The Clockwork Man (20 page)

His absences have given me the opportunity to read 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 chapter also includes a brief biography—two paragraphs under a fuzzy, formal photograph of him, but information enough. He was older there than I had remembered, and a sadness had crept into his eyes, but he was still stout and hardy, not yet the bent, fragileman from my final snippet of memory. The date under the picture reads 1907, and he is smiling rigidly next to a droopy-eyed man with a tremendous shock of hair and a Jewish surname. The caption lists the man as an admirer of the Master’s work.

The author has even detailed his institutionalization in the wake of Giselle’s murder; the passage does not say whether the butcher was ever apprehended, and I now find myself reevaluating Jakob’s suggestion that I track him down myself, regardless of the consequences. Sadly, time has eliminated that possibility, and I believe I am experiencing regret—a terrible and paralyzing state, one I am sure I was never meant to know. The Master was released in early 1895—a period which preceded his greatest achievements, some of which have fetched millions of dollars at auction in recent years. It is comforting to know that he did not forgo his art after her loss; I would have failed him doubly had I abandoned him to grief and isolation. The author credits him with an enduring legacy of magnificent work which, to this day, delights tourists and scholars of the arts, and I am glad.

The book makes no mention of his descendants, but I do not take this to mean none are still living. My hope remains slim, but it remains nonetheless, and I did not expect to find such information so quickly. I will ask Herr Greeley to return this book on his next outing, but I am in no hurry; until he returns I shall continue to examine it, and think of home.

I do not know whether I have a “conscience,” except that in educating me, the Master instilled in me a strong sense of right and wrong. Presuming that this is what the term means, and I do possess one, it is deeply troubled. It seems as though every inquiry I make results in my attaining some unpleasant knowledge, and after reading today’s headline I am seized with a certain heaviness in my being, which I cannot more accurately explain or describe.

Upon my request, yesterday afternoon Herr Greeley returned the volume on clocks; he claimed it was no great effort, as the library has a return slot in which he may simply toss the book, but I greatly appreciate the risk he has taken on my behalf. I did not wish to return it, but I am not a thief and I remain true to my word. I also asked him to find a newspaper, as the abduction of that young woman is still of great concern to me and I deeply hoped she was not harmed. I am loath to ask a great deal of him—the few dollars he scrounges each day are precious to him—but he insists he has a friend who gives him day-old newspapers free of charge. So I feel less guilt over asking the favor.

Sadly, my fears were again realized. Greeley was hesitant to hand me the paper, his face somber. Considering his usual temperament, I knew what the newspaper would say before reading it. The newspaper headline read,
Second Woman Found Slain, Attacker Still At Large
, and featured two photographs: the first, of Nancy Petrakis, the woman whose abduction I witnessed one week ago; the second, of a young Negro college student named Eileen Johnson, apparently found theprevious week. Both had been found washed up on the beach near the museum where Greeley had brought me on my first tour of this city, and had apparently been violated, then strangled.

“I could have saved her,” I said after reading the article.

“I’m real sorry,” he replied. “I am.”

I must report being somewhat off-kilter, my ticking reaching excessive levels, so much that, until eleven minutes ago, it kept Greeley from falling asleep. The Master desired that I be a gentle, civilized being, and I find such violence nearly unendurable. Though I have resolved never to relive the memory of that terrible December night, it now threatens to enter my thoughts, regardless of my wishes. I should rather wind down permanently than experience it again.

The unnamed author mentioned that before the first abduction, the victim had last been seen on the corner of Fourth Street and Michigan Avenue—according to Greeley, this is only a few blocks from where we witnessed the second. No suspects have yet been arrested.

“Can we do nothing?” I said to Greeley after reading the brief article.

“Man, you just can’t let it go, can you? I tol’ you there ain’t a thing we can do about it. Cops won’t listen to me; they damn sure won’t listen to you.”

“I do not accept that.” Greeley sighed and shook his head. “You in Greeley’s world now. Things ain’t always nice and simple here, and you best learn that.”

“I will try,” I said, though I did not mean it. I only wished the conversation to end.

Yesterday evening Herr Greeley determined that enough time had passed for the incident at the library to, as he put it, “blow over,” and that I might safely leave the garage again. I might have been satisfied to remain here and read accounts of my homeland—I have just started the book on German history, and find it most intriguing—but as my thoughts still stray toward the two murdered women, I thought a brief respite would be wise.

Once it was dark we walked through the less-illuminated streets, careful to stay out of the glow of the streetlamps.

I asked Greeley where we were going; he said it was to be a surprise. I could only wonder what new marvel he was about to show me. Only after we had gone over a dozen blocks did Greeley announce his intentions to me: we were traveling to a nighttime shelter for transients so that Greeley could replenish the food he had reserved in his bag and take a cup of coffee. Then, I would meet some of his acquaintances so that he would no longer be accused of, as he put it, “seein’ things.”

Upon hearing those words, I stopped abruptly, nearly knocking him over when he collided with me.

“What the hell you doin’?” he asked, after he had regained his balance.

“I cannot do that. One of them might turn me in, and you would be incarcerated.”

Greeley scowled. “Aw, come on. You can trust these folks. They won’t tell on us. Besides, they all think I’m crazy ‘cause of you.”

