Clockwork Twist : Trick (18 page)

The train flew along the tracks in a dizzying rush as it crossed over the last border of the trip, leaving Germany and entering France.  Twist stood at the window in the observation car, gazing over the emerald plains and distant hamlets in the midday sun, out towards the north.  The copper globe in his hands showed a map of northern Europe, the little blue mote of lightning skimming along the surface at a visible speed.  Out there just beyond the horizon, England was so close that Twist could feel it in his bones—calling to her son like a siren's song.

His life had started in London, and he'd been happy to let it end there with no interruptions in between.  There was silence, peace, and solitude under that ever-gray sky.  His life there was as reliable, constant and cold as clockwork.  The only colors in his memories of home were gold, copper, brass, and silver.  The hush of rain and ticking clocks were the only sounds he could recall.  Nothing there was ever out of his control or expectations.

There wasn't a single living person waiting for him back there in one of the most crowded and advanced cities in the world.  No one missed him.  No one knew—or cared—where he had gone.  No one would have noticed that he had ever left.  No one would welcome him back if he stepped across the threshold of his shop, walked up into his attic room, and stood once again among all of his clocks.  Twist knew just as certainly that this was all by his own design.  He thought back across the few people who had tried to get into his life before.  He had always been alone because he had wanted to be.

“Excuse me sir,” a voice said from his left.  Twist turned, then looked down to find a blond baboon wearing a tweed suit with a red cravat, a small bowler hat, and a little gold monocle over one yellow eye, standing on hand-like feet just beside him. “But would you happen to have a banana, perchance?” it asked with a lofty air and a Cambridge accent.

“Sorry, I'm fresh out,” Twist responded.

“Ah,” the baboon said, looking away. “Sorry to trouble you, my good man.  Good day,” it added, tipping its hat before moving away on all four feet.

Twist watched it wander off and then stop to ask a lady in a blue cotton dress the same question.  The lady gasped, staring at it in fright, before her expression changed into utter amazement as it continued to speak to her genteelly.  Twist gave a sigh and dared to wish that he'd been at least a little surprised to find himself speaking to a monkey.  Having seen Idris change a coffee pot into that same baboon at breakfast this morning—at Myra's repeated request—the shock had already warn off.  Twist's neck twinged slightly, alerting him that Jonas was close.

“Do you think it'll ever change back?” Jonas asked, watching the baboon move from person to person in its vain search for a banana.

“What is a banana, anyway?” Twist asked.

“Oh, it's a tropical fruit.  Apparently, monkeys love them.”

“I see,” Twist said, looking back to watch the mote of lightning skim deeper into France on his globe.  He moved the close-up map with a subtle sliding motion, centering France.  England's southern coast slipped down into the top of the map.

“Are you all right?” Jonas asked, walking around Twist to lean on the glass just to his left, looking at his face. “You're cold.”  Twist looked up to find Jonas's eyes purple, but only a pale lilac shade.  Twist paused for a moment before he responded.

“This is the first foreign country I ever saw,” Twist said, closing the globe and putting it back into his pocket. “Your uncle flew over Paris the night he took me from London.”

Jonas searched his eyes carefully, as if listening to something other than his words. “We're close now.  To London, I mean.”

Twist nodded, looking over Jonas's shoulder at the country side.

Jonas shook his head. “You feel about that city the way I feel about open sky, don't you?”

“I suppose,” Twist said. “Only now...”  Twist paused, and then turned his back on the glass, leaning against it beside Jonas.  The chill of it seeped in through his jacket, while the warmth off of Jonas whispered at his side.

“Only now, what?” Jonas asked.

“I fear I'm not who I was a month ago,” Twist said, giving Jonas a weak smile. “I'm not sure it would be the same, even if I did go back.  The rest of the clock hasn't changed, just this cog,” he added with a gesture to himself. “I'm not the same shape anymore.”

Jonas smiled back to him and slipped an inch to the side, closing the gap between them.  The chill, calm, bright fog burned over Twist's Sight in an instant, washing away his darkened thoughts.  Twist breathed in the change, letting the buzzing at his neck flood down his spine.  The relief was subtle but delicious, and Twist let go of his burden without hesitation, letting it dissolve into the fog.

