The Clockwork Man

by William Jablonsky

  I resumed my course toward the kitchen and the door. “If you will excuse me …” I began, then stopped. “I’m sure he is an excellent young man.” I returned to my task. Behind me, Jakob grunted faintly.

  Though the sky was cloudy and there were no stars, the snowy ground outside was bathed in orange light from the windows, my path to the woodpile well lighted and unobstructed. I peeled back the canvas tarp and selected several logs, wondering if Giselle was dancing another waltz with the cadet, or if a new partner had taken his place. When I returned to the house, the Master was still occupied with Frau Gruber, who appeared to be having some sort of fit at the sight of so much dancing. Giselle and the young cadet were alone on the dance floor, waltzing to a Stravinsky piece while the other guests watched. I placed the logs on the fire, then retired to my alcove in the library to wind myself. I remained there until the guests had gone.

  Just before eleven, Giselle tiptoed in—a custom I do not understand, as I do not sleep and heard her footfalls anyway. We did not speak. She simply wrapped her arms around me, kissed the top of my head, and went upstairs to bed.

  9 December 1893

  10:46 p.m.

  The Master has been perturbed for most of the day.

  Unbeknownst to me, he recently telegraphed an American acquaintance to see whether his letter had been printed in The New York Times. As of this writing it has not, though I attempted to encourage his patience in this matter, as overseas letters can often take several weeks to arrive. My attempt was not successful; this morning he sequestered himself in his study to compose another letter, this one to Herr Edison himself. In it he reiterated his claim that my schematics were not for sale, that this would not change so long as he was alive, and that anyfurther attempt to besmirch his character would result in a defamation lawsuit. He ended the letter by warning that he would not sit idly by and watch Herr Edison destroy his reputation, as he had that of Herr Tesla, whom the Master considers a good and decent man. I admit I do not understand Herr Edison’s fixation with me; I find it unsettling that he should go to such great lengths to discredit the Master in light of his failure to secure me. The whole affair strikes me as being unworthy of a gentleman. Surely such a genius as he should, given the time and effort, be able to fabricate his own design.

  His plans to travel to America in the spring are as yet unaltered; in fact, he now intends to take me to every city on the East Coast, and perhaps even as far as Chicago, to prove I am genuine. Giselle very much desires to see Boston, while Jakob is keen on attending a professional baseball game during our stay.

  Giselle and I have not spoken since the party. She has not sought me out, nor allowed herself to be alone with me all day, and at dinner she did not look up from her plate except to answer the Master’s questions or ask Jakob to pass the potatoes and cabbage. Her guilt is unfounded; I do not know jealousy. As always, I remain her dutiful servant, her happiness my only concern.

  11 December 1893

  12:42 a.m.

  Giselle came to my cubby at half past eleven, after Jakob and the Master had gone to bed. I heard her soft footsteps behind me, but did not turn in case she might be trying to surprise me. She was not.

  “I know you can hear me,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Why?”

  She sighed in the dark. “You know why.”

  “Yes.”

  “I shouldn’t have spent all evening dancing with him. It was inconsiderate of me.” She was half covered by shadow, her hair and face partially bathed in the flickering glow of the gaslight. “I just lost myself in the moment. He kept asking me to dance, and he was polite and friendly, so I finally said yes.”

  “You do not need to explain.”

  “Yes, I do. What we did was very special to me. And I hope it was to you.”

  “It was,” I said.

  “You are special to me, Ernst. I hope you know that. But Father, and the rest …” She trailed off into silence.

  “I understand.”

  She leaned over in front of me, cupped my face in her soft hands, and pressed her warm, moist lips to my rectangular mouth. After a moment she withdrew her lips, bowed her head sadly.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “I wish you only happiness,” I said, reaching out to touch her slender, pale arm.

  She smiled, but it seemed unnatural, as if the corners of her mouth were straining against sadness. “No matter what, you’re still my favorite dance partner.” She ran her hand softly across my chest.

  “Thank you,” I said, and wished her good night.

