The Clockwork Man

by William Jablonsky

  We spent the next hour—Frau Nehring had promised to return me after such time—strolling around the perimeter of the shopping center (the whole of which is owned by Herr Linnhoffer), a huge complex with large, reflective windows full of merchandise; it now occurs to me I had never seen it beyond the department store where I now reside.

  After spending so much time creeping in shadows, it seemed strange to walk openly in daylight, even concealed as I was in my hat and greatcoat. (I thought it best not to attract attention and appropriated a disguise, though so bundled in the heat of July I still incurred a few puzzled glances.)

  Her hair and wrap trailed lightly behind her in the artificial breeze as we circled the mall, the officer following perhaps ten feet behind us—no closer, as Frau Nehring had demanded privacy. She spoke to me in a soft, lilting German, and I found it soothing to hear my mother tongue once again. (For the reader’s sake, I have translated our comments into English, albeit imprecisely.)

  “For a long time no one knew where to find you,” she explained as we walked. “Grandfather was a civil engineer before the war—though perhaps you knew that—and wanted very much to hand you over to Hitler, to mass-produce you for the war effort. I don’t think I need to tell you how awful that would’ve been.”

  “No,” I said, though in truth I would never have willingly served such a man.

  “But his father—your master—wouldn’t have it. He burned all his notes on you, and had you removed from the house. He and a few servants hid you in the family mausoleum.”

  I hearkened back to the small fragment of a memory, the Master’s withered face close to mine and smiling, his raspy baritone assuring me “he” would never find me. I must now also wonder why he sought to hide me there; certainly there were practical considerations, though he might well have simply buried or burnt me. I doubted Frau Nehring had any special knowledge of his motivations, and thought it unseemly to reveal my reason for wondering, so I suspect I shall never truly know. I merely said, “I remember.”

  “Do you? He must have wanted to say good-bye. Grandfather was furious, of course; he even had S.S. men comb through the house looking for you. But my great-grandfather never gave you up. We finally found you after the war when he died. I was there when they brought you out, all covered in dust and cobwebs. I never believed you were real until that day.”

  “Surely Jakob must have told you about me,” I said, though I would not have found it surprising if he had not. “Or the Master. Did you know him well?”

  “No,” she said sadly. “I have only a few memories of him—mostly stories about you. He was already very old when I was born. I was only five or six when he died. And, of course, he and grandfather didn’t get along well—mostly because of you. But there were other reasons—he sheltered Jews in his house during the war, helping them get out of the country. My grandfather never forgave him.”

  “I am sorry to have caused tension between them.” Upon reflection I am now taken with a small measure of guilt; I cannot help but wonder, had I remained with the Master and his family, if I might have helped heal the ill feelings between them. (It is doubtful, but at this time I can only speculate about the opportunities I missed during those dark, insensate years.)

  “Think nothing of it. Grandfather was an egotistical and self-serving man. He sold you to the museum not long after we found you to pay off his debts—he said you didn’t work anymore. But he told us a few stories. He said you once climbed a tree after his lost kite, and that you could lift a horse like it was a paper doll.”

  “Yes. He was fond of testing me.”

  “He also said you apprehended his sister’s killer, but lost him because a mob interfered.”

  “He was correct.” I was relieved, at least, that he did not blame me for Giselle’s death.

  Frau Nehring smiled at me, squeezed my hand tightly. “Ever the hero.”

  “I was not.” I did not explain further.

  “I’m sorry. You were close to her.”

  “Yes.”

  “And her death was difficult for you?”

  The words did not come immediately, and I found it difficult to continue walking. “Yes,” I finally said.

  “Do forgive me. You do have feelings in a way, don’t you? Grandfather once said you were quite fond of her. And she of you.”

  “I was.”

  “Grandfather used to say I reminded him of her,” Frau Nehring said. “I do wish I’d known her.”

  “She was exquisite,” I said, and she let the matter drop.

