Because my treatment has been of such great concern to you, I should indicate that I was not offended. Herr Gruber is a religious man, his views grounded in strict principle, and he has never filled my head with the illusion that I am somehow the equal of living beings. I do not believe the matter is worth further consideration, and thus offered not a word in protest.
Later that afternoon the Master instructed me to accompany the children into the park along the Main, near the Iron Bridge. The autumn leaves are quite breathtaking in this part of Germany, with reds and oranges as vibrant as any painting, though this fall has been my first opportunity to truly experience their color. I am something of a work-in-progress, owing my newfound vision to a pair of blue marble-housed eyes the Master designed for me as a gift last Christmas; previously, I possessed two different sets of eyes, the first allowing me to see in gray scale, the second in sepia tones. These new models, he says, allow me to see color as precisely as any person—perhaps even better—and bear reflective coatings to allow me to see in the dark. They are, Giselle tells me, also quite striking in color themselves, though I have never stared into a mirror long enough to admire their hue—there are too many other things to see.
Giselle wished to collect a few of the fallen leaves to preserve for an art project for school, and so I followed, carrying a small burlap potato sack in which to store them. Jakob followed at some distance, flying a kite she had made him out of skewers and wax paper from the kitchen.
Giselle knelt beneath the elm trees, her skirt and red-gold hair billowing behind her in the gentle breeze, carefully selecting specimens for her endeavor. Every so often she found leaves with particularly complex vein patterns, and held them up for me to see. “Maybe I’ll do a collage of you all in leaves to decorate that cubby of yours. Would you like that?”
“Very much,” I said.
As we selected leaves for her project, the wind blew Jakob’s makeshift kite into the high shedding branches. He stood beneath the tree, grinning curiously out of one corner of his mouth.
“You did that on purpose,” Giselle said.
“Did not.” He turned to me. “Climb up and get it.”
“Get it yourself,” Giselle said. “I won’t make you another one.”
Jakob laughed. “It’s too high. I want Ernst to get it for me.” He turned to me. “You’re not afraid, are you?”
“Not at all.” I had never climbed a tree before, and was not certain I had the faculties to do so, but the Master clearly stated I was to obey the children’s wishes so long as they were not unreasonable. (I am to exercise my own discretion as to what this means.) So I took hold of a low, sturdy branch and hoisted myself up.
“Come down, Ernst,” Giselle said. “He’s playing with you.”
I called down that I was fine, and after finding my footing was making slow but steady progress up the tree, the limbs bending under my weight. I was an arm’s length away from the kite when a branch cracked and gave way; I lost my balance and fell like a stone to the ground.
Giselle ran to me immediately, asking me to speak, to bend my elbows and fingers. I rose to my feet—still something of a struggle, despite my constant practice—and brushed the yellowed grass off my jacket. My houndstooth suit was covered with pale dust, and I noticed a large dent in my lower back. I had fallen on an exposed root, and felt an unpleasant, nagging pressure on that spot (while I feel no “pain,” as you might describe it, the vast network of thin wires beneath my skin does give me some sensation). I was otherwise undamaged. I am built sturdily, with an outer shell of thick tin and an interior skeleton of nickel and steel, which is fortunate, as I have yet to attain what one might call “grace.”
Laughing, Jakob tugged at the kite, pulling it free. It fluttered down from the branches and landed at my feet. Giselle was furious. She ordered him to follow us home and promised to tell her father what he had done. He ran ahead of us toward the Master’s house, the kite under his arm, giggling the whole way.
Giselle stroked my arm with her soft hands, rested her head against my shoulder. She seemed ready to cry. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” I said. “But the Master will be very upset with me.”
“I’ll clean you up. Father won’t be angry once I tell him what Jakob did.”
“Thank you.”
She took my hand and led me back to the Master’s workshop. “I’m so sorry, Ernst. No one should treat you like that.”
