The Clockwork Man

by William Jablonsky

  The Negro thief looked up and turned around as I approached. “What the hell is that?” he said. He uttered an expletive I will not here repeat, and tapped his accomplice on the shoulder. For a moment all three men—the two thieves, and the night watchman, partially bound to a chair—stared at me, eyes wide, mouths falling open.

  The accomplice began to point his gun at me, but even in my present state my gait is swift, and before it was fully raised I took hold of it and easily pried it from his hands. I took great pains to use minimal force, so as not to harm him. I wished to speak, to apologize for my use of force and to beseech them to surrender, but my speech mechanism is still slow from lack of use, and all I could muster was a clipped “No,” as I tossed the pistol away. I had not heard my own voice in a long time, and it seemed as scratchy and distant as a poor phonograph recording. The disarmed thief tripped as he tried to back away, inching backward along the floor until hiscompanion grabbed his arm and hoisted him to his feet. He muttered a few more expletives, and they ran out the way they had entered, dropping a large canvas bag full of whatever they had scavenged from the store.

  Once I was sure the thieves were gone I returned to the night watchman; as I drew nearer he began trembling violently in his chair, sweat dripping down his cheeks and forehead, moaning fearfully through his taped lips. I leaned over and, with but a small effort, ripped through the tape binding his hands and feet to the chair. I did not remove the tape over his mouth, since I lack the dexterity (and fingernails) to do so. But once I had freed him, he remained in the chair and made no attempt to remove it himself. He simply stared wide-eyed at me, his brow damp and ashen. It occurred to me that I had never really seen him before; he was a portly man, pale of skin, with brownish-black hair and a bald patch at the top, and he did not look well.

  “Are you injured?” The words came slowly, my accent still thick.

  The night watchman tried to retreat from me, but his knees gave out and he fell off the chair to the floor. He muttered something through the tape: a muffled “Please don’t hurt me.”

  “You should send for the authorities now.” After staring for a moment, he nodded, the tape still covering his mouth.

  I considered asking him not to mention my actions, but by then it was far too late to avoid complications from the incident. I realized I had but two options: remain and be exposed—while Herr Linnhoffer seems at least to understand my material value, the police might view me with less enthusiasm—or flee. Those who read this volume will no doubt think it odd, but by that moment I had decidedto remain. The Master made it quite clear that his family, myself included, was to take responsibility, and accept the consequences of, our actions. I do not abandon such teachings lightly.

  I hesitate to recount what happened next, as I find it inexplicable and somewhat embarrassing. Perhaps it was the result of my suspected glitch, but in the very next moment, I found myself somewhere else—sitting on the floor of the Master’s attic observatory in a darkness broken only by faint moonlight, a swath of red-gold hair falling over me, a warm cheek resting against my chest. It was as if I had awakened from a bizarre dream, and found myself safe at home.

  “Giselle?” I said, though I knew this was impossible.

  She looked up at me with sleepy eyes and smiled. “You have to run away. It isn’t safe.”

  I did not understand completely, but I confess that, were it a hallucination caused by some malfunction, I did not want to leave it. “Why?” She laughed. “Because you don’t belong here. Go.” She leaned in and kissed my cheek, and then was gone, and I was left standing in the darkened store, the night watchman on his knees, trembling.

  Silently, I plucked a long black greatcoat from one of the racks and draped it over my shoulders (it would have taken too long to slide my arms through the sleeves), then a black fedora from another and tilted it low on my head, over my eyes. I hope you will not think ill of me for pilfering these garments, but my time was short and I required a quick disguise.

  I turned to the night watchman still on his back next to the fallen chair. “Please tell Herr Linnhoffer I will return these. And do summon the police.”

  He nodded again.

  I made my way to the front entrance, but turned back to him before exiting. “Would you happen to know the date?”

  He muttered something through the tape over his mouth, but I could not make it out. Fearing I had little time left, I thanked him anyway, opened the heavy glass door, and walked out onto the darkened street.

  I wandered for several blocks, occasionally glancing up at the streetlights, all on arched poles over the streets, all burning with a warm, orange glow, unlike the harsh little filaments of Herr Edison’s invention, which shine from the noses of the horseless carriages and threaten to reveal me. Perhaps it is not as widespread as the Master had predicted; for reasons I cannot explain, I find that comforting.

  Though I heard wailing sirens off in the distance, and assumed the police were on their way, I managed to walk on undisturbed and unnoticed, encountering only a young couple who passed me on the sidewalk, seemingly without noticing me. The young man’s hand was in her back pocket, which I found unseemly, but I offered no comment. I would like to have asked them our location and the current date, but did not wish to attract attention. It now occurs to me that I might have checked the public waste bins for a discarded newspaper to discover the information I sought, but saw none. At the time my primary concern was finding a hiding place for the night. By then the night watchman had surely found the police and was telling them of the incident, and my priority was concealment. Luckily, I happened on this service station; I slipped through the partially unhinged door and retired to this dark, empty space. I do not think anyone will mind.

  I intend to remain here until evening, when darkness will allow me to move unnoticed. Then, I will begin my search for the truth about my strange new world, and try, if it is still possible, to return home.

