The Clockwork Man (5 page)

This afternoon Herr Gruber entertained his two gentlemen from America, who represent a large research and manufacturing concern based in Detroit. He deeply admires the work of the elder, a greatmind credited with hundreds of inventions, most notably harnessing electric light in a small glass bulb, which the Master predicts will soon replace all the gaslights on our city streets. I have seen this creation, and despite its ingenuity, I will be sad to see the warmth of our gaslights vanish in favor of the harsh glare of that little bulb. The great inventor was a stately, courteous man of middle age, balding, immaculately dressed, with a slight hearing impairment—the Master and I often had to repeat ourselves for his sake. His junior counterpart was a small, wiry man with a deep brow, sunken eyes, and a wide, well-lined forehead who overenunciated when he spoke, perhaps as a concession to his companion’s disability.

As per our custom, while waiting for Fräulein Gruenwald to serve dinner, Giselle poured coffee while the Master conversed with the two men and allowed them to examine me.

“Absolutely remarkable,” Herr Edison, the elder, said as he looked over every joint, my winding key, the detail in my face. “I wouldn’t even have imagined it could be done.”

I thanked him, rather loudly so he might hear; he was startled at first, as if he was unsure where the voice had come from, then turned to me and smiled. “I’m terribly sorry, dear boy. How rude of me to talk about you as if you’re not here.”

“Not at all, Mein Herr,” I said. I am accustomed (if not always pleased) to being a silent party at such gatherings and took no offense.

Herr Edison was courteous in every respect, asking me about my interests, my duties around the household, my travels with the Master. However, his associate, a man named Ford, looked me over in painstaking detail, making little attempt at conversation. In hindsight, I believe his behavior was inappropriate for aguest. Upon entering the Master’s home he had kissed Giselle’s cheek, and afterward persisted in calling her “sweetie.” He pressed the Master on how many individual parts I contained, the time involved in my construction, whether he had considered alternate methods of locomotion, such as steam or internal combustion. (In fact, for the reader’s own gratification, he had: my design is a small nod to sentiment.) The Master replied patiently, careful not to offer too much information, but the irritation began to creep across his features—an alarming sight, the crinkles in his brow deepening, his sentences grumbled and short. I have witnessed this expression once or twice after muddying my garments or dropping fine crystal, and attempt to avoid it whenever possible.

After Fräulein Gruenwald rang the dinner bell, the Master and Herr Edison carried their conversation to the dining hall, while Herr Ford continued to tap at my chest cavity, remove my bowler hat to look underneath, lift my trouser legs to tap at my ankles. Far be it from me to excoriate such a distinguished visitor, Herr Wellesley, but as you asked for some measure of candor, I must confess I found his meticulous examination tiresome. The Master’s tutelage has included not only history and mathematics, but also bearing and protocol—he has insisted I become a perfect German gentleman, as, since I so often meet with foreign dignitaries, I represent both his work and my country. I am sad to say, such training was wasted on Herr Ford, who seemed only to see the machine before him.

“May I help you?” I finally asked, but he said no, he was simply testing my sturdiness. “Very solid,” he said. “Fine workmanship.” He was about to undo the buttons on my waistcoat when Herr Edison called from the dining hall. (In this I feel fortunate, for nothing in my experience suggested what I ought to do had he persisted.)

I believe the Master would have been content to continue his lively chat with Herr Edison in the absence of his companion; the two got on rather well, and were sharing their philosophies on the inventive process when Herr Ford entered, at which point the Master’s deep, boisterous voice grew quieter.

It was my honor to personally serve the men their dinner of stuffed beef rolls, roasted potatoes, and spiced cabbage, seeing to their needs while they ate and talked. Throughout the dinner it became clear that the Master was unimpressed by Herr Ford, who talked, cumulatively, for one hour and twenty minutes about his horseless carriage—or “quadricycle,” as he called it—which he hoped to one day produce in large enough numbers to be commercially profitable. The idea amused the Master, who delighted in informing Herr Ford that several German inventors had already developed similar creations. Herr Ford conceded this point; however, he insisted his means of production, using assembly lines and interchangeable parts, would be the key to his success. The Master scoffed at this. “Where’s the
art
in it, my friend?” he asked.

