The Clockwork Man

by William Jablonsky

  He tinkered with the violist for three days, and by noon on the third day, had the entire mechanism working again. When the music began, the gathered crowd marveled at the display, then broke into raucous applause. He waved to them once, then closed his eyes and rested his hand on my shoulder. “Listen,” he said. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” I said, though at that moment I was simply pleased to be sharing in his joy.

  Later that evening, I accompanied the Master to the Wiener Hofoper for a production of Haydn’s Orfeo ed Euridice. As I had never before seen an opera, he was determined that my first should be special, and since this was the greatest opera house in the world, it could not be more so. And it was; I found myself dumbstruck at the sight of the enormous stone arches guarded by statues of the great figures of music, the elegant green dome rising high above the streets of Vienna—visible for miles in any direction. It took the Master several minutes to convince the ushers to allow me entry. They knew of his accomplishments, but feared I might disrupt the performance through malfunction or the unchecked curiosity of onlookers. The Master vouched for my behavior, and I took a moment to guarantee the head usher my conduct would be impeccable. He was, I think, too stunned to respond, and the Master led me past.

  On the Master’s suggestion I pulled my greatcoat collar up under my chin and tipped my hat over my eyes until the stage went dim. The box seats situated around us were full of spectators in fine clothing, chattering in many languages (some of which I had never before heard), but only a few stared. Either they did not notice me or considered it unseemly to gawk.

  The performance itself was miraculous, the music filling the amphitheater like a thousand bells ringing, a sound so rich and full the whole of my body trembled at the crescendos—a very pleasant and intense sensation. I have read the story of Orpheus, but onstage the stuff of myth, previously relegated to words on a page, became real. The tenor’s affected pain was all too apparent as he mourned his deceased Eurydice, his grief so great, it drove him to enter the underworld where no living man could go to retrieve her. I have seen the same look on the Master’s face, after he has gazed upon the photograph of his late wife, and am sure he would sacrifice nearly anything to have her back. I wonder if my own cog-driven heart might love or grieve as much, and if so, what it might lead me to do. But it is pointless to reflect on this; I was not made for such depth of joy or sorrow. Such feeling is strictly the purview of flesh and blood. And perhaps I should be grateful for that.

  23 November 1893

  9:58 p.m.

  It has been a trying day for the Master, as his most recent clients have been less than accommodating. He has little patience for difficult people, but this is one of his larger commissions of recent years, and the rewards he will reap from it far outweigh any aggravation he might suffer.

  At the moment he is asleep in our room in a small inn on the outskirts of Salzburg. Though I would very much have liked to linger in Vienna, we have come here for a series of meetings with Sister Renate, his contact. He is here to finalize plans for a new clockoutside Nonnberg Abbey, this one depicting a life-sized Nativity scene. When it is finished, the three wise men will emerge from the base into the Christ child’s manger and present him with gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh. I am sure it will be quite splendid, and hope to see it when it is completed. The clock is being financed by a wealthy merchant in town, who the Master claims wishes to associate his name with the abbey for business purposes. While their order was quite pleased to accept such an exorbitant gift, some of the sisters remain hesitant about the Master’s involvement (they are familiar enough with me to be uncomfortable), and have not been entirely helpful with the planning.

  I was instructed to remain out on the street for this meeting, as the sisters tend toward fundamentalist leanings and might be offended by the presence of a thinking, sentient mechanical man—an abomination in the eyes of God, they say. In a letter to the Master, Sister Renate specified that in no way were the automated figures in his clock to read poetry or paint landscapes. (While I have on occasion read the works of the English Romantic poets, I have never painted a landscape and have no interest in doing so.) I would like to have explored more of the city, but the construction of these clocks is the Master’s livelihood, and I can in no way jeopardize the commission. It was enough for me to stand on the sidewalk and stare at the gleaming peaks rising above the hills, even dwarfing the great fortress overlooking the city. I had never before seen mountains, and witnessing their grandeur was more than sufficient compensation for failing to look at a few buildings.

  However, after his meeting, the Master was kind enough to take me to some of the places where Mozart is said to have dwelled; Ibelieve the highlight of his day was drinking a rich, golden pilsner in the beer hall purported to be Herr Mozart’s favorite. After he drank it down, the tension gradually vanished from his forehead and eyes, and it gratified me to see serenity return to his face.

  25 November 1893

  11:45 p.m.

  Our travels are nearly at their end, and I find myself anxious to return home. However, we have made one final stop so that the Master can visit with an old friend.

  As of this writing I am in the den of a middle-class home in the town of Branau. The Master has an affinity for its greenery and open water, and on our way in took great pleasure in pointing out the slim white towers near the River Inn—the rolling, frost-covered hills stretching to the horizon. It was the Master’s wish to call on his old friend Alois, whom he had met a year before I was first wound. He is fond of sharing the story of their first meeting, particularly after a few glasses of Weissbier: in the latter stages of my construction, the Master was transporting me to Vienna in a disassembled state to consult with an expert on human anatomy. Alois, a customs official, discovered the large crate of body parts the Master was hauling, and at first thought he had stumbled upon a grisly murder. Once the Master explained his experiment, the two men had a good laugh, and Alois became intrigued with the idea of me. Later that evening they met over drinks to discuss the Master’s work in further detail, and have corresponded ever since.

