The Clockwork Man

by William Jablonsky

  Date unknown (48 hours, 13 minutes since previous posting) Time unknown

  Professor Wellesley,

  Until now I have refrained from recording any more notes out of caution: for the last three nights the night watchman has taken to sitting in a chair only a few feet from my window and reading a newspaper. I peeked out at him once when he began to doze, hoping to catch a quick glimpse of the masthead that I might discover the date, but have otherwise been still. On occasion he rises and wanders through the store, thumbing the merchandise. When he is far enough out of earshot I quickly wind myself—a task I can hardly afford to ignore, as there will be no rescue if I am absentminded. But early this morning I heard the man named Linnhoffer shouting angrily from the far end of the store and the night watchman muttering a halfhearted “Sorry.” This evening he has been more vigilant, and I may write undisturbed.

  A few hours ago a man passed by this window and, for a moment, stared deeply into my eyes, pressing his face against the glass. He was a Negro, dressed in a stocking cap and long blue overcoat, though from other pedestrians I have observed I gathered the weather was too warm for such dress. I have seen a Negro only once before, also an American—a guest vocalist with the Frankfurt Symphony; the Master explained that she had come to Europe because she was not allowed to perform in such a venue in her homeland. Her rendition of “Ave Maria” was exceptional, and I paid little attention to her hue. I have never met a Negro in person, and know little about them, except that they are ill-treated in America.

  Believing he had spotted movement on my part, I froze instantly, this diary positioned in my lap exactly as my copy of Moby Dick had been. He knocked on the window once, stared for several seconds more, then shrugged and wandered off, walking with a noticeable lurch. Dark as this window is, I must remember to be more careful.

  I have had quite some time to reflect on my present situation, and now believe it unlikely that the Master would sell me off to be mere ornamentation in some American’s clothing shop. He might have dismantled me out of grief over Giselle’s passing, but would never have consigned me to this fate. In my last memory of him, he had grown quite old, and I cannot deny the possibility that so much time has passed he is no longer living. If that is the case, then you may also have passed on, and this exercise is rendered meaningless. But I prefer to believe otherwise. If I am wrong, and this window and Herr Linnhoffer are to be the sum of my new existence, it might be better to let myself wind slowly down and return to the peace of oblivion. But I am not yet ready for that; for now I choose to believe the world I knew still exists, that the Master or Jakob yet live, that they might welcome my return. It is a small hope that fades with each passing day, but I shall retain it until contrary evidence presents itself.

  Date unknown (36 hours, 4 minutes since last posting) Time unknown

  I should very much like a brief glimpse of a clock, as my ignorance of the correct time is disorienting—a condition I am less willing to tolerate each moment. The Master gifted me with the ability to reset my chronometer almost instantly, but I have yet to find a resetpoint—not even a quick glance at a pocket watch.

  Reluctant as I am to admit it, I may be afflicted with a slight malfunction. This morning a woman approached my window from the sidewalk. She wore a white jacket and an ornate clock locket on a chain around her neck, and her hair, while beginning to whiten, still bore traces of a reddish-gold hue. There was something strikingly familiar about her, perhaps a look about the eyes or the way she held herself—as if it were Giselle, aged some thirty or forty years. Upon seeing her I nearly bolted from my chair, though before I committed such a blunder I realized this could not be. She placed her hand gently against the glass, stared at me for nearly two minutes, and smiled as if in recognition, even affection. Before she turned away her lips parted and she said something to me; though I could not hear through the glass, by the movement of her lips she appeared to say, “Good morning, Ernst.” I have not seen her since, and I must now wonder if she was a hallucination, some symptom of a decay of my mental processes. If this is some trick of my mechanical brain, it is a cruel one.

