The Clockwork Man (24 page)

Herr Greeley worked at my repairs from the moment we arrived, stopping only when the tools slipped from his hands and his eyes began to close of their own accord. He chided me only once, soon after he first began. “I told you not to mess around with those boys. You got to
listen
to me.”

I have instructed Greeley as best I can on how to peel back my suede skin and access the parts beneath. Before the Master’s committal, I was able to glean from him some understanding of my anatomy and the connections that bind my parts together. Using cast-off bolts and screws, an old wrench that is far too large to be truly effective, and several pairs of rusty pliers, I guided him toward restoring at least some normal motion to my left arm and shoulder. He muttered under his breath as he worked, swearing revenge on those who assaulted me.

His repairs are tenuous at best, and I find my left side held together by ill-fitting nuts and bolts, many of which are so old and rusted that they might crumble at the slightest pressure. I still sense a slight rattling in my chest cavity should I turn too abruptly. My eye, I fear, is beyond the skill of either of us to repair, its mechanisms too complex and delicate for such patchwork. But I am grateful for Greeley’s aid, and his friendship, without which I would surely be lost.

Now that he has fallen asleep I can only sit here and wait until he is ready to resume his work; thus, I have time to ponder my course. I could, as the hallucinatory image of Giselle indicated, forgo any further pursuit of the florist and his accomplices, having at least tried to foil them; by her reckoning, honor has been satisfied, and I have no interest in personal vengeance. Yet I find the idea of allowing such evil to go unchecked difficult to accept. I should very much like the Master’s counsel, but he is gone now, and I am filled with doubt. Judging from the slowness of my repairs, I suspect I shall have much time to think on it.

It has been a trying day for both Herr Greeley and myself.

For the moment he has abandoned me in the garage, to, as he put it, “step off.” I regret that I have placed so great a burden on him, but I am unable to complete certain self-repair tasks alone—my reach is limited, as is the dexterity of my fingers. (The Master had always intended to address this, so that I might one day fully maintain myself, but circumstances prevented him from completing this task.)

Though Greeley has been diligent, the tedious work has left him a bit gruff and prone to long episodes of profanity; one of the few remaining windows is now jagged and broken in its sill, the victim of Greeley’s frustration in finding a proper nut to fit my shoulder joint. (Fortunately the steel swivels were undamaged, as we have nothing here to replace them.) In addition to restoring movement in my left arm, he has refastened my neck and shoulder on the right side—at best, difficult spots to reach and manipulate. I must confess to a certain stiffness of movement—Frau Gruber often complained of arthritis, and I believe this may be comparable—but given that I could not turn my head ten hours ago, the improvement is most welcome.

I do not blame him for withdrawing from this place, though I do not know for certain that he will return, in light of the most recent exchange between us. While most of our interaction has involved Greeley following my instructions, we did have a rather unpleasant argument this afternoon. At first, I believe the shock of seeing me so incapacitated was enough to inspire him to his task. But as he was finishing with my elbow joint, he finally asked why I had been outside in the first place.

Though I am unskilled, I attempted to lie so as not to offend his sensitive temperament. “I needed some air,” I told him, after some thought. I have heard many use this excuse in the past, and thought he might find it acceptable.

Greeley was unconvinced. “Bullshit,” he said, giving a hard tug on a nut in my shoulder. “You don’t need no air. I ain’t even heard you breathe since I found you.”

This was, of course, true, and I must admit I underestimated his powers of observation. Indeed, the Master once tried to fit me with a pair of artificial lungs—nonfunctional, of course, but enough to give the illusion of breath. He abandoned the modification soon after; the sound was tinny, ominous, and the first time I emerged from the cellar it drove Jakob, then seven, to run to his room screaming.

“You are right, of course. Forgive me. I thought I heard someone in danger, and went outside to investigate.”

Greeley did not react, but instead kept twisting the rusty pliers. “Well, ain’t that interestin’,” he mumbled. “Heard it that far out, huh?” Finally he ceased turning the pliers and stared into my one remaining eye. “Why you lyin’ to Greeley? You went lookin’ for that florist fella, didn’t you? Even after all I told you.”

