Unfortunately, Herr Greeley seemed to be having difficulty with the device, and began to utter loud curses and strike the screen with his fist. I did not think this a wise strategy, but could not advise him because of my concealment.
The commotion drew the attention of a librarian, who approached him, but kept her distance. “Sir,” she said, “you’re causing a disturbance. Please leave.”
“I gotta find somethin’,” Greeley said. “I won’t make no more noise. I promise.”
“Sir, don’t make me call the police.” Her voice was stern, and she seemed prepared to do so.
Herr Greeley’s reaction was, to say the least, colorful. Since my first interactions with people outside the Master’s home I have been taught that a polite apology will diffuse most misunderstandings; he had obviously not learned this. “This a public buildin’, ain’t it?” he said. “Well, I’m an American citizen, and I got rights.” He then uttered several more curses directed at her—primarily questioning her sexuality and comparing her to a part of the female anatomy. (I will not repeat them here, as they were terms unfit to use in front of a lady.)
The librarian sighed, and called for a colleague. Within a few seconds he appeared: a large, burly man with a thick red beard who dwarfed Greeley by nearly a foot and, had he been standing in front of him, could have obscured him completely.
“Is there a problem?” the man asked. “I think she asked you to leave, pal.”
Greeley made a few remarks about the red-bearded man’s mother, insisting he was a free citizen with every right to be there.
The man did not lose his composure, as I feared he might. “Go on. Now. Before we do call the cops.”
Greeley briefly looked toward the shelves where I was hiding. “I’m waitin’ on somebody,” he insisted. But the man began to approach him, as if to physically assault him. My ticking grew louder due to the stress of the situation, but I remained frozen, hoping Greeley would retreat before he was attacked or the police came. Had they come to blows, I would certainly have had to defend him, and thus be exposed before I could find the answers I sought. For a moment Greeley’s eyes met mine; I pointed to the front entrance, and he nodded subtly.
“Fine. I’m goin’.” He looked in my direction once more and then backed away slowly. “Fine way to treat an American citizen.” He walked out the front door. I was thus left alone in the library, though safely hidden for the moment.
The woman laughed. “Probably looking for some place to spend the night. We get ’em in here every so often.” (Whether she meant vagrants or Negroes I do not know, so I will withhold judgment.) They walked away, and I adjusted my hiding place so as not to be seen.
Fifteen minutes later a librarian locked the doors and shut off the lights and illuminated screens, and I was alone with more books than I could ever read in my extended lifetime.
Herr Greeley had left his notes beside the illuminated screen; the librarians had not yet discarded the sheet, so I crept out and palmed it. I trod carefully amongst the stacks as quietly as possible, lest some security guard or librarian hear me. Only one light shone from a far corner of the library, and I assumed it was safe to move. The electrical screen Herr Greeley had used was shut off and I did not know how to operate it (nor do I have the skill to type with any precision), so I scanned the shelves quickly for the proper subjects. As I have previously mentioned, I am able to see clearly in the dark, and as I searched, I was grateful for the Master’s gift to me—one of so many.
I browsed for slightly more than half an hour until I found what I sought: a book on the great clocks of Europe (hoping for some information on Herr Gruber, who was bound to be included in its pages), two on the history of Frankfurt, and one general volume which covered German history from 1905 to 1989. Sadly, I was unable to find any volumes dealing with the period immediately following my inactivity. I would like to have collected more, as the library is well-stocked, but these tomes are large and rather unwieldy, and a greater burden would be impractical to carry. I should have been grateful for Greeley’s pack. I will, of course, see to their return once I have learned from them what I can.
Much as I wished to stay and read through the night, I could not risk being seen, and thought Greeley might believe I had abandoned him, or grow concerned and put himself at risk searching for me. With my burden in hand, I slowly inched my way among the stacks, toward the side door where we had gained entrance earlier.
