by Peter Carey
I had cut his lip and caused his moustache to rise crookedly upon his face. When he rested his hand upon my upper arm, he seemed to leer, but I detected in this single act of gentleness his regret for what he was now required to do.
“Look,” said he, pointing to a man and two women emerging from a small church. He went to speak to them and I noted well the broad shoulders and terrifying neck. I had no rage, and therefore not the least will to attack him from behind. I thought, I must run away, no matter what a coward I seem. But then the young man kissed both women and all the poor creatures began to weep. Really, their pain was almost unbearable. The women were hardly able to hold themselves upright. They made their way into the forest, staggering and howling in the most awful way.
The man turned his eyes upon me and all I saw was dark and dry. Then, with a lingering look of hatred, he raised his bundle to his shoulder and walked down the hill.
“A clockmaker,” Herr Sumper announced as he returned. The young man swung his bundle from his back and slammed it angrily against a tree. “Poor chap,” he said and his injured face looked particularly ugly in its sentimentality. “But he fell into the hands of a packer.”
Enough. I had always known that the world was filled with millions and millions of hearts, like gnats and flies, each with its own private grief like this one. But where was my punishment to take place?
I asked, “What is a packer?” but I was more concerned with sizing up his mighty arms.
“It is the packers,” he said, “who buy up clocks from the poor families who make them. The makers must accept whatever mean price they are offered.”
I stopped and put my fists up. “Where are we going, damn you?”
“Damn me?” He grinned at me and slapped my hands aside.
All around me were the signs of good sane Germans who cared for their little plots, carried manure, mould, whatever disgusting thing that was needed. They were industrious. They were humble. They were wilful. They tilled the subsoil, hoed and weeded until they compelled fertility. Why did I have to deal with a maniac? I knew the answer. I was a fool to have forgotten it.
“When I was young,” he said, placing his hand on my shoulder and thereby, while affecting to be companionable, forcing me to walk beside him, “the packers used to make the round of the cottages and collect the clocks themselves. But now the vermin have grown fat. They compel the clockmakers to come calling on them. They keep them waiting. Of course they are mostly inn-keepers,” he added. “The longer they are kept waiting, the more beer they drink and that is all subtracted from the price.
“So the young men are forced to go to England. They leave their mother and their wife behind.”
There, at the bottom of the hill, beside a narrow little stream, I was truly sorry for the swollen brute. “Just like yourself,” I said.
He considered me a moment, as if amused, then turned his attention to the view. “Here is my wife,” he said.
Amongst the many, many fanciful and quite insane things Herr Sumper would later insist on—his ability to cause lightning storms for instance—this small comment has its own peculiar place, for his “wife” appeared to be nothing less than the so-called “dung heap”: Furtwangen, with its lanes exceeding narrow and irregular, with its winding streets, its curious old buildings, its wood-carvings, and its profusion of old-fashioned metal-work. The only flaw in the picture was the obtrusively ugly modern structure, rising high and level, and looking gravelly and prosaic.
“What is that building?” I asked him.
At which point, while I was off my guard, he lurched at me.
I struck his throat.
His eyes bugged.
I spat at him.
He took me in a bear hug so tight he crushed my lungs and forced from me a most unmanly squeak, lifting me up high, turning me clockwise, anticlockwise, then upside down, and back again upon the earth.
“Why,” cried he, as he kissed me on both cheeks, “it is where they make your springs.”
Thus I understood this madman intended—after all that I had said and done—to make the automaton. Then, out of sheer relief, that my sick child would truly live, I slapped his face.
Procedures Meeting
Room 404 Annexe
3 May 2010
Present: E. Croft (Curator Horology), C. Gehrig (Conservator Horology), H. Williamson (Conservator Ceramics), S. Hall (Line Manager)
The purpose of the meeting was to decide a schedule for identifying, restoring, and reconstructing the automaton presently identified as H234.
It was decided that C. Gehrig would make an inventory of the automaton and present the findings to the Curator and the Ceramics Conservator in the last week of June. As the physical condition of this bequest is rather “pig in a poke” it was agreed that C. Gehrig and E. Croft (together, perhaps, with Development and Publicity) would meet before the August holidays to see where things stood. C. Gehrig asked if this object was primarily a “crowd-pleaser.” E. Croft said that “crowd-pleasers” had never been part of the museum’s mission. He added that although the budget for this restoration would be initially limited, he was not pessimistic about the future.
E. Croft then provided for the committee a receipt for weighed silver made out to a “Monsieur Sumper.”
The presence of glass rods and small silver fish gives some indication of the action. However it will require a full assessment to know the value (if any) of the swan both in an historical sense (c. 1854) and in terms of whatever use it may be to the Exhibitions Committee. It was clearly “early days.”
It was the Curator’s strong recommendation that the Conservators undertake this work in three stages.
1. assessment and identification.
2. restoration of the automaton and the accommodation of the clockwork within a newly produced pedestal or plinth à la Vaucanson. This would enable us to exhibit sometime in 2011 and would attract funds for stage two. The Conservator expressed her general agreement with this strategy.