“I leave the art to artists such as yourself,” Herr Ford replied. “The working man would rather have something practical.”

The Master took a long sip of his wine. “But if you make thousands of them, how can they be special?”

The question seemed to stall Herr Ford, as he paused his chewing for a moment to consider. “Well, every man on his block will want to be the first to have one. I’d say that’s pretty special.”

The Master merely grumbled and resumed eating.

Over the course of the evening the Master’s irritation grew, particularly when Herr Ford expressed his dislike of Jews, and postulated his theories about a vast international political and economic Jewish conspiracy. (I once asked the Master to explain that particular distaste, which seems to be prevalent in our land. He merely sighed and replied, “I don’t understand it either.”)

After dinner the Master and his two guests retired to the sitting room to smoke cigars and drink
Apfelwein
, and the mood seemed to relax. Herr Edison asked his coachmen to retrieve a large canvas-swaddled parcel from the carriage, directing them to set it next to the coffee table. He unveiled the package himself: a large cabinet of rough pine, angled on top like a cottage roof, with a small chrome eyepiece near its apex. Beaming, Herr Edison invited the Master to have a look. As Herr Edison instructed, the Master peered through the eyepiece for forty-five seconds, then straightened himself, a broad smile washing across his face. “Stunning,” he said.

“We’re calling it a Kinetoscope,” Herr Edison said proudly. “We’ve been working on them for a while. Should be on the market in a year or two.”

I was somewhat curious as the three men took turns gazing into the silvery eyepiece, at what the Master later described as the flickering image of a pony galloping across a pasture, ultimately leaping over a wooden fence. It must have been a fascinating sight, as the Master laughed with delight each time he peered into the lens.

“It’s yours,” Herr Edison finally said to the Master, “in return for the privilege of meeting Ernst here, and for listening to a little proposition. You’d be the first person outside the company to have one. We brought several more reels—all sorts of different moving pictures.”

The Master was deeply moved that Herr Edison had shared hismagnificent invention, but declined. “Very generous. But this is too precious to accept.”

Herr Edison tried to change his mind, but the Master would not relent. “Suit yourself,” Edison said with a smile. “In a year or two we’ll be charging three hundred dollars apiece for these.”

The Master shook his head. “Some things you cannot put a price on.”

“Interesting philosophy,” Herr Edison replied, smiling.

The three men drank more wine, discussing the commercial potential of the motion-picture cabinet, when Herr Edison changed the subject. “Mr. Gruber, have you ever considered taking out a patent on Ernst here? You could pull in quite a profit putting him on the market. Machines like him would be in great demand for factory work or household labor. You’d only need the facilities to make them, and of course, someone to sell them. And Henry here is an expert at marketing all sorts of gadgets.”

At first the Master appeared startled, as if the suggestion offended him, but his smile soon returned. “Never. I would sooner chop him up with an ax than make cheap copies of him to be someone’s windup butler.” I took the compliment for what it was.

“Pity,” Herr Ford said. “I’d love to tackle a project like that.”

Herr Edison laughed. “Leave him be, Henry. The man has his principles.” He tipped his glass to finish off the thick, clear wine. “You’re a dying breed, Gruber. A true artist. But you know that, don’t you?”

The Master nodded reluctantly and laughed.

The Americans stayed another hour and then took their leave politely, the coachmen carrying the motion-picture cabinet behindthem. In parting, Herr Edison invited the Master to write him should he change his mind.

“I could do without that Ford fellow,” Herr Gruber said as we watched the carriage recede down the cobblestone street. “But Herr Edison is a brilliant man and a great gentleman.” He turned to me and smiled. “You did well today. They were impressed with you.”

I thanked him and began clearing the coffee table.