I had covered perhaps half the distance when I heard voices coming from the shelves, several feet away. One belonged to the man who had accosted Greeley, the other I did not recognize; they wished each other a good night and seemed about to leave. I stood still, prepared to wait for them to exit, but the topmost book began to slide off and I moved slightly to secure it, my elbow emitting a soft mechanical whir as it bent. The voices stopped immediately.
“You hear that?” the red-bearded one asked.
“Yeah. What the hell was that?” the other, a slight man with receding chocolate-brown hair said. They crept nearer to me.
“Sounds like something’s ticking.”
“Jesus! You mean like a bomb?”
“Sure as hell hope not. Where’s it coming from?”
“Over here, I think.”
As has occurred during other stressful situations, my ticking greatly increased in volume; unfortunately, this is beyond my control, thus my only recourse was to step back quietly, winding my way through the shelves, hoping they might continue their search elsewhere and give me the opportunity to escape. I had put two rows between myself and the two men, when something in the ceiling began to hum softly, a soft rush of air flowing downward from grates in the paneling.
“Damn,” one of the men said. “Can’t hear it anymore.”
“Better go turn on the lights. And tell Kathy to turn the air off. Can’t be too careful nowadays.”
“Yeah, but who’d want to bomb a library?”
“Beats me, but we’d better find whatever that noise is.”
I have never considered the importance of luck; the Master, being a firm believer in self-reliance, often told his children that we create our own. Thus, I seized upon the opportunity granted me and headed for the nearest exit.
Sadly, though Greeley’s treatment of my knee and ankle joints has quieted them somewhat, my capacity for stealth has not been greatly improved.
“There it is again,” the smaller, balding man said, and they turned just as I reached the glass doors. “Hey!” he called, and they began to chase me.
I had nearly reached the doors when the red-bearded man’s footfalls drew dangerously close, and I felt a hard tug on my overcoat. As my coat and hat are my only disguise, I felt it necessary to preserve them, and turned quickly, taking hold of the man’s collar. He attempted to pull free, but his strength was insufficient. Though it was dark, a thin strip of moonlight shone in through one of the windows, falling across my eyes and nose. “What in the hell …?” he muttered, eyes wide with terror, as if he were staring into the eyes of some otherworldly thing. His companion stood back, unmoving.
“Forgive me,” I said, and, seizing him by his shirt collar, swung him into a faded blue armchair by the door. I am confident I did not harm him, as the chair was covered in a thick plush padding, and I used little force. (I am neither thug nor monster.) “I will return these as soon as possible,” I said, then pushed open the doors and walked swiftly onto the street, finding refuge in the shadow of a large metallic sculpture shaped like a flaming torch.
From my hiding place I could still hear them, faintly, on the library steps.
“Did you see those eyes?” the red-bearded one said.
“Yeah,” his colleague replied. “What do we do? Call the cops?”
“And tell ’em what? That some … thing came in here and stole a few books? They’d think we were crazy.”
After they had gone back inside, I looked out at the street to regain my bearings. I began to look for a place to hide in cas
e the police came looking for me, when I heard rapid footsteps behind me; then a large hand firmly gripped my shoulder.
“I told you to be more careful!” Herr Greeley whispered. “They find you, we both get dragged off.”
“I had no choice.”
“I told you this was gonna be trouble. Let’s get back ‘fore anybody else sees you.”
Because of Greeley’s concerns, we took a longer route back to the garage, along streets with few lightposts. Perhaps halfway there I requested that we stop for a moment, as the evening’s heightened activity had caused me to wind down faster than usual. We entered a walkway along the river, and Greeley sat on a metal bench to rest while I exposed my key to wind myself. Strangely, I have become less self-conscious about this process since entering his company; I am not yet certain it is appropriate behavior, but Greeley does not seem embarrassed by it.