“I did not.” There was no point continuing to lie, so I offered him the truth. “I was going back to Herr Linnhoffer.”

Greeley’s eyes went wide, and he slammed the pliers on the cement floor. “You
what?
Have you lost your goddamn mind?”

“I saw no other way. There is nothing left for me to go home to.”

“Dere eest’nt, huh?” he said, mocking my accent. “Don’t you give me that. After all I done to keep you free, you just wanna be a slave again. Is that right?”

As I have mentioned previously, the only time I have ever truly been offended was when the gentleman in Prague referred to me in such terms, and to hear it again was disturbing at best. “I am no slave,” I said firmly. I attempted to rise to my feet, but my leg was still too damaged and I could do no more than sit up awkwardly.

Greeley laughed cruelly. “Yeah, right. You wanna go back to that ol’ boy and do whatever tricks he tells you, and say ‘Yassir, Nossir’ all the time. Sounds like a damned slave to me.”

“It is more complicated than that.”

“Guess I just don’t get it,” he grunted. “You didn’t even trust ol’ Greeley enough to tell me, did you? You was just gonna walk right on out.”

“I left a note,” I said, drawing it from my pocket and holding it out to him. “I am sorry for lying to you.”

“Whatever,” he said, snatching the note roughly. “I’m outta here. You can fix your damn self for all I care.”

“Where are you going?” I asked as he lifted himself painfully to his feet and started for the door.

“Out for some air.” He stood at the door, unfolded the note I had left him. He stopped momentarily, as if he might turn back around, then shook his head and stepped out onto the sidewalk.

Since that time I have been alone, sitting spread-eagled on the oil-stained floor. I fear I have so offended Greeley that I have lost my only ally in this new world, and I must wonder if I ought to have acted differently. There are, of course, more practical matters to consider; I am not yet repaired, and thus vulnerable to discovery by anyone who might happen upon this place. (The dilemma ismade worse by my inability to find my left foot, which Greeley had detached in order to inspect the screw holes and ball bearing.)

One thing is clear: I must complete the task alone now, repairing my damaged body as best I can. Call it pride if you must, but I will not present myself to Herr Linnhoffer in my current state, to be restored by hands far less skilled than the Master’s. I do not relish the tedious, delicate work that awaits me, particularly knowing it only delays my inevitable loss of liberty.

Whatever awaits, I shall endure it.

I am revealed.

Yet this is not the disaster I had feared, but rather an immense relief.

I had no expectation of Herr Greeley’s return. As I indicated in the previous entry, by my departure I had violated his trust and shown a lack of appreciation for his efforts to keep me from the authorities. He has indeed returned—but not alone.

At 10:17 this morning, I heard a fumbling at the entrance. I could not see the door, having propped myself up in the back corner to better reach my damaged knee, and I assumed a policeman or perhaps some agent of Herr Linnhoffer had finally discovered my hiding place. I attempted to get up, so as to meet him with some semblance of dignity, but because of my misplaced foot, could manage no more than a kneeling position.

“Hello? Anybody there?” The voice was Herr Greeley’s.

I called out my location to him, and he shuffled to me through the discarded, rusty nuts and screws that pepper the floor.

“Oh, jeez,” he said, holding up the foot. “You a mess. You still tryin’ to fix yourself?”

“Yes.” Though I had made little progress. I had partially refastened my ankle during the night, but my leg and hip were still floating nearly free in their sockets.

“Guess you ain’t as mechanically inclined as ol’ Greeley.”

“Thank you for coming back.”

He smiled. “Couldn’t very well leave you like that. It ain’t safe here.”

From the doorway I heard another man’s gravelly voice, which I recognized as that of Greeley’s associate Vernon, who had briefly stopped by the car wash. “Hey, Greeley? You in here?”

“Yeah!” he called out. “Just gimme a second.”

For a moment I felt a great and inexplicable heaviness, believing Greeley was exacting revenge for my lack of trust by offering me up as a spectacle to his disbelieving friends. I saw no feasible means of escape. “Greeley,” I said, looking up at him, “what have you done?”

