction. ‘Oh, it’s you. Are you talking to me?’ He coughs again and his lungs rattle.
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I am, then.’
‘Do they need men, where you work?’
‘Not likely. More men than jobs. You work with Alf, don’t you? Down the slaughter-yards?’
I am surprised by his knowledge, but answer yes quickly enough.
‘So you’ve got work.’
‘Not any more.’
‘You lost it?’
I nod.
‘How?’
I do not want to tell him what happened, but I cannot think of what else I might say.
‘You are a fool, then. And with something to hide. Don’t want one of them working at my place.’
He hacks, spits and grunts with satisfaction at the black oyster of phlegm on the floor. With no farewell, he leaves the cellar. I watch the rest of the men get up from their beds, one by one, until only the smallest handful of us remain.
I dread the day before me, wondering what I can do to fill up the hours, where I might find employment for my hands, for already they are raging in my jacket pockets, clenching and unclenching, worrying at loose threads in the weave, scratching, pulling, needling. I beg them to let me sleep away the time but they rove over the blanket plucking at lice and crushing them so intently I believe I kill every bug in my bedding. When that is done they trail at my sides, picking at splinters in the floorboards.
My mind wanders as aimlessly as my hands. I could follow someone to his place of employment and ask the gaffers if there is need for another man. If they say no, I can come back. I consider what might happen if they say yes. I know how to kill beeves: I do not know anything else. Will they, too, ask how I lost my job at the slaughter-house? My mind scrambles in search of answers, clattering inside the empty tin of myself until I am exhausted.
At last I fall into a drowse and am suddenly in a small room which sparkles with colour and prickles my nose with the scent of oil. Although it is not the place I sleep, it is very familiar. I feel a rippling run down my spine, and look down at my body, convinced I will discover some change, but I am the same. The walls are lined with clocks of all sizes and types: beehive, carriage, crystal regulator, Vienna regulator, drop trunk, lantern, long case, ogee, skeleton. I know the name of each one, and it fills me with the same pride I felt when I was One-Blow Abel.
I walk amongst them, stroking each cool face of glass, listening to its particular music. There is other music from the street outside: the voices of passers-by sing greetings to each other for such a delightful morning, and I understand each alien word as soon as it is uttered. There is the creaking of great wooden carts, air deliciously soft with the clean scent of horse dung, and further off the smell of a broad river, aching towards the sea.
I am entranced by these distractions but a moment, for a table appears before me, a common wooden thing spread with a smooth black cloth, and upon it lies a selection of wonderful objects: small wheels of brass, tiny golden cogs, miniature spindles and springs, and each thing sparkling in the sunlight which glances through the window.
I hunch over these treasures and place a glass lens over my eye, squinting my brow so that it does not fall. The objects leap into clear view, transformed into giants, such is the marvellous power of the eyepiece through which I peer.
My hands hover over the scattered pieces, tweezers poised. There is no anxiety, only an ache to be started. Begin, says the voice of my mind, and they fly to their work. I watch in amazement as they dart this way and that, full of deft comprehension. A wonderful machine forms itself on the table. I know the name of every part I place in its correct setting: engine, fusee, spring, pivot, curb, detent, verge-escapement; and in what seems to be a few moments the watch lies finished upon the tablecloth.
A gentle stroke and it begins to tick, a sound as musical as the voice of an angel. My mouth widens into a smile; my hands dance with pleasure, and the golden workings dance in turn. I need no other to admire my work, to partake in this pleasure.
I see the universe in miniature spin its orbits: as above, so below. A happiness soars within my breast: I taste delight, peace, understanding, and in it I find myself complete. It is brief, however. The eyeglass drops on to the table and I return to my habitual blank calmness. I sit thus a few moments longer, and then it occurs to me that I must be dreaming; but if so, why do I not awaken? I consider this, looking at the tobacco-stained walls, the chair in the corner which I do not favour because it rocks on the back leg; and it strikes me that this is no dream. I wonder what it might be.
It is a memory, speaks the voice. Like everything else.
A hand shakes me; I turn and am returned to the cellar.
‘Alfred?’ I say, for there is only one man who does this, and I delight in my cleverness in recalling his name so readily.
‘No, it’s bloody not. Shut your racket, shit-head. Going on with yourself like that. I’ve been slaving all night. Some of us want to sleep.’
I do not recognise the angry face pushed into mine; I sorely wish to return to the quiet room where I was happy and my hands knew what they were doing.
‘I am sorry,’ I say.
‘All right,’ he mutters, his anger spent. ‘Just keep it down.’
A clever thought comes to me. ‘What was I saying?’
‘Don’t know,’ he shrugs. ‘Wasn’t English. Thought you were English.’
‘I am,’ I say, and wonder if I am lying. ‘I have been to many places.’
This seems a safer answer.
‘Haven’t we all,’ he snorts. He returns to his mattress and is snoring within minutes.
Once more I am reduced to staring at the crackled plaster of the ceiling. Men come and go: the fellow who shook me out of my reverie leaves some time later with a comradely grunt in my direction; others return and sit about smoking, talking and sleeping. I wait for Alfred, full of excitement at the news about myself that I itch to tell him. At last he returns, his boots smelling of meat.