As I wound, I watched the darkened street nearby to be sure no one followed or strayed too close. The only passerby was a young woman of about twenty carrying a large paper bag, who did not so much as look in our direction. I would have paid her no mind but for the large squarish automobile parked just ahead of her on the street corner. It was white and higher and longer than most vehicles (Herr Greeley informed me this is called a “van”), and bore the simple title Flowers And Gifts. A tall, gaunt man wearing wire-rimmed spectacles exited and approached her, offering her what appeared to be a selection of orchids. She politely shook her head and was about to move on, but he blocked her path and offered it again. She smiled and held out her hand for the flower, but he grabbed her wrist and held it tightly.
Needless to say, I found this distressing—the scene is much too familiar to one I have sworn never to revisit. I took a few steps toward the scene, but Herr Greeley immediately rose to his feet and tried to restrain me from behind.
“Leave it alone,” he said. “Ain’t nothin’ you can do about it.”
She began to struggle, but two more men emerged from the back of the vehicle and seized her, lifting her off her feet and stuffing her like a carpet into the back.
“This is unacceptable,” I said. “Let me go.”
“No way,” Greeley said. “Don’t mess around with that.”
I took two more steps toward the vehicle, escaping his grasp, but he lay on the ground and wrapped his entire body around my ankles, so I tripped, falling to one knee.
“Don’t look,” he said. “Just don’t look.” But I did.
The noise of my fall must have reached the abductors, as the largest of the three looked down our alley; Greeley quickly lowered his head and commanded me to be still. “Don’t you make a sound,” he whispered. The big man stared for twenty-three seconds, then rushed back to the vehicle, which promptly rolled out of view.
I turned to Herr Greeley. “Why did you stop me?”
“Sorry. You’da prob’ly got us both killed.”
“I would not have come to harm.”
“Yeah, but I might’ve,” he said, irritation in his voice.
“You should notify the police.” Greeley laughed harshly. “You think they’d believe me?”
“Why would they not?”
“Fine. I’ll show you.” He laughed again. “Boy, you got a lot to learn.”
Despite the obvious risk, I insisted that Greeley call the police from a nearby pay telephone to tell them all we had seen. A description of the abductor and his vehicle should have proven useful to the police. Greeley insisted I remain in shadow while he made the call, whispering to me for specific descriptions. As my recall is perfect, I thought myself an ideal witness. Unfortunately, his recounting of events did not seem to find much of an audience.
“Now look,” he muttered into the mouthpiece. “I got somethin’ to tell you. I just saw a girl get kidnapped.” He attempted to explain what we had seen but was cut off.
“Yes, this is Greeley,” he said. He began to grow agitated. “No, the mechanical man didn’t do it.” I needed a moment to process that I was not an actual suspect, but in fact Greeley was being mocked on my account. Unfortunately, my trick on him in Herr Linnhoffer’s display window had, in fact, damaged his credibility, and so I am the architect of my own guilt.
Greeley uttered several expletives into the telephone, banged it once on the metal frame. “Now you know I don’t have no phone number. And no street address. No, I don’t need nobody to take me to a shelter.” He listened for a moment. “You gotta listen,” he finally said. Silence again. “Fine,” he said angrily, and let the telephone fall.
“They did not believe you,” I said as Herr Greeley returned to the shadows.
“Nope! They thought I was callin ’bout you again. Look what you done to me.” He raised his arms and let them fall limply to his sides. “Not like I’d be much of a witness.”
Despite his failure it seemed imperative to try again. “Perhaps I should tell them,” I said.
Greeley laughed. “You think they’ll believe you any more than me? What you gonna do, walk up to ’em and tell ’em what we saw? Hell, they’d shoot you ’fore you even got up the steps.”
I replied that it might be worth the risk, as my unique construction could likely withstand a few bullets without severe damage.
Greeley sighed. “You know what I mean. You’d scare ’em half to death; then they’d take you all apart. An’ you know it.”
Sadly, I believed he was correct. “Yes. They would.”
“Just let it go. You can’t do nothin’.”