The Master and I are on a train bound for Dresden, the first of many stops on this particular journey. He awoke at 5:37 this morning and attempted to rouse himself with a pot of very strong black coffee Fräulein Gruenwald brewed for him, though he was not entirely successful. Thus, he is currently asleep on the bench in our passenger cabin, his head resting on my shoulder (a rarity, as he generally cannot sleep on trains). Due to the nature of his profession, the Master is not an early riser; rather, he prefers to work well into the night and sleep until at least eleven o’clock, even on weekdays. It is one of the reasons he ultimately hired Fräulein Gruenwald, lest he be unavailable to prepare the children for school in the morning. While Giselle is reasonably self-sufficient, Jakob has proven extremely difficult to pry from his bed in the morning. I have tried on numerous occasions, only to be met with a pillow to the head, and Jakob wrapping himself in a nearly impenetrable cocoon of blankets.

But this morning both the Master’s children woke early to wish him good-bye, Giselle in her nightgown and slippers, and wideawake (having drunk two cups of the coffee herself), Jakob in his nightshirt and dressing gown drowsing at the dining room table. We will be gone for several weeks, and while the Master regrets having to be away from them for so long, he insists they must not be pulled from their studies. In any case, he is confident they will be well in Fräulein Gruenwald’s care.

As the Master gathered his notes and blueprints into an ancient briefcase of cracked, brown leather, Jakob shuffled up to me, smiling curiously though his eyes were half-closed, and tugged on my sleeve.

“Ernst,” he said, “I have something for you to take on your trip.”

“How very thoughtful of you.”

He began to giggle and pulled from his pocket a moist handkerchief. “For you. I blew my nose on it when I got up.”

As I did not know how else to respond, I simply said, “Thank you,” and placed it in my hip pocket. His answer—a drawn-out, sleepy, “Eeeeeewwwwwww,” suggested this was not the proper thing to do.

Giselle, who had witnessed our exchange, shook her head and sighed loudly. “Animal,” she said, drawing the used handkerchief from my pocket with two fingers and throwing it back at him. “Go back to bed.”

“I will, when Father leaves,” he said.

She looked back at me, rolling her eyes. “I’m sorry Jakob is such a beast. Catch me.” She abruptly leaped into my arms, grasping my neck in a tight embrace. “I hope you enjoy your trip. I’ll miss you.”

“And I you.”

Jakob laughed. “Giselle’s in love with Ernst,” he said teasingly.

“Oh, stop it,” she said. Turning back to me, she smiled broadly. “I’ll have something for you when you come back home.”

“Thank you.” I suspect she means the collage of me, and if so I look forward to seeing it.

Once the Master had gathered up all his essential documents, Fräulein Gruenwald wrapped his coat around his shoulders. “Do enjoy your trip, Mein Herr,” she said. “And do write this time. The children so look forward to your letters.”

“I won’t forget,” the Master said. He called Giselle and Jakob to him, embracing each in turn, telling them he would miss them. Then, when he was ready, I picked up his luggage and carried it to the carriage outside. As we boarded the carriage a light rain began to fall, despite the patches of early morning sunlight, and the color of the world seemed muted but for my final memory of the Master’s home: Giselle in the doorway waving good-bye, the sunlight falling upon her in such a way that her skin, her hair, and the white fabric of her nightgown filled my vision with brilliant color.

It has been some time since my last entry, and thus I must ask forgiveness for my dereliction; my travels with the Master have, for the past three weeks, been quite extensive, and I have been much distracted. But I mean to correct that, beginning here. Herr Gruber believes this experience will allow me to become a more well-rounded being, and thus far I have been given every reason to believe him. I have seen magnificent things, which I will, to the best of my powers of description, attempt to put into words.

We first traveled by train to Dresden, where for several days the Master surveyed locations for a clock commissioned by the city. This proved to be something of a challenge, as the buildings are squeezed together so densely; while this has been a hindrance to him, after surveying the city with him from a hilltop and seeing the intimate clusters of homes and shops, I find its arrangement somehow comforting.

Because his view from a carriage would be skewed, we walkedthe old narrow streets for several days before he decided on a spot near the
Frauenkirche
, an immense domed Baroque church with a bell tower that seemed to touch the sky itself. Perhaps a block away, there is a small thirty-by-forty grassy knoll which he believes will be perfect for his clock—a trio of ballerinas who, at the noon hour, circle one another in a series of pirouettes to Beethoven’s
Moonlight Sonata
. I had seen photographs of the city’s great arched bridges and stately theaters in books, but those fuzzy gray stills cannot capture the majesty of the real thing.