  11 December 1893

  11:07 p.m.

  The young cadet, whose name is Nicholas Koenig, came to the Master’s house today in full uniform, without an overcoat despite the cold, a bouquet of lilies—her favorite flowers—in his hands.

  When the Master answered the door, Nicholas stood up straight and rigid and asked his permission to court Giselle. He made a fine accounting of himself, and promised he would at all times treat her with the dignity and respect due the daughter of a genius such as himself.

  The Master agreed, on the condition that Giselle would consent to it, and called for her. I watched from the front doorway as they retired to the sitting room; he presented her with the flowers, bowed low, and kissed her hand. Though she seemed to resist at first, she began to smile, and nodded when he stood upright. He kissed her hand twice more, which at first struck me as unseemly; they talked for several minutes more before he turned from her.

  I must apologize for my vague references to the elapsed time, as during the exchange I found, to my dismay, that I was not conscious of it. Nor, in fact, could I hear the words that passed between them, which, from my location, should have been perfectly clear. I shall have to refer this glitch to the Master at a later date. As he walked toward the door I could see Nicholas was beaming. I am certain he recognizes her intellect as well as her physical beauty, and he will no doubt treat her well.

  She glanced at me once, briefly, before her gaze fell to the lilies in her hands and the smile left her face.

  Once he had left, the Master took me aside and informed meof the rest. The two are set to go on an outing into town the day after tomorrow: a play at the auditorium, followed by a carriage ride through the cool evening streets of the city. He has determined that I should go along as chaperone; while he is certain Nicholas will behave in gentlemanly fashion, my presence will ensure Giselle’s safety. It is a most reasonable precaution.

  As in all things, the Master knows best.

  15 December 1893

  11:52 a.m.

  Professor Wellesley,

  Something inconceivable has happened.

  Giselle is gone.

  I write this not to maintain an accurate account of events, nor to share the family’s sense of grief and loss—in fact, I can barely find words at present—but to reinforce in my own mind that it was real. It makes little sense that one such as I might have difficulty, having been witness to that horrid night; yet I still cannot entirely force myself to believe it. Any gaps in this account are due to my recent incapacitation; much of the last forty-eight hours is lost to me. I should still be lying insensate on the Master’s workbench but for the kindness of Fräulein Gruenwald, who saw fit to wind me. She believed I ought to know the events that transpired the evening before last, though in hindsight I wish she had never happened upon me.

  This much I recall: that evening I was walking down the streets of the city, behind the carriage bearing Giselle and Nicholas, who had thus far had a pleasant outing. He seemed quite taken with her, offering her flowers when his carriage came to collect us, buying her chocolates and a tiny porcelain ballerina at one of the small shops in town, quite similar to the souvenir from Dresden I keep in my cubby, though not nearly as ornate. They had just seen a comedic play (because Nicholas was somewhat unsettled by my presence despite Giselle’s assurances, I waited with the carriage until the performanc
e was done) and were peering in the windows of some of the corner shops before Giselle was to be returned home.

  I kept a respectful distance, waiting on the street corner while they studied the display windows, making out what they could in the dim moonlight and gaslight glow. I did not speak except to remind Nicholas of the time on the half hour: the Master had given her a strict curfew of ten o’clock, and his anger would be great if she were delivered home a minute later. He wished to end the evening by walking along the banks of the river near the Iron Bridge, and watching the moonlight ripple on the water, which he insisted was a stunning sight.

  Giselle looked back at me once, paused as if in thought, and agreed.

  Taking her hand, Nicholas transferred me the reins and politely asked that I wait out on the street with the horses. As I watched, they strolled together to the grove of trees by the river just out of my field of vision. Despite the distance I could still make out their conversation as they walked, albeit faintly, and loath as I was to eavesdrop, I felt it my duty, lest anything inappropriate be said.

  “I have a confession,” Nicholas said to her. “Your grandmother asked my mother to have me court you. She says I’m to make a young lady out of you.”

  “I see,” Giselle said. “And how do you plan to do this?”

