The Clockwork Man (22 page)

“Hi,” she said quietly. “Haven’t seen you around here before.”

“I am new here,” I said.

“I’m Carrie. I’ve known Greeley for a while now.”

“I can see that.” I took a small step back and pulled my hat down over my eyes.

“It’s okay. I won’t hurt you.”

Though I was ashamed of my behavior, I did not wish her tocome any closer. “It is not you. I am ill.” (It pains me that lies come more easily now, but one does what one must.)

“Ain’t none of us the picture of health.”

Before she could come any closer Greeley emerged from the manager’s office to usher her away. “I think Ernest here wants to be by himself for a while. He ain’t too friendly.”

She shrugged her shoulders and began to follow him. In the doorway to the office, however, she turned once more, and seemed to catch a glimpse of my face; she waved her fingers, and said, “See you around, Ernest.” I immediately bowed my head low to obscure my face, and judging from her lack of reaction I believe I was successful. They continued their business for several minutes more; then Vernon and Carrie left. As he closed the door behind them Greeley glanced at me briefly, one eyebrow raised severely, as if to chide me for my unfriendliness.

After they had gone Greeley informed me the girl ran away from home three months ago—he suspects it is because she prefers the company of women—and he and his associates, Vernon in particular, have taken a paternal interest in her, sharing food, escorting her to the shelter each night—all meant to, as he put it, “keep her from whorin’.” This seems to me a noble goal, and I must wonder if I have been wrong not to place my trust in anyone save Greeley.

On his last expedition for provisions I requested that Greeley obtain another newspaper. I wished to see if my presence had yet been noted, and (though I know the fixation is not constructive) to see if the murderers had yet been brought to justice. Sadly, the authorities have not yet found them, and two more women have vanished: a middle-aged nurse named Mindy Carlisle, and a young cocktail waitress named Judith Hunsberger. I cannot fathom why they would wish these women harm; their murders are the callous acts of thugs, and it is my fervent wish that he be apprehended.

I, on the other hand, have become something of a local chimera. There is a brief mention of me in yesterday’s edition, in the editorial section. The columnist amusedly points out that there have been several “clockwork man” sightings around town in the past two weeks; in addition to other encounters, he credits me with the rescue of that young man two nights ago. Because his reported sightings also place me in an establishment called “Hooters” (where I am rather rudely and incorrectly accused of leering at waitresses) and eating a bratwurst at a place called Miller Park, I cannot take him entirely seriously. However, he is now encouraging his readers to write in about their own sightings, and I am mildly concerned that a few individuals might go out in search of me, or that those who knew of my prior reputation might take this as a sign to resume their search.

Upon our arrival Greeley discovered cleaning supplies in the office closet, and after our guests had departed, sat me down and attempted to scrub the soot stains on my face and coat with window cleaner. As he dabbed at my burnt skin and clothes, he muttered softly to me, like a parent. “That’s it. Hold still now. Just let ol’ Greeley get you cleaned up.” Though he is a gruff and sometimes surly man, he is capable of much warmth; as he tended to me I was reminded of Fräulein Gruenwald’s ministrations after Giselle’s passing.

He was partially successful, though I fear I now sport lightly bleached patches on my face and coat.

Unfortunately, after he was finished with me he saw fit to remove his coat and shirt and, before I could warn him, sprayed thewindow cleaner underneath his armpits. “Gettin’ a little ripe,” he said. “Ain’t had no deodorant in about a month.” He sniffed his wiry-haired underarms (an inappropriate act no matter the company) and nodded in satisfaction. However, in a moment he began to scowl and then curse as the window cleaner burned his skin.

I quickly came to his aid, dousing his underarms with water from a bottle in his pack.

He patted my shoulder. “Thank you, brother. Don’t know what I was thinkin’.”

Without the fear of imminent discovery I have been allowed to read more of my homeland’s history, having now completed the chapters leading to the early twentieth century. (It still awes me that the century has turned twice since last I inhabited this world.) Thus far I have been impressed with what I have seen: a land of art and industry and science, respected throughout Europe for its civility and technological advancement. As one of the few Frankfurters who supported our city’s entry into the German state, I am certain the Master took great pride in this, and no doubt flourished in such an environment.