As I feared, the Master’s anger was considerable. I had taken a great risk, and could have been severely damaged. He warned me, rather sternly, that I ought to exercise my judgment more carefully—what use was giving me the capacity to think if I refused to use it? Thankfully, my design is durable, the dent only superficial. As of this writing Jakob is still in his room awaiting punishment. Despite the Master’s patience and kindness, he does not tolerate insufferability in his children, and Jakob will no doubt incur a heavy penalty. I take no satisfaction in this.
Herr Gruber immediately sent me to his workshop, a teeming labyrinth in the cellar whose walls are covered in diagrams and blueprints of his automated clocks, the many workbenches littered with half-finished scale models. Giselle cleared off one of the benches and gently removed my jacket so her father could repair the dent in my outer shell with a thick, heavy suction cup. I lay facedown on his workbench, forbidden to move lest I cause him to slip and damage me. As he worked Giselle gently intertwined her fingers with mine, and I was not afraid.
22 October 1893
10:44 p.m.
This morning I accompanied Giselle and Fräulein Gruenwald on a number of errands in town, strolling back and forth along Elisabeth Street to patronize the densely packed shops that line this part of the city. I am told the ancient buildings and cobblestone streets, some of which are several hundred years old, are part of the charm of this city, though I must admit, having known them for the entirety of my existence, I cannot fully appreciate their beauty. Jakob did not accompany us on this particular excursion, as he remains somewhat angry at me for his whipping four days ago, the result of his misbehavior.
The elder Frau Gruber, the Master’s mother, is coming to visit her grandchildren, and will arrive tomorrow, thus the need for provisions. She is extremely particular about what foods Fräulein Gruenwald serves (roasted meat and fresh vegetables, no poultry of any kind, no eggs, nor potatoes or carrots, which she considers “peasant food”), what sorts of flowers may be arranged around the Master’s house, and what attire Giselle is to wear. (She is not so strict about Jakob’s, but insists her granddaughter should dress like a lady.) As I will be confined to the workshop for the duration of her stay, Giselle suggested I accompany them, to, as she put it, enjoy my last hours of freedom.
As will become apparent as this journal progresses, Frau Gruber is not comfortable in my presence. She is a deeply conservative woman, her religious leanings far more strident than her son’s, and she has frequently accused him of impinging on territory that is God’s alone. The first time I met her, two weeks after I was first wound and brought to consciousness, the Master introduced me andbade me shake her hand. As I approached, she screamed and began to strike me with her handbag, telling the Master to destroy me before I did harm to the children. Our relationship has improved since then; she no longer refers to me as “that loathsome monstrosity,” nor does she believe I represent an immediate threat to her grandchildren. So long as I remain out of her field of vision, she will be comfortable enough to enjoy her stay.
But there, on those familiar streets, we walked past pedestrians and cyclists without incident. One of the Master’s early modifications was to sheathe me in a skin of bleached Italian suede, and to give me hair and a mustache woven from black horsehair—all to allow me to look more fully human, that my presence in public places might cause less unease. (The monocle was Giselle’s idea, and is a concession to style, not need.) Many Frankfurters have told me that, from a great distance, I am almost indistinguishable from othe
r pedestrians on the sidewalks. Only my great height (I am six feet, six inches tall) and the stiffness of my movements give me away.
But my singular appearance is rarely a concern. The Master is well liked in Frankfurt, for the most part, and I am familiar enough of a sight near his home that, even when recognized, I cause no panic. Instead, people glance at me, smile, perhaps even wave and say “Guten Tag, Ernst,” then pleasantly go on their way—due, I suspect, not out of any admiration for me, but in deference to the Master’s genius. Several of his works adorn this city’s parks and squares, including an automated clock depicting Herr Bismarck, which stands in the center of town, and at the noon hour hoists the flag of the new Germany high into the air as our national anthem plays. By comparison, I imagine, I must appear a vastly inferior spectacle. The clockwas completed before I was wound, and in his den the Master has a photograph of himself and the Chancellor together at its unveiling, one of his proudest moments.
Herr Maier, the butcher, seemed especially pleased to see us, wishing Fräulein Gruenwald and me good morning and kissing Giselle’s hand, which he does quite frequently, and has since just after her fifteenth birthday. He is an unusual-looking man, perhaps in his mid-forties, with a long narrow face and large round eyes so dark he appears to have no pupils. His gaze lingered on her for some time before he gave us a toothy grin and stepped away to fill our order.