  Alois and his wife, Klara, who appeared to be with child, greetedus warmly when we arrived at their country home. He was a severe-looking man, well dressed, with a large round head and thick mustache that poked from under his nose like a cat’s whiskers. He and the Master embraced; then he clamped his hand on my shoulder with alarming strength. “So you are Ernst,” he said. “You’re very famous, you know. When Herr Gruber told me he was building a mechanical man, I never imagined his stack of loose limbs would turn out so splendidly.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “I’ve told my children all about you; my youngest has wanted to see you up close for months. Adi, come out here!”

  A slight boy of about four, with small ears and straight black hair hanging limply over his forehead, ran out to meet us. He came to a grinding halt a few yards from me, his jaw agape. His face was unusual for a small child; the cheeks were hollow, as if someone had scooped them out with a dull spoon, and his eyes began as sharp slits in the outside corners, then opened to wide pools. As Alois and the Master looked on, smiling, I introduced myself and extended my hand to the boy. He slowly crept up to me and finally shook it, staring incredulously at his hand afterward.

  “Your hand’s cold,” he said. He looked to his father. “Is he real?”

  “Indeed he is,” Alois said. “The world’s first mechanical man. And Herr Gruber here built him. He’s a great genius.”

  Adi shook the Master’s hand and bowed slightly. “Father says you’re the smartest man in the world.” The Master laughed and mussed Adi’s hair, and we followed him to his sitting room.

  We spent much of the day in Alois’s den talking with him and his twoolder children, introduced as Alois Jr. and Angela, the latter a pretty girl of about ten who reminded me a good deal of Giselle. The two men discussed their work and drank pilsner from Alois’s pr
ivate stock. Klara offered me drinks and pastries several times; I declined politely, as I neither eat nor drink. Afterward she said little to me, perhaps not knowing how else to interact with a being without such needs.

  Late in the afternoon Alois led us to the apiary he kept behind his house; he had for some time been interested in beekeeping, and was rather proud of the colony he had built, though the bees themselves were huddled together for the winter. The Master marveled at the whitewashed wooden slots, each with dense buzzing clusters so thick I could actually feel the warmth from them; Alois promised the Master a jar of honey he had harvested, and suggested he build an animated beehive for his next project. (The Master seemed intrigued at the prospect, and later, after Alois and Klara had gone to bed, began sketching plans for a clockwork bee. I think it will be quite the Masterpiece, should he pursue it to its end.)

  As we emerged from the apiary, Adi ran toward us without a coat despite the cold, carrying a sketch pad and pencil. “Herr Ernst,” he said, “can I draw a picture of you?”

  Alois sighed. “He’s decided he’s going to be a great artist. Useless profession if you ask me. No money, no respectability.”

  “Perhaps you’d like to be an engineer instead?” Alois asked the child. “Or a clockmaker like Herr Gruber?”

  “No,” Adi said. “I want to be a painter.” He turned to me. “So can I?”

  “Of course,” I said.

  He knelt on the chilly ground and began scribbling rough lineson the uneven surface. He looked up at me several times, squinting one eye, then returned to his drawing, his tongue poking from between his lips as he worked. “There.” He held up the pad to show us the sketch: a box with a bow tie and buttons, from which sprouted a square head and scribbled mustache and stick-figure arms and legs. (The likeness was not wholly inaccurate.) He had written the title, “Ernst,” in crudely shaped letters at the bottom, and scribbled the initials AH in the bottom right corner.

  Alois shook his head. “A waste of paper,” he said.

  But the child paid his father no mind, turning to me instead. “Do you like it?”

  “It’s lovely,” I said.

  “You can have it, if you want,” the boy said, tearing it from the pad and holding it out to me.

  I thanked him and tucked the drawing into my breast pocket. “I shall treasure it.” Though Alois and the Master chuckled at my sentiment, I plan to post it on the wall of my private alcove once we return home. I am certain Giselle will appreciate it.

  With some relief, I must announce that tomorrow we head for home, just in time for the great feast the Master hosts each year, when his siblings and their children fill the house. (He prefers to spend Christmas at home with his children, and so instead hosts his family early.) It will be gratifying to hear the laughter of children again. And I must confess I still eagerly await the surprise Giselle has planned for me; it is a little thing, and perhaps unworthy of so much thought, but I find a certain peace in it.

  26 November 1893

  7:56 p.m.

  The Master has been in a foul mood for much of the day. During the first hour of our train trip back to Frankfurt an American named Wilson recognized me in the dining car and, in awkward German, paid his respects to Herr Gruber. Surprisingly, he asked me what I thought of the sights on the trip, and seemed delighted when I responded in English. Finally he opened his briefcase and handed the Master a two-week-old edition of The New York Times he had bought at the train station, pointing out a small article which quoted Herr Edison denouncing me as a fraud, in his words a “walking cuckoo clock,” and had filed a patent himself on behalf of his Detroit Edison Company, whom he claimed would have a virtual army of clockwork servants ready for the market within five years. The Master said nothing, but his face turned bright crimson, and he crumpled the page in his hands.