  “I don’t,” Nicholas said. “I know enough ‘proper’ girls and they’re all boring and stupid. But you could have a conversation about anything.”

  “Not anything.” She laughed. “Politics still confound me. But ask me about locomotion or astronomy and I’ll talk you to death.”

  “Astronomy?” Nicholas replied. “If I pointed to one of those stars, could you tell me what it was?”

  There was a long silence; then Giselle broke in. “It’s not a star. It’s Mars. Planets don’t twinkle.”

  “Amazing.”

  “You should see my observatory at home. I discovered a comet. We’re waiting on confirmation from the Frankfurt Astronomical Society, but when it comes through, I’ll get to name it. Come over later in the week and I’ll show you.”

  “I look forward to it.”

  As they wandered toward the river their voices finally faded, and I could hear only the faint breathing of the horses.

  At 9:25, the grind of my internal components began to slow and my ticking grew louder, its rhythm uneven. There was no place to tie the horses, and I began to wish for Giselle and Nicholas’s quick return, that I might find a private space in which to wind myself.

  They had been beyond my view nine minutes, twenty seconds when I heard faint shuffling footsteps on the pavement and saw a shadowed form moving swiftly through an alley between the shops. I thought it might be some shopkeeper beginning a late trek home, so I paid the shadow no mind, and began to fumble at my greatcoat with my free hand, trying to reach the key at my side. After much effort my fingers finally grasped it, and I began to turn it. I wouldhave preferred more privacy, but as I was alone I felt no need to be self-conscious.

  I had only turned it three times before I again heard the footsteps, behind me this time. I turned swiftly; before me stood a man shrouded like the one I had encountered outside the Master’s home.

  “Good evening,” I said, attempting to conceal my winding key beneath the folds of my coat.

  He did not respond, but rather stared silently at the ruffled fabric at my side. His eyes were large and dark, set deep in his face. I did not yet perceive him as a threat, though at that point I knew our meeting was hardly coincidental. I began to think the Americans had sent him to glean what knowledge he could of my design, and I was determined to use whatever faculties I possessed to ward off his inquiries.

  “Pardon me,” I said. “But is there something I can do for you?”

  The shrouded man smiled. “Forgive me,” he said, his voice a raspy tenor. “I only wished to say hello.” He removed the scarf from his face to reveal the visage of Herr Maier. (I shall henceforth refer to him as “the butcher,” as I can no longer bear to repeat his name.)

  “Of course,” I said, though I began to wonder why he had been loitering behind the Master’s house. “Do pardon my rudeness.”

  He took two steps toward me. “No offense taken, my friend. You are indeed a wonder. I meant to say so at the party, but you vanished.” He extended his right hand to me, smiling.

  As I reached out to shake it, he drew a small knife from his pocket and stabbed the dun mare in the throat. The horse screamed and thrashed, dragging her companion; my hands became entangled in the reins, and I was pulled to the ground. For the next seven secondsmy eyes saw only trampling hooves and snow, and then I became aware of something large and dark and heavy falling on me. When I recovered my bearings, I realized the carriage had tipped over, and I lay trapped beneath it in the snow, facedown, my arms pinned at my sides underneath so that I could gain no leverage. I could not move. The mare lay on her side in the snow, wheezing, her companion bent over her and blowing air into her mane.

  I heard footsteps shuffling in the snow, stopping but a foot from where I lay. The butcher stood over me and leaned over to whisper in my ear. “I know that was unpleasant,” he said, “but I can’t have you following me.” His snowy footfalls receded in the direction of the river.

  Three minutes, thirty-seven seconds later, I heard brief, painful grunting from the grove of trees near the river. Then a young man’s scream echoed along the riverbank—I could not tell if it was Nicholas. Eleven seconds later, I heard the unmistakable sound of Giselle crying out my name. She called for me twice more, her voice muffled.