The book contains many photographs of new buildings and monuments, constructed in places I once knew, not long after my descent into oblivion; should fortune smile upon me, I would like to see them firsthand one day. And it is with a mix of nostalgia and sadness that I look upon pictures of the Iron Bridge, stretching stately and tim less across the Main; and the quaint shops of Elisabeth Street, where I once walked with Giselle and Fräulein Gruenwald, aiding them on their errands. I should like to think that some things remain unchanged, even after all this time.

I might now close these books but for a lingering doubt—in these middle chapters many districts are referred to as “prewar” and “postwar,” which leads me to believe the calamity that befell the city was worse than I had thought. But as the Master often pointed out, our land has withstood numerous trials, and I have little reason to believe it unable to survive a few more.

In the last twenty-four hours I have discovered the true fate of my homeland.

For the first time since I was initially wound and brought to life, I have been rendered speechless. I do not understand how this has come to pass—I lack the physical capacities necessary to become, as some Americans say, “choked up”—but at the moment speech seems less than relevant. I remained silent all day, since before Greeley returned from yet another “shopping” expedition. At first he believed I was experiencing a glitch of some kind, and tapped at my forehead and chest to be sure I still functioned. I handed him the history I had just completed, open to a particularly gruesome set of photographs, and he turned quite somber, saying only a muffled “Oh, that,” before walking away, disappearing into the office, where he has remained ever since. I am gravely discomforted that he already knew the history I have just discovered, yet neglected to tell me. He claimed he had not thought about it since our first encounter and subsequent association, nor was he well versed in history. The Master’s greatest complaint about Americans was their lack of educationcompared to German students, and in this, as with so much else, I believe he was correct. Thus, I will hold no grudge.

But this much is clear: my home as I knew it is gone—reduced to smoldering rubble while I slept undisturbed in the family mausoleum.

Had I the ability to do so I would surely wipe the account from my mind. But there in front of me, in text and pictures, is the proof: a series of misbegotten alliances plunging all of Europe into war; the Kaiser, despondent and defeated, abdicating his title and throne; a million-mark loaf of bread; proper German ladies and gentlemen, still in their finest attire, begging for scraps of food. Were this the end of it—our nation’s people humbled and humiliated—I should be alarmed enough. That this nation I now call home had some hand in our defeat is also an unpleasant realization. The Master held America dear to his heart, and were it not for national pride and the hold of fond memories, he might have moved his family here. But to think of my land enveloped in the barbarism that resulted is nearly too difficult to bear, and, perversely, I should be grateful to anyone for ending it.

I must again ask forgiveness of those who might one day read this account, but this history is new to me, having transpired while I lay insensate on a marble floor. But now, in these pictures, I am able to piece together that which I have lost: a peculiar and slightly effeminate man with a tiny square mustache and straight black hair hanging limply over his eyes (and bearing so keen a resemblance to the young boy who drew my portrait so many years ago I might swear it was him), his face a grimace of rage and madness; an odd symbol which once represented fertility, turned backward and emblazoned on flags and armbands and military uniforms; the Jewishquarters of several of our cities (my own included) burnt and ravaged, the windows of homes and shops shattered, storefronts and people marked with Stars of David; piles of gray, emaciated bodies stacked high as hilltops, pushed by bulldozers into immense ditches—more death than I could ever think possible.

And at the last, my homeland in ruins: Berlin a burnt-out heap of jagged brick and stone, the gleaming city of Dresden so reduced to blackened rubble that I wonder how any of its people could have survived. Sadly, I see Frankfurt and, by association, my home of Sachsenhausen, were not spared. The book on Frankfurt’s history has been most enlightening, though I now wish I had never found it. In its pages I may bear witness to the personal toll my countrymen’s atrocities incurred: the Iron Bridge broken in two and hanging twisted and useless in the Main; the quaint, cozily packed shops of Elisabeth Street, smashed, their walls caved in as if a tremendous wind had come to push them down; the old medieval towers burned out, rising over piles of rubble; the Master’s prized clock—the representation of Giselle with angel wings—shattered, the head lying on a heap of demolished brick and mortar surrounded by dozens of artificial feathers—hundreds of hours of the Master’s labor, shattered in an instant. Other photographs detail the rebuilding efforts, but the structures rising from the demise of the old city seem stark and characterless in comparison to the ancient streets and buildings.