3. restoration of the original chassis, which not only presents its own set of puzzles, but requires greater resources than the museum can contemplate at the present time.
The meeting shared the Conservator of Horology’s opinion that the assessment and identification could be conducted by a single Conservator in a timely manner.
S. Hall said that an assistant (graduate of both Courtauld and West Dean—young but highly recommended) could be made available almost immediately. E. Croft agreed to assess progress in ten days and discuss what resources might then be required.
Given the age of the automaton and its imperfect storage, C. Gehrig warned that it was likely both spring and arbor were dried out. Removal of springs from the spring barrel would require the manufacture of a wooden jig which would not be inexpensive, particularly as the work must be done off-site, at University College London. E. Croft will speak to the College and attempt to arrange a favourable price estimate. He stressed that although the budget for this restoration would be initially limited, he had great hopes of “turning on the taps.”
Catherine
THE LAST THING I require is human company, but there she is, my unwanted assistant. She is appallingly young and eager, with long fair hair and dark eyebrows, a slim figure made for jodhpurs and wind-cheaters and a white plain shirt.
“You are Amanda?”
“Yes.”
“You are the Courtauld girl?”
“I suppose so, yes.” The voice is upper-upper but has some wobbly vowels, a weird mélange of Faubourg St. Germain and Essex. It makes my teeth ache, the pitch of it.
“Come in,” I tell her carefully, treading around the edges of my hangover.
Piercing voice or no, she is very pretty, with a porcelain complexion and very blue eyes and long lashes. She waits obediently while I turn on my computer but when I realize the museum server is now functioning, all I can think of is how to get to Matthew’s emails. This is far more important than the resuscitation of a sw
an.
“You can hang your umbrella over there.”
I have had an idea about Matthew’s password. It will be a secret no one else would ever guess.
After I have tested my idea, I will be extremely nice to her, take her to Fortnum’s for tea—she looks like she might enjoy that. For now I am very agitated but I force myself to ask how long has she been with us, what has she done so far.
“Nothing very much I’m afraid. I must say those glass rods look fascinating.”
I really, really do not wish to talk. “Do you know what they are?” I ask.
“I think so, yes. That is, of course not. Do they rotate to simulate water?”
Has Crofty planted her? Is she someone’s daughter? “You went online?” I suggest.
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve been researching automata online?”
“No, oh no, I wouldn’t do that.” She seems so shocked, I smile. “They will be jolly hard to clean, won’t they? I was thinking how you would manage it. Is there a trick to it?”
“Only to have Ceramics take care of it.”
“Oh.”
“You are disappointed?”
“I like to clean things. I think that’s why they sent me.”
So that’s how I will get rid of her. She can fetch Hilary from Ceramics. She pays very close attention to the complicated instructions—the normal response to Swinburne directions is to panic, but she listens, alert, her head cocked. I expect her to ask me to repeat. She leaves. A moment later I am attempting to access Matthew’s account.
Username: MTINDALL
Password: CATHERINE, and my lovely man opens like a flower. And here it is, everything I want, me to you, you to me, years of them. Dear God in heaven. I love you, Matthew. How sad to have to throw this out.
I have only begun when the two women return and I am forced to quit. My guilt and excitement must be obvious but the Courtauld girl is starring in her own movie. Her colouring is very high and I know that she is, quite reasonably, very pleased with her success.
The glass rods must now be carefully loaded on a long steel trolley, a process that takes them no more than five minutes, but I must wait and wait beyond endurance before, finally, I am left alone.
“Meet you outside the place.” Delete.
“See you there.” Delete.
“I kiss your toes.” Delete.
“I love you. Sorry I was a beast.” Delete.
There are thousands and thousands of them. I should keep them every one, I do not dare. I have no idea of time. I do not even hear the girl return and it is a shock to realize she is by my shoulder.
“You must get an awful lot of email?”
I am aware my eyes are peculiar. “I don’t like to talk very much,” I tell her as I quit again. “I hope that won’t make you feel uncomfortable?”
“No,” she says, but clearly my appearance is unnerving.
“Very well,” I say, “you might as well unpack the tea chests.”
“By myself?”
I speak without engaging her. “Do you think you can manage?”
“Oh yes. As long as that’s OK.”
“There will be some rather heavy pieces. If you have any doubt about anything, you fetch me.”
“May I ask what it is?”
“A swan apparently.”
She remains, startled, staring at me. She says, “Do you wish me to begin the inventory,” and I can see the pink of her tongue behind her teeth. The vowels on inventory are slightly odd.
“No. Just remove them very carefully. Keep all the newspaper they are wrapped in. Watch out for any documentation at all, even a postage stamp.”
“How will I arrange them? I mean, what is the principle of order?” I cannot talk.
I will not look at her. “I don’t care. Any way you like.”
My colossal lack of curiosity is completely inconceivable. In real life this would never happen, but even in the middle of my own personal rollercoaster ride, I do manage to keep some sort of eye on her. I realize she is ordering the components by size, smallest to largest. You little pickle, I think, you cheeky little thing.