‘I am glad to see you,’ I say.
He smiles. ‘You seem happy: have you found work?’
‘No.’
‘Oh.’ The grin drifts from his face. ‘What have you done all day?’
‘I have been thinking.’
‘Thinking? Christ, Abel, you need money, not thoughts.’
‘But I have discovered something. It will bring money.’
He sighs. ‘What?’
‘Give me your watch.’
‘What? It has not worked for years.’
‘I want to look at it,’ I lie, and turn my face away.
‘Hell’s teeth, Abel,’ he moans, digging into his shirt and pulling out the battered creature.
He tosses the watch into my lap. It is not a costly piece, but it is the thing Alfred values most, and he keeps it close by him always. I prise it open, unscrew the plate with my fingernail and spill the parts on to my knees.
‘Abel!’ he shouts. ‘What in Christ’s name have you done? You bastard. It was my—’
His voice breaks off. I look at the confusing mass of metal pieces and feel a fearsome bafflement. What was I thinking? How can a slaughter-man understand the workings of a timepiece? All I have done is make my friend angry.
Then my hands stir, moving so fast I can barely make out what they are doing. I try to shove them into my pockets, but they will not obey me. I watch in amazement as I begin to put the pieces back together; blowing away dust, plucking a stiff straw from the palliasse beneath me and poking it into the little machine. I tell myself I must be making a mess
of Alfred’s watch, and he is already furious. After a short while my fingers cease their movement, and before me lies Alfred’s watch, reassembled and ticking.
‘I believe it is working again.’
He stares at it. ‘I believe it is. Damn you, Abel, where did you learn this?’
‘I do not remember.’
‘This is a great skill. I always knew you for a clever man.’
He does not ask me any more difficult questions; he simply smiles.
‘Abel, I’ve got an idea. Let us begin straightway.’ He clears his throat and shouts. ‘Does any man here have a broken watch?’
Most of them laugh, and remark how it would be a fine thing to own such a treasure, broken or not; but one of them approaches us.
‘It has never worked,’ he says, turning the object over in his hand. ‘And the man I got it from told me it never worked for him, neither.’
He rolls it over again, rubbing the scratched and cloudy glass with his thumb.
‘Do you wish to see a fine thing?’ says Alfred. ‘Give me the watch.’
The man is reluctant.
‘Come,’ Alfred encourages him. ‘There is no harm in it. I shall not spirit it away.’
The man gives up the watch, and Alfred passes it to me.
‘What?’ he exclaims. ‘You didn’t say anything about him touching it.’
‘Trust me.’
‘You, Alfred, I trust. That friend of yours … well, that is a different matter.’
‘I have seen him do this.’
Alfred places the watch in my hand. My fingers take this as permission and spring forth, pressing themselves about the silver case, finding straight away how to open it, tapping and coaxing and stroking the tiny brass wheels.
Once again, I watch my hands at work, moving with such confident facility that my eyes can scarcely follow. At one flick of my fingernail the wheels recommence their miniature revolutions. Alfred and the man gasp, for they have both been holding their breath. A crowd of men have gathered around, and one of them whistles. I cradle the machine a moment, for I am filled with an affection that is entirely familiar; it is a few moments before I can bear to close the case and return the watch.
‘It’s working!’ its owner exclaims. ‘I am sorry for doubting you.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I wouldn’t of thought it.’
‘It’s worth something now,’ says Alfred.
‘I’d best sell it then, before one of you bastards pinches it.’ He laughs, and we all laugh with him.
Alfred is cheerful for the rest of the evening. He stands at my side as I pay sixpence for my next night’s lodging: the fourpence the man gave me for mending his watch, and the twopence made up of the farthings other men in the cellar gave me – ‘for the entertainment’, as they put it. He goes out to bring in a jug of beer to celebrate my new-found skill. ‘And a special gift,’ he says. While he is gone, a stranger seats himself beside me, on Alfred’s mattress. He pushes out his hand, and I take it. He speaks in a language that I do not know.
‘Hoe gaat het?’ he says.
‘Alles goed?’ I reply, without thinking.
‘At last!’ he declares in his rolling tongue. ‘We are countrymen.’
‘Perhaps,’ I say, for it is best to agree with strangers for as long as is possible. ‘What makes you think so?’
‘I heard you talking in your sleep today. And now you greet me, and we are speaking. Where do you hail from?’ he continues.
The word appears in my mouth as soon as he asks the question. ‘Nijmegen,’ I say.
‘Ah, so beautiful,’ he sighs. ‘I have an aunt there: she married well.’
‘Ah,’ I agree, and nod. ‘Good luck to a woman who goes east.’ The proverb comes easily to my lips, though it is the first time I have heard it.
He laughs, wiping his eyes. ‘Good God, I’ve not heard that in years.’
‘Ah,’ I say again, with a lift of my eyebrows that I hope appears clever rather than confused.
My mind is tumbling. I am speaking a language I do not remember learning, and claiming to be a native of a foreign town I have never visited.