Yet despite the images of destruction, one photograph troubled me more than any other: a group of Frankfurt engineers leaning against a metal rail, wearing hard hats and smiling with the strange man with the tiny mustache in the center. Directly next to him stood a man whose face I recognized immediately. Though his skinwas slightly wrinkled and his hairline had obviously receded, his face was nearly the same as it was the day he lured me up an elm tree after his kite, and laughed when I fell to the ground. The brief caption confirmed his identity. I can only imagine the Master’s reaction to Jakob’s falling in with this villain. His every act documented in these tomes strikes me as fundamentally un-German, and certainly inhuman. I will not believe the Master would have accepted such horrors willingly.

With this new knowledge I must now accept that, in all likelihood, there is nothing for me to return to. Perhaps it is for the best; escaping this place, even with Herr Greeley’s assistance, seems impossible. In lieu of my discovery I find myself faced with a number of options, none of which I find particularly appealing. I could, of course, remain with Herr Greeley; despite his eccentric behavior he remains pleasant company. But that existence is too fraught with peril; I cannot hide in abandoned sheds and garages forever, and sooner or later I will certainly be caught. I might simply allow myself to wind down once again, but Greeley would no doubt rescue me, as he has in the past. I could even go to the river, pitch myself over the bridge and into the roiling water, perhaps to be carried out into the grand lake, or buried under many layers of sediment, finally at peace. But suicide is no escape, as I have learned; I might yet be found and restored by modern science. Worse yet, should he realize where I have gone, Greeley might rashly throw himself in after me and drown. I will not have that.

I have therefore concluded that the only course left to me is surrender. I will thus return to Herr Linnhoffer and perform whatevertricks he might ask of me for the amusement of his customers. I am sure he will be grateful to recover his investment. I can only hope he will be magnanimous once he realizes my unique capabilities, and allow me some small measure of freedom and dignity.

I need only wait until the time is right. Since our relocation to this facility Herr Greeley has taken to sleeping in the former manager’s office, closing the door behind him. He rarely sleeps soundly, and is often roused by faint noises in the darkness, shouting, “Who there?” in a rough monotone. But for an hour or two each night his snoring becomes loud and steady, and nothing seems to wake him. When his sleep is less fitful, I will slip out quietly. I have observed our movements since my escape from the store, and can find my way unaided. I shall take one more stroll down these streets as a free man, then give myself over to my new master.

I must be careful; I will simply leave him a brief note thanking him for his companionship and explaining that I have gone. I will also request, upon turning myself over, that Herr Linnhoffer attempt to forward this diary to Professor Wellesley’s successors. Let it stand as proof that I am a rational being; at the very least it ought to fetch him a high asking price. I no longer care. If it can at least vindicate the Master’s reputation in the eyes of history, it will have served its purpose.

The reader may be somewhat surprised to find yet another entry in this volume; i confess to being surprised myself
. I hope the poor quality of penmanship displayed here will also be overlooked, but I have recently incurred significant damage that has affected my dexterity and my vision, some of which may be irreparable under present conditions.

To put it bluntly, it happened, quite by chance, on the perpetrator of the murder I witnessed, as well as his two accomplices, attempting to cover up yet another of their unspeakable acts, and the encounter did not unfold in my favor. Were it not for the ministrations of Herr Greeley, guided by the admittedly incomplete knowledge of my design the Master provided me, I think I might have been left utterly paralyzed, discovered by some random pedestrian on the street or thrust into a trash heap. My companion has spent much of the last fourteen hours feverishly attempting to repair me with the few tools available to us, but it is slow, painstaking work. As I write these lines he is asleep, his head resting against my thigh, the sweat from his brow soaking into my trousers. I have placed my greatcoat under his head to serve as a pillow, lest he wake sore and stiff-necked—I am by no means soft.