  Date and time unknown (23 hours, 12 minutes since last entry)

  I believe my carelessness may have betrayed me. The Negro returned this evening, as he has for the past two nights, lingering by my window, staring in at me in the dark, as if waiting for some hint of movement or awareness. Last night I outlasted him, remaining still for nearly an hour before he moved on, just in time; in our contest of wills I nearly wound down and had but a few minutes left when he finally abandoned his vigil. He arrives late, when the streetoutside is dark and the horseless carriages are few, and at approximately the same time each night. On clear nights the blue glass wall reflects the moon, and he comes when the pale disk rises to the uppermost part of my view. As before, I warded him off by remaining still, and after some time he turned his attention from me. Our encounter would have ended there, but the Negro reached down and fumbled open his fly directly in front of me; then a clear stream, faintly glimmering in the moonlight, arced from his silhouette onto the pavement below.

  I will not attempt to excuse my slip by explaining my training in matters of etiquette; however, I regarded this act as highly inappropriate and turned my head away, forgetting the possible consequences. Intent on finishing what he had begun, he did not notice me until that moment. He looked up, eyes wide and white in the dark, and the stream halted abruptly. I did not move any further, but I believe by then it was too late. He pressed his face up against the glass and peered in, without refastening his fly.

  I had been caught. My thoughts were jumbled, a myriad of potential escapes pondered and then tossed aside. Finally I struck upon a solution, though the Master would never have approved. On my many excursions with Giselle into the less-cosmopolitan parts of the city, I would be the object of stares and whispers, and occasionally some overly curious townspeople might follow us at a distance. Giselle often advised me to turn and stare back; my smallest reaction would send them running. For a moment, I thought I could quite literally hear her voice, saying, “Give him what he wants.” I slowly turned my head toward the Negro and looked him in the eye. He sprang back from the glass immediately, his face devoidof expression, as if he were unable to believe what he was seeing. As I began to rise from my chair, he turned and ran away, disappearing into the darkness.

  I should, I think, feel some shame over my actions. The Master always warned me against becoming an object of fear, lest the townspeople be moved to do me harm; instead I was to earn their acceptance and admiration through my bearing and manners. But I doubt I have done any lasting harm. As yet I do not know what consequence my reaction will bring: the Negro might, perhaps, dismiss the encounter as a trick of the light brought on by fatigue or hunger. Perhaps he will tell what he has seen, though if Herr Linnhoffer and his assistants dismiss me as a fraud, others may as well, and the Negro’s story could be easily discounted. I shall regret it deeply if I have caused damage to his reputation, but as of now that is beyond my control.

  Date and time unknown (22 hours, 7 minutes since last entry)

  The night watchman has yet to wander into this part of the store, and seems preoccupied with something at the rear entrance. I have heard him whispering loudly to someone in the dark: “Come back when we’re open,” though I could not hear a reply, nor the voice of his addressee.

  Thus far the Negro has not returned this evening, and I begin to believe I may have frightened him away. However, that is but a minor concern at present.

  This morning Herr Linnhoffer and his two assistants stood outside staring into my window; Herr Linnhoffer himself seemed somewhat displeased with me. He gave muted instructions to his twosubordinates, which I could not discern over the usual early-morning din as racks and carts are moved about. But as they entered I could hear the end of their conversation.

  “Have to send him off somewhere,” Herr Linnhoffer said. “I know a guy in Kenosha who works on a
ntique clocks. Probably be expensive.”

  “You think he can get him working?” the one called Barry asked. “His insides are more complicated than anything I’ve ever seen.”

  “Don’t know,” Herr Linnhoffer replied. “It’s worth a shot, though. He’s not bringing anyone in propped up in a window. Get him moving, maybe we’ve got something.”

  “I’ll call the guy,” Barry said. “At least see what he has to say.”

  “You do that,” Herr Linnhoffer said. “I spent too much on him just to let him sit there.”

  They walked off into the store, and I could no longer hear them.

  Thus far I have heard nothing else on the matter, but as one might expect, it is a grave concern to me. The Master considered me his greatest accomplishment, born of over twenty years of research and labor, and his genius was world-renowned. I know nothing of Herr Linnhoffer’s specialist, but my inner workings are certainly more complex than any clock, and I fear that, in unfamiliar hands, I might be reduced to a mindless automaton, lose some of my higher functions, or worst of all, have my memory inadvertently erased—an unendurable fate which, were it to come to pass, would rob me of that which I treasure most.