He continues to grin. ‘So what brings you to this place?’
‘Work,’ I say, more confidently. ‘I am a slaughter-man. I was a slaughter-man,’ I correct myself.
‘Ah, indeed?’ he says, smiling. ‘We are men of the world, are we not? You need say no more. These are troublesome times.’
I nod again, not understanding what is so troublesome.
‘I can mend watches,’ I offer, hoping to steer the conversation to an easier place.
‘A clock-mender! Of course, that is why you were in Nijmegen. You are a clever man, then!’
‘Such is luck and life,’ I say, the queer words coming easily to my mouth.
He pauses a little, as though to grasp what I am saying; then he laughs again, very loudly.
‘You are cheerful,’ I remark. ‘Every word I say, you laugh.’
‘My friend, please do not be offended. I mean no harm. It is a pleasure to speak with you. Truly, truly. It is just that you speak a little oddly.’
‘How so?’
He fights his smile. ‘I did not think Nijmegen so backward. No, I mean no insult. It is amusing, simply.’
‘In what way?’
‘The way you speak. It is so formal, so old-fashioned: many of your words have fallen out of use. I can understand you, but it is like listening to my grandfather. Did the Kabouters carry you away to their kingdom under the hill for a night that lasted a hundred years?’
‘Perhaps,’ I say, not having a better answer.
Alfred returns with the beer and a parcel under his arm. He stands to one side and clears his throat. The Dutchman looks at Alfred; Alfred looks at the Dutchman; and after a while the latter bids me a farewell, and stands.
‘I am going to have a pipe of tobacco. You are welcome to join me.’
‘I shall,’ I say. ‘In a little while.’
Alfred sits down.
‘Look. Take them,’ he says softly, pushing the bundle at me.
I open the sack to find a pair of boots.
‘They will fit. I took your old ones for size.’
They are dark brown, with new laces. The heels have been mended; the leather gleams with careful oiling.
‘Do you like them?’
‘They are very good.’
‘Look,’ he says. ‘They’ve been broken in. All the hard work’s been done for you. They’ll not pinch. The perfect boot.’
‘The perfect boot,’ I agree, and turn them round the better to inspect them.
‘And the heels.’
‘Yes, the heels. I believe the heels are the best part.’
His teeth shine in the lamplight. ‘Try them on,’ he gasps; then he adds, in a sterner voice, ‘To see what they are like.’
They fit well, and I say as much. Alfred rubs his hands together.
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘I am very stupid. I owe you money.’
‘No, you don’t. You gave it me to save up, don’t you recall?’
‘But these boots are very good. I did not give you this much.’
‘I got a good bargain on the old pair, once I’d polished them up a bit.’
‘Oh.’ I twist my feet around, enjoying the feel of these fine new boots. ‘But these are—’
‘I did not steal them, if that is what you mean.’
‘I did not mean that at all.’
His forehead is deeply creased. ‘Very well,’ he mumbles. ‘I put in some of my own money.’
‘Why would you want to do that?’ I ask.
‘Why? Is generosity against your sodding ideals, Mr High and Mighty?’
‘Shut up, you bastard,’ comes a shout from a few yards away.
Alfred peers into my face, sucking on his bottom lip. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says.
I do not understand what he is sorry for, but I know it would be a bad idea to ask. Then the right words co
me to me.
‘Thank you.’
He grunts, but will not look at me.
‘You are my friend,’ I add, laying my hand on his.
‘Not here,’ he growls.
I wonder where would be better. Again, I do not ask.
‘Anyhow,’ he says. ‘What was all that about before? What were you saying to that fellow? I didn’t understand a word of it.’
‘We were talking about Nijmegen.’
‘What?’
‘It is a town, in Holland. I lived there.’ The words become truth the moment I speak them. ‘That’s where I learned how to mend clocks.’
‘You never told me that. Why did you not tell me?’
‘I did not remember until today.’
‘But I’ve heard you speak Italian – all the men here have.’
‘They have.’
‘So, which is it? Dutch or Italian?’
‘Both?’
It seems true. He looks at me awhile.
‘I do not understand you, Abel. Sometimes I do not think I know you at all.’
He drinks the beer and we do not speak again that evening.
I lie awake, staring into the darkness, listening to the snorts and grunts of my fellows, breathing out heavy night’s-breath. They have no trouble remembering who they are and where they are, for they never stop talking of wives, lovers, whores, children, themselves as children, their homes. But my mouth struggles to shape the words. It is as though I have never had to use them.
I consider the discoveries I am making about myself. I drowned in a river and lived against all the odds. I cut myself open and healed straight away – indeed, it seems that however mortally I injure myself, I heal. Now I seem to have found recollections of a life as a clock-mender in Holland. I have no idea how I came from that country to this, but I reason that because a sea divides one from the other, then I must have travelled by boat.
I push and the memory pushes back, forcing me away. I feel a stirring of fear that there is more to be uncovered: I know not what. I am swelling up with secrets and wonder how much more I can be filled before I burst. I wish Alfred would listen to me.
The Palace of Curiosities Page 8