  Date unknown

  9:37 a.m.

  Professor Wellesley,

  It is now morning; I have not, as yet, ventured out into the city, for reasons which the following should sufficiently explain. For the first time since my awakening, I believe I have found an ally—quite surprisingly, and by chance, though I have become accustomed to such surprises in the two weeks I have spent in this new world.

  I have previously made mention of a Negro who, late at night, came to my window in the hope of seeing some sign of life from me. At the time I considered him an annoyance and a liability, fearing he might expose me before I could discover what brought me here. I now regret that sentiment, as he has proven himself sincere and helpful.

  His name is Greeley (whether first or last I could not discern), and he seems to inhabit the streets of this city, lacking a legal residence. He is a short, stocky man of about forty, with a full, curly, black beard and sideburns that extend all the way down his jaw. He speaks in a low, gravelly voice, and his grammar is clipped and less than perfect. (I have recorded his speech unedited in these pages so you might get a sense of his character.) All his meager possessions he carries in a faded green canvas bag. His skin is fascinatingly dark, a far cry from the pale, near translucent complexions of my homeland; yet it reflects even the faintest light. I have never before been so close to a Negro, and must ask your understanding if my interest is inappropriate.

  I encountered him after nightfall, when the moon was full and high in the night sky and the sound of the horseless carriages outside had dissipated. Having just wound myself, I was preparing to go out into the night and explore my new surroundings, possibly even locate a newspaper to find out the date and, perhaps, a story on my disappearance, that it might give some background as to how I arrived here. I had not traveled two blocks when I heard a great commotion coming from a nearby alley: the grunting and shouting of a physical struggle. Perhaps I should have let it be, to avoid detection, but I am compelled to be a good Samaritan when possible—all the better to win the trust o
f those who might otherwise fear me. I moved closer to investigate. In the dim light I saw a large man in a faded green jacket, trying to pull a parcel away from another man. The intended victim attempted to fight, but his assailant was far too large and powerful, and in a moment he was flat on his face on the ground.

  “No way! You ain’t takin’ my bag!” the victim said several times, maintaining his grip on the bag as his attacker tried to pry it from his hands. I instantly recognized the voice as that of the Negro who had accosted me in the store window.

  The assailant began to kick his fallen prey, and I had no choice but to intervene. I had hoped the sound of my mechanical joints and my mysterious appearance might be enough to send the attacker running, but in his haste to steal the Negro’s bag, he neither saw nor heard me. Finally I stopped a few paces from them and made my presence known. I cast a great black shadow upon one of the brick walls bordering the alley, which in all humility I realize must have been quite intimidating. “Excuse me, mein Herr,” I said, “but I do not think that bag belongs to you.” The assailant looked up from his nefarious deed and began to say something so crude I will not repeat it, but after a moment, when he had taken in what he beheld, his eyes went wide, and before he could move, I had snatched his wrist and flipped him end-over-end onto the pavement—simply enough to separate the two men without harming him. (Though I am not skilled at violence, having no need of it, I once saw this maneuver depicted in a judo book in the Master’s library.)

  “Oh, Christ!” he screamed, crawling away from me along the ground. For a moment I feared he might regain his courage and rush me once more, thus provoking me into additional physical confrontation, but instead he pulled himself to his feet and ran out into the street.

  I then turned my attention to the Negro picking himself up off the ground, clutching his bag to his chest. I could not see his face.

  “Thank you, my man,” he said.

  “Are you hurt?” I asked him.

  The man patted his sides and chest, as if to test them for injury. “Nope,” he said. “I’m okay. Thanks again, man.” I wished him a good night and tried my best to disappear into the shadows before he saw my face. But a swathe of moonlight fell over my face, and I saw his mouth drop open and his eyes grow wide. “Aw, hell—it’s you!” he shouted, trying to scramble away. “Don’t kill me! I’m sorry I bugged you before!” He stepped back slowly. Taking his bag by the strap, he swung it wildly in front of him. I was in no immediate danger, as he was too far away to hit anything.

  “Do not be afraid,” I said, and stepped into the dim light.

  For a moment he stopped swinging the bag. Out of respect I removed my hat, at which point, perhaps startled by my sudden movement, he backed up against the metal wall, holding the bag defensively in the air.

  I began to fear that he might attack in self-defense, and in his desperation seriously injure himself. “Please,” I said, trying to diffuse the situation. “I am not going to hurt you.”

  He gradually lowered his bag, with some apprehension, as if in a moment I might grab it and bludgeon him.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  He stared into my face for a moment, then smiled and began jumping in place. “Ha-ha! I knew you was alive! I knew it! Everybody thought I was crazy!”

  “You are not. My name is Ernst.”

  “Greeley,” he said, offering his hand, which I shook. “Er-nest, huh?”

  “Ernst,” I corrected him.

  “That’s what I said.” (He has continued to mispronounce my name as “Ernest” since then; I suspect I will simply have to accept it.)

