The Clockwork Man (13 page)

Once the inspector left, the Master retired to his workshop again. He did not come out for dinner, and so Fräulein Gruenwald sent me down with a plate of stewed beef and mashed potatoes. A dim lantern on his workbench provided the only light, and he did not seem to notice my presence.

“Dinner is ready,” I said. “Fräulein Gruenwald sent this.”

“I’m not hungry.” He waved me away.

“She is concerned.” I tried to hand him the plate.

He turned abruptly and knocked it out of my hand, spattering gravy and wads of potato across the floor and wall. “I said I don’t want it!” I remained for a moment, in case he might require assistance, but his grimace softened and he rested a hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Ernst. I’m not angry with you. Just very busy.”

“Of course. Forgive my intrusion.”

“It’s all right. Just go. I’ll clean it up myself.”

As I turned toward the door, I caught a glimpse of the Master’s sketchpad. Scribbled on the paper in faint pencil were the beginnings of a new project. I recognized the design immediately, as itseemed to closely mirror my own. But the shape and proportions were slightly different: the head, shoulders, and arms of a female figure, each joint and point of articulation precisely labeled. And in the top right corner, a name: “Giselle.”

I thought it unwise to mention this to Fräulein Gruenwald. Though I admit to a certain unease over these new sketches, the Master’s projects are his own affair, and it has been my custom to trust his judgment completely.

The Master has not stirred from his workshop in forty-eight hours, taking neither food nor drink. Fräulein Gruenwald took the liberty of buying a few gifts for Jakob, using money from the Master’s expense drawer; she claimed it was important to maintain the family’s traditions, particularly now, though thus far, Jakob has made no mention of Christmas Eve, nor expressed the slightest curiosity about his gifts.

Jakob has spent much of the last two days in the dining hall or the kitchen, repeatedly trying to fashion a kite the quality of Giselle’s. Though he is continually frustrated—each morning the floor is riddled with crumpled wax paper, twine, and snapped skewers—he insists he must keep at it. I volunteered to help him in his most recent attempt, as I watched Giselle construct several for him, but he said if I helped him, it would not count. I bring him tea and cheese sandwiches from the kitchen, though he is usually too engrossed to notice. Every two hours I return to remove the cold, stale remnants from the table and bring fresh replacements.

This morning Fräulein Gruenwald crept quietly into the Master’s workshop to ask after him. She seemed quite concerned he might do something rash or self-destructive, though I do not believe the Master would ever intentionally do harm to himself or Jakob, even in his grief. From the cellar came a gasp, and the sound of china shattering; a few moments later Fräulein Gruenwald emerged, her hand over her mouth, her face colorless and taut. “What is happening in this house?” she said, and ran through the kitchen and out the door. I called down to check on him, but he claimed he needed privacy. While I was concerned, I respected his wishes.

Though the Master’s home has been quiet for the last week, until today it has rarely been silent. It is as if Giselle’s death has drawn all the life from this place. Perhaps I have been too distracted to notice until now. Most oppressive is the attic; the telescope still stands, pointed toward some star or constellation that had intrigued her. I have looked into it only once since her death, and could not comprehend what I was seeing without Giselle to interpret it for me. Using my unique gift of memory, I revisited several of my astronomy lessons with her, noted the joy on her face as she pointed out significant stars and stellar formations, watched her forehead crease as she peered into the lens trying to pick up a comet or meteor. It is a small comfort at such a time as this, though when it is over I am once again made intensely aware of her absence.

This afternoon I found Jakob asleep at the dinner table, lying facedown in a small puddle of drool. He has not slept soundly in some time; in the Master’s absence he has not kept to his usual bedtime, preferring instead to construct his makeshift kites and testthem in the park, which we did until ten o’clock last night. (Loath as I am to go there, I accompanied him, fearing he would go alone and the Master would lose both his children.)

I lifted him from his chair as gently as possible and carried him upstairs to bed. He did not stir. Since then I have kept to my cubby, and will remain here until called for.

It is my great hope that some semblance of normalcy will return to this house, in time.

Something here is terribly wrong, and I fear I have neither the skill nor wisdom to set it right. Christmas Day passed without mention, and though I gave Jakob the gifts Fräulein Gruenwald purchased for him, he unwrapped them with little interest. He is despondent that he has been unsuccessful in building a bird-shaped kite with the proper proportions and aerodynamics and has taken to sitting in his room and staring out the window.

Herr Gruber emerged only once, cutting himself a slice of baked ham Fräulein Gruenwald left in the icebox, then disappeared into his workshop.

I asked if he required any assistance, but he simply shook his head and wandered back down.