  I believe the time to make a decision is fast approaching. Submitting to untrained hands is unacceptable; I believe I must either reveal myself or escape. If Herr Linnhoffer’s account is sound, Iam now his property, and though it pains me, the sense of duty the Master instilled in me suggests I should dedicate myself to serving him. I might at least learn how I arrived here. Should it come to that, I can only hope it might cause Herr Linnhoffer to refrain from having me spoiled by his assistants. Yet, judging from his prior comments, I fear I would be deprived of my dignity and exploited for his personal gain.

  I do not know what to do. I have had plenty of time to ruminate over my situation, and a solution has yet to occur to me. In fact, my mind has begun to indulge in impossible fantasies: at times I find myself believing this is all a terrible mistake, that the Master will soon arrive to retrieve me from this peculiar place. And just after I learned of Herr Linnhoffer’s plans to have me serviced by unfamiliar hands, I thought I had heard a familiar light, airy voice, clear as if it had been spoken directly into my ear, saying, “Run.” I suspect it is the same cruel glitch.

  Having taught me the capacity to exercise judgment, the Master would be appalled at my apparent paralysis. But at the moment I am too confused to act. I will simply have to wait for an appropriate course of action to present itself, and trust that he has given me the power to recognize it when it comes.

  Date and time unknown (24 hours, 17 minutes since last entry)

  Thus far I have heard no further word from Herr Linnhoffer or his associates about sending me away; none have come into my view since yesterday, when I first learned their intentions. I suspect the moment will come without warning, and that I will have to decidewhether to reveal myself with but a few minutes’ notice. There has been much activity in the store during business hours and after closing, and I have had to remain especially careful to maintain my stillness. The night watchman has again taken to sitting near my window, doing a newspaper crossword puzzle. He has, as I write these lines, momentarily left his post; he has taken the newspaper with him, else I would have seized it to learn my location and the current date. I was briefly tempted to leave my window and quit this place, or at least explore my surroundings, but fear of being discovered and my ignorance of the electric eye’s position prompted me to remain. Instead I took the opportunity to wind myself, a procedure which, on a nightly basis, brings me dangerously close to being found out.

  The Negro returned late in the afternoon and for some time hovered near the edge of my window, peeking at me from time to time, then ducking back out of sight. But I am vigilant in the daytime, and am quite sure he caught no movement. Several passersby glanced at him with arched eyebrows, perhaps thinking him mentally unbalanced, then shrugged and moved on. On several occasions one of the store employees, a woman in a blue skirt and white sweater sporting a dull red nametag, went outside to shoo him away, but he would only return a few minutes later to continue staring at me.

  The woman grew cross with him, and once even leaned out the door and threatened to call the police if he did not move along. Through the half-open door I heard his desperate, gravelly voice as he shouted, “He’s alive!” The woman told him he was merely seeing things, and gave him to the count of five before she called the authorities; he glanced at me, then at her, then at me again, as if pondering what to do, and for a moment I feared he might take the riskin order to expose me, but after she reached five and turned to come inside, he limped off down the sidewalk. Once the altercation had passed she left orders to warn the night watchman in case the Negro should return. While he has become troublesome and I am relieved that she inadvertently came to my rescue, I find her treatment of him rude and crass; I now fully understand why the soloist in Frankfurt found it necessary to leave this place. The Master was adamant that, even when confronted by the most obnoxious people, I should act in a gentlemanly fashion. He was often irritated with Giselle for her more caustic approach to dealing with the overly curious and impolite, and expected better of me.

  Mistreated or not, the Negro is certain to return; sooner or later he will either find someone to listen to his account and draw further attention to me, or more likely, he will suffer at the hands of the authorities for making a spectacle of himself. It would be most unfortunate if that should happen on my account, and I do not think I can allow that.