“Don't mourn the past when the present's good,” Jonas said, still smiling. “Seriously, we've got our own djinn right now.  We're up to our ears in crazy talking animals and rooms that are the wrong sizes.”  Twist laughed and nodded, his lightened heart reveling in the chance to laugh. “Not to mention,” Jonas added, “we just crossed the last border.  In a few hours, we'll be in Paris and finally get to make a try for the life we want.  Believe me, life is uncertain.  Celebrate when you can.”

Twist looked at him quizzically. “When did you grow wise?”

“While you were moping about sooty old London.”

“Smart ass,” Twist grumbled, turning away to hide his smile from Jonas. “And it's not...  Well, there is a lot of soot.  And I suppose it is rather old.  But still,” he said, forcing his face to frown when he looked back at Jonas. “Don't insult London.”

“Whatever,” Jonas said, pushing off the glass.  The break in contact left Twist's mind less bright, less calm, and less clear, but the echo of the effect lasted even so. “At least you're not so cold anymore,” Jonas said. “Come on, let's go see if the ferret Idris made out of that tea cup is still climbing up skirts.”

Exactly on cue, a woman's startled shriek arose from the far end of the train car.  Twist laughed under his breath.

“They are never letting us on this train again,” Jonas said, leading the way.

“It's a very good thing we used false names,” Twist said as he followed.

Shortly after dinner, as the last of the day's light spilled fire over the sky, the train glided into a palace of black iron and frosted white glass.  Steam curled like ghosts around the elegantly dressed travelers on the platforms, as the huge trains sat waiting on the tracks.  The moment Twist stepped off the train he felt a sudden, deep thrill.  The air—crisp, rain-scented and charged with untold energy—passed through his jacket to whisper at his skin.  He shivered and felt the chill dive deep into his being: sweet, cool, and inviting.  For no reason that Twist could quite manage to grasp, he couldn't shake the feeling that Paris was aware he had arrived.

“I love this city,” Idris said, standing beside him on the platform, out of the steady flow of travelers. “You should see the sweet shops,” he said to Twist with a devilish grin. “Paris is the best in the world for pastry.”

“You don't even actually need to eat,” Jonas said, shaking his head at Idris. “Why are you obsessed with food?”

Idris looked back at him levelly. “There's not a lot in your world I find pleasant.  I'm trying to make the best of my situation.”

“Someday, I'm going to get you to tell me what your crime was,” Jonas said, slipping his goggles up off his eyes to look into the airy canopy of glass above them.

Idris made a disbelieving tone and smiled slightly, as untouchable as the copper evening sky.  A cloaked figure bumped into Twist from behind and apologized softly.

“I can't see a thing,” Myra muttered to him from under her heavy brown hood.  Twist smiled at the hood and held out his hand, just visible under the edge of it.

“Here, let me guide you,” he said gently.

Myra took his hand in her gloved fingers and his Sight showed him the grateful smile that his eyes couldn't see.  He turned to ask Jonas where they were headed from here, but Jonas spoke first as he looked up at the simple black-and-white clock that hung from a pillar near the end of the platform.

“Can I see your watch?” he asked Twist, holding out a hand.

“My watch?” Twist asked back.

“Yes, your pocket watch,” Jonas said, looking to him and still holding out his hand expectantly.  Twist felt his heart begin to pound.

“You want my pocket watch?”

Jonas frowned and stared at Twist for a moment. “I'll give it back.”

Twist felt the others watching him.  His heart was beating very quickly now.  Though he knew logically that Jonas's request was a simple one easily granted, it took him a great deal of effort to pull the watch out of his pocket and hand out to Jonas.  The instant it slipped from his fingers, into another man's hand, Twist's soul was gripped with a desire to snatch it back.  He held his hand clenched at his side, but his eyes wouldn't leave the watch even for an instant.

Slightly alarmed by his own reaction, Twist searched his scattered thoughts for the reason.  He realized that he had never, in his whole life, freely given his watch to anyone who had asked for it.  Others had taken it out of malice or ignorance, but to give it when asked, without knowing the reason for or duration of the loan, was totally new to Twist.  It felt like watching someone else hold his own still beating heart.