“I am sorry, but that is a risk I cannot take. I will wait outside.”

He thrust his index finger hard into my chest. “You promised.”

“Yes, but the time is not yet right.”

My refusal was not without guilt. I have, to some degree, already cost him his credibility (perhaps placing other young women at risk in the process); for that reason, and for his continued kindness to me, I do owe him vindication in the eyes of his peers and the law. Those who may one day read these words may call this selfishness, and there is some truth to that interpretation. As yet there seems to be no reward for my return, and the police cannot be looking for me as diligently as a missing person. But the Master always believed I would develop something like intuition, that I might better sense danger or deception. I think it is intuition that spoke to me at that moment, and I felt the danger to Greeley and myself was too great to risk departing the shadows. And there is much more to uncover before I may stop hiding.

He was not pleased, invoking God’s condemnation on more than one occasion. We walked the rest of the way silently, Greeley several paces in front of me, until we reached a small rectangular building of worn gray stone, spotted with dirt and fragments of ivy.

From the scratched-out logo on the window I gathered it had once been a bicycle shop, but over the door was a white cloth banner that read
St. Ignatius Shelter
.

We stopped across the street from the shelter, in an alley between an abandoned tavern and carpet shop.

“Wait here,” said Greeley. “I might be a while.”

I remained in the alley just out of reach of the light while he crossed the street and went inside.

The shelter was mostly darkened in front, with some faint light in the back. I could see silhouetted figures inside, though not clearly. One, which seemed to match Herr Greeley’s profile, stepped into the light and seemed to be pointing in my direction, before throwing his hands up. Then the figure disappeared.

I had waited outside alone for thirty-five minutes when the front door opened. It was not Herr Greeley who emerged, but a small woman of middle age, with wide spectacles and ashy red hair that reflected the outside lights. She was carrying a foil-wrapped bowl and a paper cup, and seemed to be dressed more discerningly than Greeley or the other transients I have seen. Though my alley was dark, her gaze seemed to be fixed on me. As the alley dead-ended at a large waste bin, I could not exit without calling attention to myself, so I simply held still, hoping she would pass me by.

Instead she looked at me and smiled.

“It’s all right,” she said softly, when she was within ten feet of me. “I won’t bite. Are you hungry?” As I had no other recourse, I responded. “No.” She stepped closer, not three feet from me; I bowed my head low to conceal my face.

“Don’t be shy. You should come in where it’s nice and cool. We have a few beds free.”

Again I declined.

“You should take this anyway. It’s not much—just some beef-noodle soup and hot cocoa. You can always eat it later.” “Please,” I said, hoping she might finally go away, “you needn’t trouble yourself on my account.”

She smiled. “I know I’m not much of a cook, but I worked hard on this. If you won’t come in, at least take it. It’ll make an old lady happy.”

I took the cup and bowl from her; they were hot in my hands. “Thank you.”

“There now. That wasn’t so hard. What’s your name?”

“Ernst.”

She smiled again, with a softness in her face I had only previously seen in Fräulein Gruenwald and Giselle. “That’s a very unusual name. I’m Judith. Sister Judith, actually.”

“Hello, Sister Judith.”

“I know it’s hard being out here. But this is a safe place where you can eat and rest. Please, let us take care of you.” Slowly, her hand moved toward my cheek; as my hands were full, there was no way I could stop her without startling her. The tiny wires beneath my weathered suede skin registered the touch of her fingers as a light, warm tingle—the first time in over a century that they had done so.

The moment her fingers made contact with my cheek, she withdrew her hand, stared at it, then into my eyes, unblinkingly, as if unable to look away. She only turned from me at the sound of Greeley’s voice, uttering many curses, fast approaching.

“Judy!” he said once he had reached us, and quickly threw his arms around her. (It was, in my estimation, a rather brilliant rescue, and I quickly stepped back into the darkness of the alley.)

“Hello, Greeley!” she said, returning the embrace. “You’re not heading out already, are you?”

“Good night for walkin’ the earth. My buddy and me got a place to crash for the night.”

“Yes … we just met.” She cast a brief glance toward me, then at him.

“Oh, don’t mind him,” Greeley said, the orange streetlightsglimmering on the sweat trickling down his face. “He a little jumpy. Not used to the streets yet.”

“I gathered that. Won’t you both come in for the night? We’re locking up in an hour. It’ll be safer.”

“We’ll be fine. Nobody’ll mess with ol’ Ernest.”

“You mean Ernst?” she said, looking directly at me.

“That’s what I said.” Greeley walked past her and took hold of my arm. “C’mon, buddy. Time to get back.”

“Take care, you two.” As we passed she gently laid her hand on my shoulder. A thin strip of orange light washed over my face, and she looked directly at it, her view unobstructed.

“She knows,” I said, once we had walked out of earshot.

“She don’t know nothin’,” Greeley reassured me through a mouthful of the noodles she had given me. “And if she does, she won’t say a thing.”

After several blocks we reached the concealment of the garage, and Greeley rolled out his pack and prepared to go to sleep. It is strange, but I find its grimy floors and dark walls welcoming, in their own way. It is at least our sanctuary, if not our home.