  Date unknown

  1:33 p.m.

  Professor Wellesley,

  For the first time in my approximation of a life, I am a fugitive. The last two days have been tumultuous, and I ask your patience as I try to recount last night’s events, as they unfolded so rapidly that I have yet to sort out all their implications. As you have no doubt noted, I have finally been able to reset my internal clock, having glimpsed a large clock tower near my present location. While thisis some small relief, however, its significance pales by comparison to this morning’s events.

  In any case, the result is this: I have, at last, quit the display window at Linnhoffer’s. As I write these notes it is early afternoon, and judging from the aged posters on the walls I am concealed inside what appears to be an abandoned facility once meant for the maintenance of horseless carriages, a large empty shed with rusty metal walls and smashed windows approximately eight blocks from the store. I have been here since before sunrise, soon after I left my window prison. This place is empty, though there are signs that others have been here: an ancient door, forced open (there was no need to break in); an old oil barrel with the charred remains of paper and sticks and fabric; discarded shoes covered in dirt and grime; and an old bucket in the corner, rusted, filled with human excrement turned nearly white with age. In fact, this entire area is empty for several blocks in any direction, but for a factory at the edge of my view. It is a less-than-ideal place to hide, but for now it will do. Come night I may look for another, as I attempt to piece together the events that brought about my strange destiny.

  My escape was not premeditated. In fact, I still find it strange that I am no longer imprisoned behind a thick glass wall, forced to remain completely still for fear of discovery. For now, at least, I am free.

  Early this morning—from my reset chronometer I can now say it was ten minutes past three o’clock—I heard the sound of a window breaking in the rear of the store. The night watchman had been sitting near my window for most of the evening, but had wandered off again, perhaps to use the water closet or attend to some personal business. I briefly peeked out from behind my curtain, but drewback quickly when the two masked men—one a white man, the other another Negro (I could see their skin under the masks)—crept very near to my window. I heard the faint rustling of fabric and metal, then the quiet hum of the electric eye grew fainter, as if they had covered it over with some article of apparel. From the opposite end of the
store came an urgent “Let’s move,” then the desperate ringing of the cash registers as they were mishandled, the smashing of glass in display cases. A moment later I heard another set of rushed footsteps: the night watchman returning from his respite. A mechanical voice rang out from an instrument at his side, in clipped phrases, which gave his position away to the two masked men. Concerned for his safety, I peeked out again.

  “Jesus,” he said, reaching for the baton at his side. But one of the thieves drew a pistol from his trousers and pointed it at him.

  “Just relax,” the gunman said. “Open the safe for us and you’ll live through this.”

  Apparently the night watchman felt some sense of duty to the store, as he pulled the black box from his belt and lifted it to his mouth. Immediately the gunman seized it and threw it to the ground, then struck him across the face with the handle of his pistol. The guard fell to the floor, clutching his jaw and moaning.

  “Real stupid, man,” he said. He turned to his companion. “Tie him up. We’ll take care of him when we’re done.”

  For a moment I did nothing, and for that I ask your understanding, if not your forgiveness. I was, I think, afraid—of being damaged in some way (though I have no flesh to injure, nor bones to break), and of revealing myself and facing the repercussions.

  But my conscience would not permit me to allow the nightwatchman to come to harm; the Master taught me better than that. And though it now seems rather silly to mention, I found the thieves’ behavior brutish, and could no longer tolerate it.

  I began to move.

  The thieves’ backs were turned to me as they tied the guard to a chair with thick silver tape. When I emerged from behind the curtain, the noise of the tape coming off the roll partially masked the soft squeal of my movements. My legs had grown quite stiff from lack of use, and as I have mentioned before, I have little capacity for stealth, as the soft grinding of my joints precedes me. But I stepped down from the window anyway, and slowly made my way toward them. I did not know what I might do once I reached them; perhaps I hoped the surprise might be enough to drive them away.