Jonas wound the chain around his fingers and opened the watch's face.  He looked away from Twist to glance at the clock at the front of the station, and then set the watch to the local time.  He snapped the face closed again and then offered it back to Twist.  Twist's hand moved more quickly than he wanted it to as he took it back.  The brushed brass was warmer than it had been before and Twist had a lot of trouble not noticing.

“We're probably going to be in this time zone for a while,” Jonas said, watching Twist carefully now. “You may as well start using that as a time keeping device.”

“Ah,” Twist toned, slipping it back into his pocket and re-attaching the chain to the button hole of his waistcoat. “So, where do we go from here?”

“Saint-Sulpice,” Jonas said, unfolding the small piece of paper that Aazzi had given them all the way back in Bombay. “It's a cathedral across the Seine from here, near Saint Germain.  The house we're looking for is near it, apparently.  We should get a cab.”

“Good plan,” Idris said with a nod. “Unless one of you would like to wish for something more exciting.”

“Like a royal caravan of camels?” Myra offered.  Idris smiled at her.

“I hate camels,” Jonas said darkly. “We're getting a cab.”

“Excuse me,” a man said, hurrying up to them from behind. “But I believe this is yours.”

They turned to find one of the train stewards approaching with a large canvas bag slung over his shoulder.  He put it on the platform, but Twist saw the contents move on their own.

“I say!” the bag said angrily. “Unhand me, you damn, dirty, cretin!”

“The ferret got away, out one of the windows,” the steward said with obvious disdain.  “Didn't you have a small elephant, as well?”

“Oh no, we turned that into a deck of cards so we could play whist,” Idris said.

“You cheater,” Myra whispered at him. “Five aces in one deck...”

“I hope you had a lovely journey,” the steward said with no hint of pleasantry. “Please don't call on us again.”  He tipped his cap and turned on his heel without another word.

Jonas leaned down to open the canvas bag that was now emitting muffled struggling sounds as something inside tried to free itself.  The baboon climbed out, and then stood up tall on its hand-like feet as it straightened its tweed suit and fit its monocle back to its eye.

“The service on that train...” it grumbled angrily. “Where the devil is my hat?”

Jonas plucked the small bowler hat from the bag and handed it to the baboon.  Jonas's jaw was visibly clenched to keep himself from laughing. “Here you go.”

“Thank you,” the baboon said, taking it and placing it back on its blond, furry head. “Now,” it said, looking up at them all. “Have any of you got a banana?”

“Look, Mr. Monkey...” Jonas began.

“Mr. Simian, if you please,” the baboon corrected him quickly. “Mr. Monkey is my father.”  Jonas seemed to struggle to contain a startled snigger.

“Mr. Simian,” he amended patiently, “there are no bananas in this part of the world.  We're in Paris right now, in western Europe.”

“Damn,” the baboon said gravely.  A few of the passing travelers slowed their steps as they stared at the talking monkey.

“Should we take it with us?” Jonas asked Twist uncertainly. “I mean, it seems to have feelings.”

The baboon looked up at him with a warning glare. “
Seems
to?”

Twist glanced at Idris—who had added an ivory top hat, which now sat at a dashing angle, to his suit, as he stared back through pure gold eyes—and then at Myra in her dark cloak.  He looked back to Jonas who had already put his black goggles on over his eyes again, and shrugged.

“Why not?” he asked with a sigh. “We're not exactly a normal bunch even without it.”

“Would you like to come with us, Jeffrey?” Myra asked the baboon pleasantly.

“Jeffrey?” Jonas asked her, while the baboon put on a thoughtful face.

“He needed a name,” she whispered back. “He liked Jeffrey Simian.”

“I suppose I shall,” Jeffrey said, slipping his thumbs into the edges of his tiny waistcoat to stand in a proud but casual posture. “I'm at your service.”

“All right then,” Jonas said, turning for the main entrance to the station. “Let's go.”

Walking even a short distance on his vastly shorter legs was somewhat inconvenient for Jeffrey, so Idris lifted him onto his shoulder, where he sat in a surprisingly stately manner for a monkey, one hand around Idris's neck for stability and his short snout held high.