  Soon the guard trailing us cleared his throat and tapped at his wristwatch to let us know our time was growing short.

  Frau Nehring sighed. “Yes, yes, of course.” We turned and followed the officer back to the store.

  “It will be good to have you home, Ernst. I’m sure you’ll bring thousands of people to the house. You can even be the tour guide, if you wish; people will be thrilled to see you up close.”

  “I would not presume to think I could do it better than you.” She laughed, a sweet, gentle laugh reminiscent of one I once knew, but somehow lacking a bit of the warmth. “Oh, heavens—I don’t do it myself. My husband and I live in Boston now. We come over twice a year to check on the place. But I know the house will be fine in your care; when we come out, we’ll visit with you.”

  “Of course. Forgive my presumption.”

  “We’ll give you anything you want, of course,” she added. “Books, music, movies—anything that will make you happy. You’ve probably never seen a motion picture before, have you?”

  “No,” I said, recalling Herr Edison’s kinetoscope. I can only assume the device has advanced considerably since then; as impressed as the Master was with the original, current versions must be quite spectacular indeed.

  “Oh, Ernst. There are so many wonderful things you’ve missed out on. But all that will change now.”

  When we returned to the store, the guard escorted me back to my window.

  “I’ll contact this Linnhoffer in the morning,” she said, walking me back. “I’m sure I can convince him to sell. He won’t let you go easily, now that he knows what you are, but you’re worth it.”

  “Thank you. I look forward to that.”

  “So do I,” she said, embracing me.

  The guard closed the heavy gate behind me. “This is perverse,” Frau Nehring said to him. “Why must you treat him like a criminal?”

  “Mr. Linnhoffer’s orders, ma’am,” he said.

  She shook her head in exasperation. “No matter, Ernst. Soon you’ll be out of that cell, and back where you belong.” She smiled sadly, pressed her hand to her heart, then departed.

  I have since had much time (seven hours, thirty-three minutes, to be exact) to reflect on Frau Nehring’s visit. I will confess that returning to the Master’s house—the only home I have ever known—is an attractive possibility. Yet there is much about her offer that troubles me. I find it marvelous that the house still stands; yet I recall the oppressive silence after I had been left alone. Without the family there, I can only assume it is similarly empty and silent, and while I might inhabit all the familiar places of my past, I should never be able to share them, save with the occasional visiting tourist. And there are certain rooms in which I could not bring myself to set foot, lest I be reminded that my happiest, most intimate moments are but distant memories. While I should be grateful if, by my mere presence, the true extent of the Master’s genius might finally be revealed to the world, I would be but a relic, yet another piece in a collection of his works.

  Still, I am certain it is preferable to this window, which will be my home for the foreseeable future, at least until Frau Nehring is able to rescue me. In any case, the decision is ultimately not mine to make.

  3 July 2005

  9:36 p.m.

  Herr Linnhoffer entered my window this morning, sitting in myantique armchair, a wide smile on his face. He informed me he would soon like me out on the store floor, or perhaps in
the promenade of the adjoining shopping center. He has many ideas to use me to attract business, and many special events planned around me; he is currently negotiating for me to do a special recitation of “The Night Before Christmas” come holiday season at a place called The Pabst, and perhaps even dressing me up as St. Nicholas to take photographs with children.

  I indicated to him that this might not be wise, as small children were often frightened of me on the streets of Frankfurt, but he dismissed my reservations with a wave of his hand and a grumbled, “Nonsense.”

  “You’re going to be famous,” he said. “I’ll see to that.”

  Now that my security implements are in place, he says I can begin tomorrow—he assures me I shall meet many new and interesting people, and my presence alone will be enough to draw massive crowds. Thus, we both will benefit from our new association.

  “Don’t worry,” he said, tapping at the bars. “I’ll let you out once in a while, to stretch your legs.” He bade me help him out of the chair, then took hold of my face and turned my head to one side. “Felix did an incredible job. Just like new.” Then he left, closing the barred gate behind him.