I began to drag myself along the floor, but he reached out and took hold of my shoulder. “Don’t freak out,” he said. “You too messed up for me to fix by myself. I went to the shelter to get some help.”

“But if they know …” I began.

“They good people,” he reassured me. “I only told the ones I could trust. You ain’t got nothin’ to worry about.”

As he finished, Vernon came through the doorway, carrying a large metal tool kit with the shelter’s name and insignia marked on it. As his eyes fell upon me he stopped, and the toolbox fell to the concrete floor. “Well, I’ll be goddamned,” he said. “Is he for real?”

Greeley looked into my remaining eye and smiled. “He’s for real, all right.”

I raised myself to my good knee. “Hello. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” I held out my good arm; though his hand was trembling, Vernon reached out and gave my hand a quick, hesitant shake.

A moment later three other people from the shelter, all dressed in soiled, shoddy clothing, entered, with much the same reaction—not so much one of fear, but rather like the nearly childlike curiosity the people of Sachsenhausen showed when they looked upon me. I had not seen such expressions in a long time, and it pleased me to see their awed smiles.

The girl named Carrie, in particular, seemed quite fascinated—fearful at first, but within minutes she could not avert her eyes from me.

I finally turned to her and said, “Hello.” Her face erupted in a huge smile.

As Greeley made his formal introductions, the door swung open once more, and Sister Judith entered, her nun’s habit a stark contrast to her companions’ attire. She stared at me for several seconds as if she did not know what she was seeing; the others looked on, as if to see what reaction she might have. Finally, her face softened into a gentle smile. “Hello again, Ernst,” she said. “We don’t have much, but we’re here to help.”

“Thank you.”

“And don’t worry,” she added. “We’ll never tell.”

From Greeley’s explanation I gathered he had taken my foot as proof in the event that Sister Judith and his friends maintained their disbelief. Later in the evening he explained to me that he had a change of heart, and had begged his associates for help; the job was too big for either of us. The price, of course, was my discovery, but I had always assumed this was inevitable.

For the next several hours Greeley and his five associates went to work on me, tightening and refastening and replacing some of the old screws and nuts we had found in this shop, and which had already nearly crumbled with age and rust. I offered directions, but in the short time I have known him, Greeley seems to have acquired a near-intimate knowledge of my construction. While it was unnerving to have so many strangers look upon my exposed chassis, under Greeley’s supervision they had managed to restore all the movement I had previously lost. They would stare as I tested each repaired joint, marveling at my dexterity and (most likely) my novelty. With some satisfaction, I can say I have regained all the mobility I had lost at the hands of the florist and his companions—in fact, my wrist is now as flexible as it was under the Master’s care. This was Carrie’s handiwork. Slight, thin but with a wiry strength, she seems quite mechanically gifted, and though I began to explain to her the various connections of the joint, she stopped me with a firm “I got it” and would not be distracted from her work. Once she had finished, she drew her hands through her sweat-dampened hair, smiled proudly, and said, “Try it.” It moved and swiveled in its socket like it was new.

Within three hours, their care had restored me to nearly normal function. Sadly, my eye is damaged far beyond the skill of Greeley or his friends. It is, I think, simply another limitation I shall have to learn to accept.

Yet, appreciative as I was of their tireless help, I was most comforted by the constant, reassuring presence of Sister Judith, who heldmy undamaged hand during the whole process, without any hesitation or fear. Once the last screws and ball bearings were in place, it was she who laid white tape over my cracked and mangled eye ever so gently, like a nurse tending to an invalid.

“There now,” she said. “No need to feel self-conscious about it.”

When I finally rose to my feet, Greeley, Sister Judith, and the others erupted in applause. (It occurs to me now that this was probably unwise, threatening to attract undesired attention, but everyone was caught up in the spirit of the moment.)

She passed out sandwiches to Greeley and the rest, and as they ate, some of them asked me with mouths full to tell them all about myself—my strength, my construction, the mechanisms which make me “work,” what events sent me on this strange journey to this place. One, an elderly Negro named Clem, asked the time every few minutes, seeking to test me. I answered each question in as much detail as I was able; I believe I owed them that, at the least.