“You seem to have an admirer,” Fräulein Gruenwald said. “A little old for you, I think.”
“I’d say he’s more a match for you,” Giselle said as Herr Maier chopped meat in the back of the store. “You should let him know you’re not spoken for.”
Fräulein Gruenwald blushed deeply. “Oh, nonsense,” she said. “I’m not a young woman anymore; I can’t imagine what he might see in me.”
Giselle shook her head. “You ought to think more of yourself. You’re a pretty woman, and ought to have gentlemen callers. Don’t you think so, Ernst?”
“Yes,” I said. We have been through this exchange often enough for me to know the appropriate response.
“There, you see?” Giselle said. “Even Ernst thinks so. I’d bet if you let your hair down right now Herr Maier would whisk you away and marry you tomorrow.”
I could see that Fräulein Gruenwald had turned nearly purple, and as Herr Maier returned with several paper-wrapped meat parcels, she attempted to hide her face. One by one he handed me the bundledroasts and pork loins; I am most useful for such errands, as I can carry a heavy load without effort.
“Don’t you think Eva’s new hairstyle looks lovely?” Giselle asked the butcher as we were leaving. I found this a strange question, as Fräulein Gruenwald has not changed her hairstyle as long as I have known her.
“It’s absolutely splendid,” he replied, and smiled wide.
Once we were out the door, Giselle turned to her. “See?” she said.
When our business with the butcher was finished, we walked four blocks to the dressmaker’s shop to buy Giselle a few skirts Frau Gruber would find acceptable. “This is pointless,” she said on the way. “I can’t imagine why she cares so much how I dress.” More often than not, while at home, Giselle is clad in old cotton skirts and a smock for use in the Master’s workshop, and rarely wears expensive dresses, though she possesses a few for important social occasions.
“Your grandmother just wants what’s best for you,” Fräulein Gruenwald replied. “If she’s difficult with you, it’s only because she cares.”
“I think she only cares whether I’ll embarrass her,” Giselle said. “If it were up to me, I’d wear coveralls around the house like Father does. Why doesn’t Jakob have to dress up when she comes?”
“He’s a boy. He’s supposed to be scruffy.”
“You’d think he could at least wash once in a while.”
Fräulein Gruenwald asked the dressmaker to bring out several outfits in Giselle’s size; over the course of an hour and twelve minutes, she tried on each one, stepping briefly outside the changing room to model them for Fräulein Gruenwald’s approval. She quickly settled on the first—a blue plaid skirt with a high-necked, frilly blouse; thesecond was a dark maroon dress with long white sleeves, which billowed like butterfly wings when she turned in front of the standing mirror.
“I don’t know,” she said. “It’s so … feminine. Something a Hausfrau would wear.”
“It’s fine,” Fräulein Gruenwald said. “Your grandmother will be pleased.”
Giselle sighed, squinted at herself in the mirror for over three minutes. “What do you think, Ernst?” she finally asked.
I have never developed a particularly strong aesthetic, but there was an indefinable quality to the dress I found pleasing, for lack of a better word. “It is beautiful,” I said.
“You’re sweet,” she said. “Father’s made you into quite the gentleman. I suppose I’ll take it, then.”
At 11:45, we stopped at a small café a few blocks from the Master’s home so the ladies could eat lunch, and so Giselle might have a few more moments free of her grandmother, who was due to arrive later in the afternoon. The two shared a carafe of black coffee and an assortment of small pastries—petit fours, Giselle called them, though I was unfamiliar with the term—while I watched over their parcels. They invited me to sit with them, and even the café’s owner urged me to sit down—because of the Master I am something of a local celebrity, and often draw onlookers—but the Master insists I conduct myself like a gentleman at all times, and it is my habit to do so.
Twelve minutes after we arrived, a young man of about twenty, judging from his sparse beard, came up to me. “You, sir, are a work of genius.” He handed me a small clothbound notebook. “May I trouble you for your autograph? I’m thinking of becoming aclockmaker myself, and it would mean a lot to me.”