  Two hours later, Frau Nehring came for another visit. “I do wish you’d let him have his dignity,” she said to a salesperson.

  “Sorry, ma’am,” the salesman said. “I just work here.”

  “Get out of here, before I put you in there!” she shouted, and swatted at him with her purse. He fled to the rear of the store, where a floor manager—the same woman, in fact, who had threatened Herr Greeley during my initial stay here—intercepted him. Thesalesman appeared quite agitated, and pointed in our direction, and she quickly headed in our direction.

  “I’m sorry about all this, Ernst,” Frau Nehring said through the bars, “but Charles Linnhoffer is a stubborn man. He refused to sell you at any price.”

  “I am not surprised. He believes he can make a great deal of money from me.”

  She shook her head. “I won’t abandon you. I’ll be talking to a lawyer tomorrow, but it may take some time. The courts can be very slow.”

  “I understand.”

  When the manager reached us, she removed her wire-rimmed glasses and folded her arms. “And just what do you think you’re doing, ma’am?” she asked.

  “I am speaking to Ernst,” Frau Nehring replied. “Is that a crime now?”

  “You’re harassing the staff and disturbing Mr. Linnhoffer’s property,” she said, apparently unmoved by Frau Nehring’s sarcasm. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave the store.”

  Frau Nehring sighed, glanced at me while still facing the woman. “So he sends one of his minions after me instead of facing me himself. All right, I’ll leave. But you have no right to keep him like this. It’s inhumane.”

  “You’ll have to take that up with him,” the woman said.

  “I intend to.” Frau Nehring stroked my arm though the bars, then turned to leave. “I’ll be back. And next time I’ll be taking you with me.”

  Once she had left, the floor manager pulled a security guard inside and ordered him not to allow her in the store again.

  8 July 2005

  5:43 p.m.

  My recent lapse in postings has not been the result of any sort of calamity. Rather, there is simply little to report. I am taken from my window at approximately 11:15 each day, escorted by armed guard to the storefront or the main mall. There I perform whatever task Herr Linnhoffer has imagined for me on that particular day, only to be sequestered in this window within a few minutes of three o’clock. He claims that, in this part of the city, those are his peak hours, mainly due to local employees strolling over to the mall during their luncheon breaks. For now I am not to demonstrate the full range of my abilities, lest I frighten customers or inspire investigation of my treatment; until the word spreads, he says, this will do.

  The promenade where I perform is quite beautiful, like an atrium: green, wide-leafed plants everywhere, elegantly designed tile floors, staircases of black and white marble and copper banisters. People move effortlessly to and from the upper levels on mechanized, moving staircases, and again I am compelled by such wonders of automation. The storefronts gleam with electric light of every color, and it seems people from all walks of life pass through each day: women in elegant business attire, speaking into small, handheld receivers not hooked to any outlet; white and black men in tailored suits, nibbling giant pretzels and talking congenially; olive-skinned women in bright robes, clutching their parcels and trailing small children behind them, speaking languages I have never heard. Upon reflection, I realize this place is much like the shops of Elisabeth Street, though perhaps lacking their quaint charm. (Giselle, I think, would have been amused by it.)

  As 4 July is Independence Day in America, that morning Herr Linnhoffer’s assistants removed me from my window, stripped me bare, dressed me in a garish red-, white-, and blue-striped suit and starred hat specially tailored for the occasion, and led me to the promenade for a recitation of the Declaration of Independence in its entirety, which I repeated twice more on the hour, to the applause of large crowds of patrons gathered in the mall’s atrium. I regret having caused some laughter among the onlookers, as my inexplicable accent has lingered throughout my time here. (Herr Linnhoffer is not pleased with it, and has mentioned to his associates the possibility of having Herr Lentz reexamine me to see if it might be adjusted.) I was also momentarily distracted during my one o’clock performance by a familiar face in the crowd: Greeley, standing in a corner of the mall, shaking his head disgustedly as he watched me, then leaving before I had finished. I would very much like for him to come visit me; even a conversation through the bars of my window would be most welcome. But I do not think Herr Linnhoffer or his associates would allow it.