“How is your day?” Delete.
“I hate everyone, not you, my sweet.” Delete.
“I am a genius. Come and see what I have done.”
The girl unpacks and classifies. I slice away my heart. Delete, delete, delete. There may be a faster, less painful way to do this, but I doubt I would use it even if I could. It is a field of electric turbulence, bone-breaking updraughts, emails from his wife. Delete. I never asked him if he had sex with her. I trusted him completely. Just the same I always sniffed his skin. Delete. There are emails to women I do not know. These I cannot help but open, and every time I am ashamed. Delete. I dig deeper and the Courtauld girl digs in the tea chests.
“Now are you up to this?” I ask her.
But I see she is listening to music on some device I cannot even see. On another day this would annoy me.
There are so many emails to his sons. I have to read them. I cannot delete them.
“Did your pills arrive?” he writes.
“You need a warm coat?”
“I’ll pick you up at six. Set two alarms.”
“Love Dad.”
“Love.”
“Love always.”
Around noon I abandon Amanda Snyde “to have a smoke.” When I return I have been crying. I also have a fresh flask of vodka in my perfect bag. My assistant is eating an egg sandwich and bent over what I later learn she calls a Frankenpod, having cobbled it together from abandoned pieces.
“You can eat with the others in the caff if you like.”
“I’m sorry. I’m not very used to being around people.”
“Surely you went to school.”
She removes the single ear bud and I catch sight of a black billowing image on the screen.
“Actually my grandfather tutored me.”
“Had he been a teacher?”
“He was a sort of soldier.”
“You were in London?”
“Actually, in Suffolk.”
I do not ask where in Suffolk. She might say Beccles or Southwold or Aldeburgh or Blythburgh, the litany of love names, private, ours. I would not have our private Suffolk stolen or polluted.
“But then at the Courtauld?”
“Then West Dean. I’ve become quite civilized, learned to use a key and so on.”
Learned to use a key? Well, I am rather strange myself, for I cannot acknowledge the body parts of swan she has laid so carefully upon the bench. I am a highly specialized creature and I could have identified much of this jumble in my sleep. Even whilst reading heart-wrenching emails it is impossible not to see the tarnished silver, some pieces rather like napkin rings. I have noted the reflective backing plates which are made to fit below the glass rods and are a common convention in these automata. Their function is to make the “water” sparkly. These plates on the bench are in a most unsparkly condition. They really need to be covered with reflective silver leaf which can, of course, be removed in the future. I cannot deny the barrel of a music box, a very familiar object for a horologist. I do not wish to count but of course it has about a thousand pins. This Herr Sumper made, not for Henry Brandling but—this is very clear to me—for himself. Most of the pins are brass, but have sometimes been replaced by steel. I have no curiosity at all, but I cannot help knowing that many of the pins have been moved to new positions.
It is like leaving a child to walk alone on a busy high street, but I am near her, watching her with my peripheral eye. I wonder who her grandfather was or is? When posh people say “soldier” they mean a field marshal or a spy.
She continues to dig up the bones. I continue to burn my past.
In the midst of this Eric “pops in” wearing that ridiculous tight striped suit, all waist and wide shoulders. It is too hot for this costume. He stinks of the Ivy—the wine list, not the shepherd’s pie.
I secre
tly watch to see how he will react to the Courtauld girl. He affects to not see or know her and that pretty much proves he has planted her. I wonder if the “soldier” is a trustee.
Eric rushes around the room like a dog at the airport and then rushes out again.
A moment later I ask the girl, “Did he say ‘Toodle pip’?”
She giggles.
“Who says ‘Toodle pip’?”
“Bertie Wooster, I think.”
“You’re too young for Wooster.”
“Stephen Fry is Jeeves,” she says. “I saw him once, in the pub in Walberswick.”
Walberswick. Delete.
“Why do you think Mr. Croft says ‘Toodle pip’?”
She smiles.
Everyone thinks it is Americans who make themselves up, but it is we English who are the fantasists, not only Crofty either. There is a strange meld in Amanda Snyde’s voice when she says: “I think this is the neck of something.”
Poor Henry Brandling. He never got his duck. When I read the invoice I was rather pleased it was a swan but now, in the studio it has some other creepy quality—a life, a penis, the neck of a goose on Christmas Day. It is spooky, dirty, an unearthly blue-grey. The fine articulation of steel vertebrae could not be achieved anywhere in London in 2010.
She holds it out for me.
“No, put it down.”
For no good reason, I begin to cry.
“Oh dear,” she says, and through my blurry eyes I see the afternoon light catching her pretty face, her hope and hurt. She is too sane and generous for this room.
“Miss Gehrig.” And that is when I see, beneath the hair, she has an ugly plastic hearing aid, and I recognize her accent as belonging to a class of injury. This is why she uses just one ear bud.
“It’s all right,” I say, “I have lost a family member. That’s all it is. It’s nothing.”
“Are you all right?”
“Completely. Someone died. That’s all. It happens every day.”
“May I ask questions?”
“No, you may not.”