Outside the station, Twist found Paris to look exactly the way he had pictured it in all of the novels he had read.  White and pale stone-faced building—all with about seven stories, curling wrought-iron flower-boxes adorning each square window, and slate blue roofs with small rounded windows set into them—lined the wide cobblestone streets outside the station, in the amber glow of tall, elegantly styled streetlights.

There was a large open plaza just outside the station, edged with hansom cabs that stood waiting for passengers, each one indistinguishable from the next: from the tall narrow hats of the caped drivers, to the gleaming black finish of the cabs, down to the well-groomed black horses, they were all identical.  People walked along the roads on all sides in a constant stream of impeccable fashion and lofty, careless grace under the rusty yellow sky.  The city hummed with activity, as dense and bustling as London on a Saturday afternoon, while the thin winter air hung chill and rich with the scent of recent rain.

Everywhere Twist looked, he saw people with pale skin and clothes that matched the general style of his own.  He saw shops and cafes that sold things he knew and understood, even if the signs were all in French.  Though clustered and meandering, the streets were laid out in a way he could follow, and the subtle workings of the city were as familiar to him as clockwork.

More so than in Vienna, and even with the foreign details—hearing only French spoken around him, the elaborate decorative detail sculpted into every streetlight, sign post, doorway, and corner, the gilding on the tips of the low iron fences around the occasional trees at the edge of the wide sidewalks, the scents of cheeses, breads, wine, and coffee thick in the air—Paris felt nearly as comfortable and familiar to Twist's senses as the chilly London drizzle.

He was so enthralled with his own reverie that it took him a moment to notice the emotions that seeped in through his Sight from Myra's hand in his.  When he did notice, he found wonder and delight, but also the uncertainty of a wholly new experience.  She peered out from the shadows under her hood carefully, her eyes flitting quickly from detail to detail in a way Twist had not seen in her before.

“Are you all right, my dear?” he asked her as Jonas went to select a cab.

“Oh yes,” she said, flashing him a shadowed smile. “It's just so very different.  How big is this city?  Is it all so … pretty?  And wide?  And clean?”

“This is a very modern, Western city,” Twist said softly. “It's one of the most famous in the world for its beauty.”

“I can see why,”
Myra said, smiling more widely.

Jonas called them over to a waiting cab.  Twist and Myra sat inside together, while Jonas and Idris took the seat across from them in the black-and-violet brocade lined box.  Jeffrey sat himself down on the edge of the padded seat between Jonas and Idris with this back straight and his yellow gaze unfettered.  The moment they were all seated, the door closed and the cab began to move along the street.  Myra pushed her hood away from her eyes to see out the open side windows of the cab as the city passed by.

As they went, Twist was surprised by the sameness of the city.  The buildings were all so similar that it seemed like the whole city had been built at once so that nothing could clash with the overall style.  And everywhere he looked, he saw something pleasing to the eye: beautiful statues, fountains, and small patches of well-kept green, glowing cafes full of fashionable Parisians and even more fashionable staff, colorful flowers wherever there was a place for them, and distant monuments that he knew well from history and famous paintings.  As they began to cross a bridge over a green river that glittered in the twilight, Myra gasped and grabbed Twist's arm, pointing quickly out the window.

“Look at that!” she said, amazed.

Twist followed her gesture to see the Notre Dame cathedral appear across the river, its colorful rose window glowing brightly in the twilight and its famous buttresses and twin bell-towers silhouetted against the golden sky.  He knew its shape and details as well as any famous place in London, though he had never before seen it with his own eyes.  In an instant, his mind filled to the brim with remembered paintings, wars, hunchbacks, and musketeers.  He stared at it in pure wonder to find that the ancient building looked exactly as he had always imagined it would.

“You're such a romantic,” Jonas said, his voice thick with apathy.  Twist didn't look to him until the cathedral was fully hidden from view again on the other side of the bridge.  When he did, he found a smug smile on Jonas's face.

“I've always wanted to see that,” Twist said stiffly, not able to keep the smile off his face, or any of the delight out of his eyes.  Jonas laughed to himself and shook his head.