  Subsequent exhibitions have been somewhat more dignified. Generally I am allowed to wear the brown corduroy suit Herr Linnhoffer provided me, with but a large lapel badge bearing the store logo to mark my affiliation. I have displayed certain feats of strength—lifting display vehicles, bending and unbending metal bars—in addition to reciting fairy tales to children and their parents (I have been instructed to memorize less graphic versions of the Grimms’ tales, which Jakob had once enjoyed), and giving piggyback rides to scores of children, albeit for a fee of twenty dollars each, which their parents reluctantly pay after much pleading. However, the parents do little to control their children’s precociousness. Thus far I have been poked, thumbed over, kicked, and asked untoward questions (mostly by small groups of teenagers) which I will not dignify by repeating here. Then, when the crowds have dissipated and my novelty wears off, I am placed back in my window, the gates locked tightly behind me, curtain pulled shut, with the security guard keeping vigilant watch.

  Yesterday, I overheard Herr Linnhoffer mention a request by some local engineers, who have requested to study me. He would have none of it, and instructed his employees not to return phone calls from these individuals until they make him an offer worthy of me. Perhaps, like the Master, he wishes to protect my uniqueness from those who would seek to copy it. But I suspect his motives are somewhat less enlightened.

  I have as yet not heard from Frau Nehring. Even if she does succeed in convincing the courts of her claim to me, I cannot say my existence will be so different from what it is now—no longer caged, but still little more than a curiosity, a quaint relic to be marveled at like the Master’s old clocks, then forgotten.

  But these are idle thoughts, and unworthy of indulging further. For the moment, at least, I am in the service of Herr Linnhoffer, and I shall do my best to comply with his wishes.

  10 July 2005

  3:43 p.m.

  Unfortunately, I have incurred the wrath of my new master, and amresponsible, unintentionally, for an outbreak of panic in his mall, though I maintain my actions were justified under the circumstances. I will attempt to explain here, as I am certain I will not be given the opportunity later. Perhaps, if this volume ever reaches its i
ntended destination, I will find some vindication.

  Yesterday, Herr Linnhoffer began loaning my services to other outlets in this shopping center, for a fee. As a result, my security detail escorted me to a nearby upscale bookstore, where I was instructed to read Coleridge’s The Rime of the Ancient Mariner to a large group of onlookers, mostly middle-aged and elderly men and women from a local readers’ group. I did so, and received polite applause from my audience; after I was finished, an old woman approached me and began to tap at my chest with her cane. I bore it wordlessly, as Herr Gruber always insisted I be patient with the curious. I am, as ever, a novelty. Though her husband tried to pry her away, she indicated that she was looking for the wires which animated me, or the batteries, as I did not seemed to be plugged in anywhere. I said nothing until she pulled a pair of spectacles from her white purse, then hobbled behind me and began to lift up my jacket.

  “Hello,” I finally said.

  The old woman gasped, her hand going over her chest, and for a moment I believed I had caused her to have some kind of attack. But in a moment she regained her breath. The security guard who had escorted me from Linnhoffer’s immediately came to assess the situation. “Everything all right?” he asked her.

  “Oh, yes, of course, Officer,” she said, a gentle but nervous laugh in her voice. “Such an amazing creation.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “Um, you’re welcome,” she said, her brow crinkling. It was clear to me she did not understand the full scope of my awareness. Her husband briskly ushered her back out into the main mall.

  “Okay, let’s go,” my guard said, and we began to walk back to Linnhoffer’s. On the way, however, I heard a young woman’s voice, crying out, “Oh, God, help! Help!” In the background, a child wailed, as if in great pain.