Reluctantly, I was forced to agree, though in retrospect I cannot decide if it was out of fear of being dismantled, or because my account would hold no weight. Perhaps it was both. Without the guidance of the Master and Giselle, the answer eludes me.
In either case, I have resolved to further distract myself with these books, that I might cease to think about what I have seen. I must admit I have not been able to fully concentrate on them, as my ticking has yet to slow and is somewhat disruptive. I have difficulty with Greeley’s rationale for stopping me and the seeming indifference of the authorities, and I believe the Master would be sorely disappointed in me for failing to intervene. If I now live in a world in which I must turn a blind eye toward evil, I do not think I shall grow to like this place.
In the meantime, Herr Greeley says, there is nothing I can do, and the best thing is to try not to think about it. So I will turn my attention to these volumes, and hope they can fill in my misplaced history.
30 May 2005
1:18 a.m.
For the past two afternoons Herr Greeley has been wandering into town to, as he puts it, “earn some money.” By this I assume he means to panhandle. Despite my deeply ingrained resistance to the practice, I gather he is most adept at it, as he often returns with upwardof twenty dollars, mostly in coin form, his pockets jingling when he moves. He has also managed to obtain two half-consumed packs of cigarettes and several frankfurters from a local vendor, which he stores in his pack for future meals. It is somewhat warm, particularly in this garage, and if he does not eat them before the next day they tend to go rancid; twice after eating one he has vomited profusely. The first time he was able to reach the curb outside; the second time, the urge overcame him too quickly, and he spewed the contents of his stomach in the corner, which he then left to dry for several hours before finally diluting it with a bottle of water from his pack. Apparently he keeps several, which he fills at drinking fountains in various public buildings. The odor, he says, has lingered for some time, prompting him to try to open one of the windows, which are barred by thick metal plates bolted over them; after several failed attempts he looked at me impatiently, and I pulled off the plate easily. As I have previously mentioned, the Master never gifted me with an olfactory sense, so it does not affect me; Herr Greeley says I should be grateful. I asked him why he continued to eat the spoiled wieners if they sickened him, to which he replied, “Gotta take ’em when you can get ’em.”
His absences have given me the opportunity to r
ead these borrowed tomes without disruption. Thus far I have only completed the book on European clocks, but it has proven valuable, and has been a welcome escape from thinking of the incident I witnessed three nights ago.
As I had hoped, the book on great clocks yielded biographical information about the Master in a twenty-four-page chapter focusing on his works. Interspersed throughout the text are several photographs of his projects: the clocks at Vienna, Prague, and Berlin (all have been moved to museums, but remain intact), and several others I have never seen, including the Nativity clock at Nonnberg Abbey, the Dresden project (the three ballerinas performing to the Moonlight Sonata), and his final work in Sachsenhausen—a clock bearing an angel which bears a striking similarity to Giselle, its wings extending at the noon hour, spreading literally thousands of feathers and appearing to flap on each ring of the gong.
Sadly, the author mentions its destruction in 1944—an attack of some kind on the city. I can only surmise the loss was devastating to the Master, as he formed a highly personal connection to his works; this one must have been particularly special to him. But many of the others still stand, and if by some miracle I one day return home, I may yet see them in person, stand in the places he stood, and enjoy the majesty of his genius. And perhaps one day I will visit his grave as well—he no doubt rests beside Frau Gruber and Giselle.
There is also one grainy, faded photograph taken in Prague of him standing with me. Underneath, the caption briefly reiterates Herr Gruber’s claims to my consciousness, and my status as a curiosity, and once again credits Herr Edison with exposing me as a hoax. Nevertheless, the author hails me as a marvel of nineteenth-century automation, and a design which has never been reproduced. In that, at least, the Master is vindicated; despite discrediting him, Herr Edison was never able to replicate his results. Were it not unwise and impractical, I might reveal myself to erase that final stain on the Master’s reputation. It is the only service I can still render him.
The Clockwork Man Page 15