  I struggled to pull myself free of the overturned carriage, but could not free my arms to push it off me, and for nine minutes I heaved and twisted in vain. I do not know if what I experienced then was panic, for I have no frame of reference. But I knew the situation to be a grave one; somewhat illogically, a wave of heat passed through me, and I dug the toes of my oxfords into the snow until I found a foothold, bent my knees, and began to drive with my legs. My internal ticking increased to a rate faster than ever I had heard it, and with one final effort I was able to reach a kneeling position. My hands freed, I pushed the carriage off me, rolling it end-over-end so that it collapsed on its opposite side, violently pulling the horses withit. I do not know if the uninjured horse was harmed as a result, and if so I deeply regret it. But Giselle was in dire need of assistance, and I paid the horses no mind. A man in a white apron emerged from the bakery across the street and called to me, but I did not acknowledge him. With great effort I pulled myself to my feet and followed the footprints in the snow, toward the river.

  Perhaps ten feet from the riverbank, a crumpled body lay on the snow, tracks leading away from it into a grove of trees near the bridge, as if someone had been dragged for several yards. I searched the bank for Giselle, but she was nowhere to be seen. I immediately ran to Nicholas; he lay moaning softly in the snow, clutching at his back and coughing, a large dark pool slowly expanding on the back of his gray trenchcoat and staining the snow beneath him. He reached up, grabbed my hand with alarming strength, gasped a few words. I could comprehend only the word “help.”

  “Where is she?” I asked.

  Gurgling, he pointed toward a darkened clearing near the bridge’s base.

  To those who might judge me harshly, I must point out that I had no desire to leave him. He was badly wounded, dying, but I am not trained in the medical arts, and I had thought Giselle might still be saved. I trudged through the snow as hastily as my mechanical legs allowed, cursing my whining gears for robbing me of stealth. Several yards down the riverbank I saw her, a pair of white-stockinged legs seeming to emerge from the blackness. She made no sound. Her skirt had been pulled up over her waist, her undergarments cut open, and a thin trickle of blood seeped onto the snow from between her legs. Her coat had been torn off, her blouse ripped open, and her slenderneck bore a dark, deep gash from jawbone to jawbone. She struggled to breathe, and her eyes rolled about aimlessly until they found me.
r />   “No …” I said, kneeling beside her.

  She reached up, weakly touched her hand to my cheek. Her arm began to fall, but I caught her hand before it hit the snow. Her blood stained my sleeve and hand.

  “We have to find a doctor.” I very much wished to lift her from the cold ground, to carry her to the nearest hospital, but in her condition I dared not move her. I began to rise, but she grasped my hand.

  Her lips moved, emitting only a faint, reedy whisper: “Stay.”

  “I must hurry,” I insisted, though I made no move to leave her.

  She shook her head slightly, a tear glistening down one cheek, foamy blood flowing down her neck. Her hand grasped mine. I do not know how long I held her there, as my internal clock seemed to be behaving erratically, stretching what may have been only one minute to several. But I did not release her, even when her wet, labored breathing had ceased and she lay limp and still in my arms.

  I heard several voices at the edge of the clearing; a small crowd had gathered. “Stabbed,” someone said. “Too late.” Another ran to get a carriage. I was still holding Giselle, cradling her head in the crook of my elbow, when I heard the crunch of footsteps approaching me through the snow. I did not look up from her.

  “God in heaven!” It was a man’s voice, deep, quivering. “It’s Gruber’s mechanical man!” he shouted. “It’s killed the girl, too!”

  I gently laid her on the cold ground, covered her still form with my overcoat, and turned to face a tall, thick, red-bearded gentleman and a slender woman with tight blonde curls, both well dressed, standing perhaps ten feet behind me. Nicholas lay still on the snow, curledinto a fetal ball, half covered by a kindly stranger’s coat. “You are mistaken,” I said, and attempted to explain what had happened, describing the murderer in as much detail as I could, asking for someone to summon the police. I had some difficulty speaking, as my internal mechanisms were severely wound down from the strain, my ticking erratic. In hindsight, I do not blame them for suspecting me, as I must have seemed to them unhinged.