  “Sorry, friend,” Herr Wilson said. “Just thought I should warn you. Edison does this to everyone. He’s been trying to ruin that Tesla fellow for years.”

  “Yes, thank you,” the Master said, and offered to pay for the American’s paper.

  The American declined politely. “For what it’s worth, just from these few minutes I’ve shared with you, I don’t believe a word of it.”

  The Master remained silent for quite some time. While he does not sleep well on trains, preferring to relax quietly and view the scenery from the cabin window, his silence was more oppressive than usual, and he continually balled his left hand into a fist so tight Icould hear his knuckles crunch. “He will never copy you,” he finally said, never taking his eyes from the window. “He could work for twenty years and never come close.” He looked at me sadly and patted my arm. “You are one of a kind, Ernst. And you will stay that way.”

  I had thought his good spirits might return after that, but his mood only worsened. I wondered why, despite his confidence that Herr Edison could never duplicate his design, he continued to brood so. Upon reflection I believe his long-held admiration for the great inventor blinded him to Herr Edison’s motives, and is the source of his disappointment. I have yet to know such disappointment or betrayal, and it comforts me that, so long as I am in the care of the Master and his family, I never will.

  27 November 1893

  11:35 a.m.

  Despite the sobering news Herr Gruber recently received, and which I have previously discussed, Fräulein Gruenwald has managed to convince him to take a nap in his den to replenish his energy from the long journey. Nonetheless, as I write this from the relative isolation of my cubby I can occasionally hear faint, angry grumbles punctuating his snoring. I do not believe he will forget Herr Edison’s slight in the near future.

  We arrived home at 6:45 this morning, during an early, light snowfall. The trees were nearly bare on our return, but the hills had taken on a frosty shroud, which practically gleamed in the sunlight. I found the sight pleasing, and as the carriage neared his home, an oasis of brick against the white street and sidewalks, the Master’s stern features finally seemed to soften.

  Jakob had not yet risen, but Giselle, in her nightgown and terry robe, flew into her father’s arms when we entered, ignoring the thin dusting of snow on the Master’s overcoat. He smiled weakly, perhaps trying to disguise his disappointment, but was unable to fool her.

  “What’s wrong, Father?” she said, her arms still wrapped round his neck. “Has something happened?”

  “It’s nothing,” he said. “Everything is fine.” He kissed her forehead and shuffled into the kitchen.

  Giselle turned her affections on me next, standing on tiptoe to kiss my suede cheek. “I want to show you something,” she said. She took my hand and led me through the library to my private alcove, placing her right hand over my eyes as we neared it. I had already seen the collage, with its elm-leaf face and maple hat, framed on the wall before she blocked my view, but I feigned surprise just the same.

  “I hope you like it,” she said.

  “It’s wonderful,” I replied, in all sincerity. This was not a simple child’s rendering—though I had been deeply moved by Adi’s impromptu sketch—but an intricately detailed likeness down to the subtlest angles and contours of my face and the different shades of tan in my suede skin. It must have taken weeks to select the proper leaves—longer to fashion them into the portrait.

  “I think it livens your corner up a bit. Now you’ll have something to look at besides all these books.”

  I thanked her profusely, and showed her Adi’s drawing. She laughed like a ringing bell. “It’s adorable,” she said, and tacked it to the wall below her magnificent collage. “There. See, you have two admirers.”

  I did not show her the ceramic ballerina the Master had boughtme, instead keeping it tucked in my left breast pocket until I could find a way to display it in a manner appropriate to its delicateness and elegance.

  Downstairs we heard the Master’s workshop door close, and she looked up at me. “Father seems unhappy,” she whispered. “What happened while you were away? He didn�
��t mention anything in his letters.”

  It was not my place to betray the Master’s confidence, so I told her he was simply tired from travel and would regain his good humor after sufficient rest.

  “I suppose so,” she said, raising one eyebrow in the dim light. “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?” For no obvious reason I suddenly found myself staring at her long red-gold hair, wanting very much to run my fingers through it, to cast the worry lines away from her forehead, as if her skin were a soft white sheet, easily smoothed.

  After a moment the worry left her face. “Of course you wouldn’t.” She smiled shyly and her gaze dropped to the floor. “Ernst, could you do something for me?”

  “Of course,” I said, expecting to complete some errand on her behalf. “Anything.”

  She wrapped a delicate arm around my waist, and took my hand. “Dance with me.”

  I pointed out that there was no music, that the phonograph would wake Jakob, but she raised a finger to her lips. “We don’t need the phonograph.” Softly, she began to hum the melody of a slow Brahms waltz over the quiet ticking of my winding apparatus, and I could feel her gently leading me. We spun quietly, by slow degrees, my oxfords and her bare feet sliding softly across the maplefloor. Our hands entwined, we circled through the library, across the dining hall floor and the foyer, then, somehow—for I have no memory of how the door opened—outside into the snow. I feared she might catch a chill, or that her feet might freeze, so I finally let her go. She held my right hand and twirled once beneath it, then slowly came to a halt, glowing like fine porcelain in the light of sunrise.