The Clockwork Man (17 page)

“Oh, Christ!” he screamed, crawling away from me along the ground. For a moment I feared he might regain his courage and rush me once more, thus provoking me into additional physical confrontation, but instead he pulled himself to his feet and ran out into the street.

I then turned my attention to the Negro picking himself up off the ground, clutching his bag to his chest. I could not see his face.

“Thank you, my man,” he said.

“Are you hurt?” I asked him.

The man patted his sides and chest, as if to test them for injury. “Nope,” he said. “I’m okay. Thanks again, man.” I wished him a good night and tried my best to disappear into the shadows before he saw my face. But a swathe of moonlight fell over my face, and I saw his mouth drop open and his eyes grow wide. “Aw, hell—it’s you!” he shouted, trying to scramble away. “Don’t kill me! I’m sorry I bugged you before!” He stepped back slowly. Taking his bag by the strap, he swung it wildly in front of him. I was in no immediate danger, as he was too far away to hit anything.

“Do not be afraid,” I said, and stepped into the dim light.

For a moment he stopped swinging the bag. Out of respect I removed my hat, at which point, perhaps startled by my sudden movement, he backed up against the metal wall, holding the bag defensively in the air.

I began to fear that he might attack in self-defense, and in his desperation seriously injure himself. “Please,” I said, trying to diffuse the situation. “I am not going to hurt you.”

He gradually lowered his bag, with some apprehension, as if in a moment I might grab it and bludgeon him.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

He stared into my face for a moment, then smiled and began jumping in place. “Ha-ha! I knew you was alive! I knew it! Everybody thought I was crazy!”

“You are not. My name is Ernst.”

“Greeley,” he said, offering his hand, which I shook. “Er-nest, huh?”

“Ernst,” I corrected him.

“That’s what I said.” (He has continued to mispronounce my name as “Ernest” since then; I suspect I will simply have to accept it.)

Once our awkward introduction had passed, he followed me back to the service station (which, according to Herr Greeley, is more appropriately called a “garage”), where I recounted my escape from the display window, and asked that he not tell anyone he had seen me, at least for now. At first he balked most vehemently at my request, issuing several expletives, kicking rusted tools across the floor, and pounding the wall with his fist, and I became concerned he might give away my presence. His anger may be justified; because of his stories about me, everyone he knew believed him insane. I was tobe his vindication. Finally, after I explained that I would likely be taken apart if found, and promised to let him introduce me to his associates when the situation was less urgent, he seemed to understand.

“I gotcha,” he said. “They been after me too. Probably do the same thing if they catch me. Just remember, you promised.” Once we had reached an understanding, and shaken hands on it, he unzipped his faded bag and began to rummage through it, laying on the ground before him a small folded wad of currency, a roll of thin paper, a red-and-white can of chicken-noodle soup. “There you are,” he finally mumbled, and drew out a paper-wrapped sandwich, which he had obtained from a local shelter some three days before. He offered me half and seemed fascinated when I declined, and asked if I ate metal instead. Seated cross-legged on the floor, he ate as I told him about Frankfurt, the Master, and my experiences before my long sleep.

When I told him of Giselle, he looked sadly down at the floor. “I’m sorry,” he said. “She musta been a sweet girl.”

“She was beautiful.”

From our conversation I gather he has led an interesting life, full of adventure. He is, he says, a former boxer, still possessing a left hook capable of knocking me, as he put it, “into next week.” He is also a former soldier, like the Master, a veteran of the war in a place called Eye-rak, where he claims to have killed a man with his bare hands, and was quite the ladies’ man among the female soldiers. He has not as yet revealed to me the reason for his transience, and I think it impolite to ask. From time to time his face contorts strangely, and he begins to look about nervously, as if he believes something is about to happen—“they” are looking for him, and so by night hemust conceal himself. (He was unclear of the identity of this clandestine group, but seems quite adamant that the consequences will be grave if they find him.)

“I’m an American citizen,” he said rather gruffly, “and it’s a damn shame I have to be on the run like this. A damn shame.”

For the past two years he has been a denizen of this city, which he tells me is called Milwaukee. (Unfortunately, my education on American geography is incomplete, and I am unfamiliar with this place, but I may soon tap him for more knowledge.) He was unaware of the exact date—his estimates range from 1492 to 1967, to 2525, upon which he burst into song—but claims to be given free newspapers at a local newsstand, and is out procuring one for me as I write these lines.

I should indicate that I do not completely accept his claims; the Master deeply wished to cure me of my gullibility, that I might more securely hold the knowledge of my construction. Herr Greeley’s speech is sometimes slurred, and at times he ceases to make sense during conversation; his behavior reminds me of the Master’s before he was taken away, and I suspect he may be slightly unbalanced; this may be why he has accepted me without apprehension, and I can only hope he does not dismiss our encounter as a hallucination. I will approach this new association with caution, but thus far he appears sincere enough. In fact, now that the initial shock of our meeting is over, he seems delighted that his suspicions about me were correct, and repeatedly asks me about my bodily functions, my strength, my speech. He once even asked to hear a bit of German. It is almost as if I am talking to Jakob again, before his cruel tricks began.

Herr Greeley has promised me a nighttime tour of this city, and assures me we will go unnoticed if I closely follow his lead. Shouldhe return I would very much like that. It may even help me to find the answers I seek.

As the heading of this entry indicates, I have finally determined the date. It is a hard, hard thing to realize how much time has actually passed—to be precise, one hundred thirteen years, one hundred twenty-two days, twelve hours, and twenty-seven minutes since my last conscious moments in the Master’s home. The Master was always keen on monitoring my development, asking me to note each new sensation; in my time with him I registered what might be called contentment, joy, sorrow, and even despair. But there are no words for this.

It has been three days since Herr Greeley brought me the newspaper that led to this discovery: a two-day-old edition bearing the headline,
Clockwork Man Stolen
. At first, having realized just how much time had passed, I paid no attention to the article itself. I have yet to completely register the truth—that the Master, Jakob, Fräulein Gruenwald, and all the people I knew, are long dead, and that history counts me a fraud. By that reckoning, the addressee of this volume is also long deceased, this exercise rendered meaningless. Yet I hope that writing these lines may help me sort out my confusion, and might one day aid me in finally accepting what has transpired. Should the opportunity arise, I promise it will yet reach the hands of Professor Wellesley’s successors, and hope they will still find value in it.

I have barely spoken to Herr Greeley since the initial discovery, having explained to him the reason for my current state, and have asked him for solitude. He has returned briefly for the past two nights to check on me—whether out of loyalty or to make sure his mechanical man is not a hallucination, I do not know.

To say the least, I did not take the news well. I have twice attempted to return to an inanimate state, neglecting to wind myself after Herr Greeley left this garage. The first attempt was a mere three hours, thirty-seven minutes after the discovery. Once my gears and cogs slowed, the soft ticking faltering and then coming to a halt, I simply winked out. I did not revisit my memories of Giselle, preoccupied as I was; yet I held a small hope that her errant image might return and speak to me before the end, either through the memory of our embrace in the attic, or as a dancing figure in the snow. It did not.

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.

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.”