  Once our awkward introduction had passed, he followed me back to the service station (which, according to Herr Greeley, is more appropriately called a “garage”), where I recounted my escape from the display window, and asked that he not tell anyone he had seen me, at least for now. At first he balked most vehemently at my request, issuing several expletives, kicking rusted tools across the floor, and pounding the wall with his fist, and I became concerned he might give away my presence. His anger may be justified; because of his stories about me, everyone he knew believed him insane. I was tobe his vindication. Finally, after I explained that I would likely be taken apart if found, and promised to let him introduce me to his associates when the situation was less urgent, he seemed to understand.

  “I gotcha,” he said. “They been after me too. Probably do the same thing if they catch me. Just remember, you promised.” Once we had reached an understanding, and shaken hands on it, he unzipped his faded bag and began to rummage through it, laying on the ground before him a small folded wad of currency, a roll of thin paper, a red-and-white can of chicken-noodle soup. “There you are,” he finally mumbled, and drew out a paper-wrapped sandwich, which he had obtained from a local shelter some three days before. He offered me half and seemed fascinated when I declined, and asked if I ate metal instead. Seated cross-legged on the floor, he ate as I told him about Frankfurt, the Master, and my experiences before my long sleep.

  When I told him of Giselle, he looked sadly down at the floor. “I’m sorry,” he said. “She musta been a sweet girl.”

  “She was beautiful.”

  From our conversation I gather he has led an interesting life, full of adventure. He is, he says, a former boxer, still possessing a left hook capable of knocking me, as he put it, “into next week.” He is also a former soldier, like the Master, a veteran of the war in a place called Eye-rak, where he claims to have killed a man with his bare hands, and was quite the ladies’ man among the female soldiers. He has not as yet revealed to me the reason for his transience, and I think it impolite to ask. From time to time his face contorts strangely, and he begins to look about nervously, as if he believes something is about to happen—“they” are looking for him, and so by night hemust conceal himself. (He was unclear of the identity of this clandestine group, but seems quite adamant that the consequences will be grave if they find him.)

  “I’m an American citizen,” he said rather gruffly, “and it’s a damn shame I have to be on the run like this. A damn shame.”

  For the past two years he has been a denizen of this city, which he tells me is called Milwaukee. (Unfortunately, my education on American geography is incomplete, and I am unfamiliar with this place, but I may soon tap him for more knowledge.) He was unaware of the exact date—his estimates range from 1492 to 1967, to 2525, upon which he burst into song—but claims to be given free newspapers at a local newsstand, and is out procuring one for me as I write these lines.

  I should indicate that I do not completely accept his claims; the Master deeply wished to cure me of my gullibility, that I might more securely hold the knowledge of my construction. Herr Greeley’s speech is sometimes slurred, and at times he ceases to make sense during conversation; his behavior reminds me of the Master’s before he was taken away, and I suspect he may be slightly unbalanced; this may be why he has accepted me without apprehension, and I can only hope he does not dismiss our encounter as a hallucination. I will approach this new association with caution, but thus far he appears sincere enough. In fact, now that the initial shock of our meeting is over, he seems delighted that his suspicions about me were correct, and repeatedly asks me about my bodily functions, my strength, my speech. He once even asked to hear a bit of German. It is almost as if I am talking to Jakob again, before his cruel tricks began.

  Herr Greeley has promised me a nighttime tour of this city, and assures me we will go unnoticed if I closely follow his lead. Shouldhe return I would very much like that. It may even help me to find the answers I seek.

  24 May 2005

  4:42 a.m.

  As the heading of this entry indicates, I have finally determined the date. It is a hard, hard thing to realize how much time has actually passed—to be precise, one hundred thirteen years, one hundred twenty-two days, twelve hours, and twenty-seven minutes since my last conscious moments in the Master’s home. The Master was always keen on moni
toring my development, asking me to note each new sensation; in my time with him I registered what might be called contentment, joy, sorrow, and even despair. But there are no words for this.

  It has been three days since Herr Greeley brought me the newspaper that led to this discovery: a two-day-old edition bearing the headline, Clockwork Man Stolen. At first, having realized just how much time had passed, I paid no attention to the article itself. I have yet to completely register the truth—that the Master, Jakob, Fräulein Gruenwald, and all the people I knew, are long dead, and that history counts me a fraud. By that reckoning, the addressee of this volume is also long deceased, this exercise rendered meaningless. Yet I hope that writing these lines may help me sort out my confusion, and might one day aid me in finally accepting what has transpired. Should the opportunity arise, I promise it will yet reach the hands of Professor Wellesley’s successors, and hope they will still find value in it.

  I have barely spoken to Herr Greeley since the initial discovery, having explained to him the reason for my current state, and have asked him for solitude. He has returned briefly for the past two nights to check on me—whether out of loyalty or to make sure his mechanical man is not a hallucination, I do not know.

  To say the least, I did not take the news well. I have twice attempted to return to an inanimate state, neglecting to wind myself after Herr Greeley left this garage. The first attempt was a mere three hours, thirty-seven minutes after the discovery. Once my gears and cogs slowed, the soft ticking faltering and then coming to a halt, I simply winked out. I did not revisit my memories of Giselle, preoccupied as I was; yet I held a small hope that her errant image might return and speak to me before the end, either through the memory of our embrace in the attic, or as a dancing figure in the snow. It did not.