I thanked him, and looked to Giselle for approval; the Master encourages me to be courteous, but I did not wish to disrupt the ladies’ meal.
“Go ahead, Ernst,” Giselle said, through a mouthful of greenish pastry. “You’re famous, after all. Enjoy it.”
I took the young man’s notebook and scribbled my name onto the page he presented me, which seemed to give him great joy. “Thank you, sir,” he said. “You’re every bit the gentleman the newspapers say you are.” He tipped his hat and ran off like a young child.
Once Giselle and Fräulein Gruenwald had finished their lunch, we walked the seven blocks back to the Master’s house. When we arrived, Frau Gruber was already there with the Master and Jakob, and she rose to greet her granddaughter with a loose, quick embrace, tapping her shoulder to signal when the display of affection was to end. The smile left her face when her eyes fell upon me. “What is that doing here?” she said. “I thought I had made my wishes clear.”
The Master sighed and rose from his corner chair. “Oh, Mother,” he said. “Ernst, the cellar awaits.”
“Of course,” I said, and followed him downstairs to his workshop. He asked if I wished any books, but I said I was content to remain there among all his grand designs.
“I envy you,” he said as he led me down. “If it were up to me you’d be up there with her, and I’d be at work down here.”
“Frau Gruber is a good and gracious woman,” I said.
“And a lot of other things as well,” he said, and trudged slowly back upstairs. I could hear Jakob laughing, but through the locked door the sound was too muffled to determine the cause.
23 October 1893
3:39 a.m.
Upon further thought, I feel it necessary to explain that exile into the Master’s workshop is not an unpleasant fate. It is not simply some bare-walled cellar devoid of stimulation—quite the opposite. In fact, I find myself fascinated by the many sketches and designs for his great clocks, those already constructed and others he is currently planning. The blueprints are so intricate, it would take me many hours to fully comprehend the design and function of each component, much less the whole mechanism. A few of these magnificent spectacles
have taken years to construct, particularly the steeple design commissioned by a hotel owner in London, which features hundreds of tiny swallows perched all over the clock’s face, who flap their wings at seven o’clock each morning. The Master fashioned them one at a time, testing each individually before mounting them to the clock. While he was completing the project, the tiny, feathery, flapping things covered his worktables so that there was not a free inch of space. They were quite realistic, with real feathers he and Giselle had glued on, and beady, glinting onyx eyes, though I have come to expect nothing less from his craftsmanship. When Jakob, then only five, saw them flapping their wings on the tabletops, he screamed, and the Master laughed with pride before rushing up to comfort him. (Giselle has since informed me that, during a foray in the park before I was wound, he wandered too close to a flock nesting in several trees, and was attacked.) On occasion he still has nightmares in which he is swarmed by dense flocks of tiny birds, pecking and scratching at his limbs and face. (The problem was once so severethe Master feared Jakob would require the services of a mental health specialist, but it has since leveled off to rare bouts.)
And there are smaller scale models as well as the blueprints, tiny replicas of his works, the real versions of which are often the size of a small house—a magnificent gryphon whose larger alter ego stands in Trafalgar Square in London, whose wings unfold like a great eagle’s; a small replica of the American President George Washington standing at the stern of a rowboat moving across a river of gray clay (its larger counterpart having been built for an American Senator who came to visit last summer); and the Master’s latest project, a daisy-shaped clock whose hour hands are turned by a mechanized hummingbird which emerges from the base on a wire arm. The wings have posed a bit of a problem for him; he says if I can follow their movement, they are still too slow. It is to be a gift for the Master’s nephew Kurt; Herr Gruber would like the boy to become his apprentice one day, as he already has a gift for taking things apart and putting them back together again. (Once, while I was distracted by Giselle’s dancing, he somehow removed my left hand in a matter of seconds without my noticing.) Sadly, skilled as she is, Giselle seems unlikely to take up her father’s craft, and Jakob has yet to show interest in such things.
The Clockwork Man Page 2