“No interruptions,” he said. “And tell Eva we need more ice.”

I did not tell him she had yet to return, and that I was uncertain whether she even would.

My first instinct is to seek help—perhaps to compose a letter to Frau Gruber or one of the Master’s other relatives who might help to deliver him from the self-destructive obsession in which he has become ensnared. But judging from my previous interactions with them, I believe my pleas would simply be ignored. I must, then, take the only other course available to me: maintain the house as best I can, take care of Jakob’s needs, and wait for the Master’s eventual recovery.

I do not think matters have improved. Early this morning I heard a knock at the front door. I rose from my cubby to find Fräulein Gruenwald standing at the door, a constable at her side, two large men in white uniforms standing behind her, both wielding long, black wooden batons. I welcomed her back, but she raised a hand and silenced me. “We must be quiet,” she said. “Where is Jakob?”

“In his bedroom, asleep,” I said, and without my invitation she, the officer, and the two white-coated men entered.

“And Herr Gruber?” she whispered.

“Downstairs, in his workshop.”

The constable gave me a grim look. “I’ll have a look first,” he said. “If your story is true … we’ll see to him.” He stepped quietly to the cellar door and knocked loudly.

“Yes?” the Master said, his voice hoarse.

The constable started down the stairs. “Herr Gruber, if I could have a word …”

Some brief, muffled speech ensued; then, a loud crash, and the Master screaming, “Get out of my house!”

The policeman called upstairs for assistance, and the two men in white quickly descended into the cellar. I followed.

Before I had even reached the door, I heard the Master’s muffled cries, signs of struggle from his workshop. “No!” he screamed. “She’s not finished!” I had never heard his voice so pained or desperate. As quickly as I could, I made my way down the stairs to find the two white-suited men holding fast to the Master’s arms, trying to pull him from a linen-covered shape on his workbench, the constable begging him to see reason. On the floor was a knee-high pile of crumpled drafting paper, and each awkward step the Master took trying to free himself sent scrunched balls tumbling in every direction.

“Help me, Ernst!” he said, struggling against their grasp. “They don’t understand!”

The three men restraining him watched me apprehensively. Though I could easily have overpowered them, and would have done so immediately had I thought the Master was in peril, none of us moved.

“Is everything all right?” I asked the constable.

“Is it dangerous?” the younger man said to his colleague.

“Please,” I insisted. “I mean no harm.”

“Herr Gruber is unwell,” the constable said. “He needs to be examined by a doctor.”

With a mighty lunge, the Master slipped from their grasp, sending one of them stumbling to the floor. “No!” He stumbled toward me and took hold of my lapels. I hardly recognized the man whose wide eyes stared into mine. “I can bring her back. Please tell them, Ernst!”

Though it shames me, I found myself unable to move or speak. I am as yet unaccustomed to fear, and I consider it a less-than-desirable state.

The two men seized him. He struggled again, but after a momentcollapsed in their arms, panting heavily. “If you’d just let me finish her.” As they helped him up the stairs, they were gentler than before; I followed them and watched as they eased him into the back of the wagon and secured the heavy door.

“Herr Gruber will be home soon, I’m sure,” the constable said.

During the melee that ensued, Fräulein Gruenwald had tiptoed up the stairs to Jakob’s room. Once the Master was safely in the wagon, she led the boy, sleepy-eyed and in his robe, slippers, and nightshirt, down the stairs. She carried a lightly packed knapsack over her shoulder.

“Where are you taking him?” I asked.

“To his grandmother. He mustn’t see his father like this.” She led him outside, to a waiting carriage. I followed, carrying the bag and placing it next to him. His eyelids were only half open, and he did not seem to understand or care what was happening.

“Take care of the house, Ernst,” she said. “I’ll be back in a few days to gather his things.”

“Of course,” I said.

The constable helped Fräulein Gruenwald up into the carriage, then climbed in himself. He made no effort to acknowledge me any further. He signaled the coachman to move. As the horses drew them away, I caught one final glimpse of Fräulein Gruenwald, in tears, waving to me out the window.

Once they were gone, I crept back downstairs, taking care to remain silent: the moment seemed to demand it. I walked across the paper-strewn floor and pulled the cloth from the shape on the workbench. Before me was a painstakingly crafted replica of Giselle, hairless, with only the head and shoulders complete and partially-sheathed in some of my castoff suede skin. One of the green marble eyes had been placed in its socket; the other lay on the table. The detail was stunning, and I marveled at the craftsmanship—it was as if I were looking into her face again. I gazed into the single green eye, reached up slowly to touch the suede cheek, but underneath it was hard as metal, and cold to the touch.

I replaced the linen cover and left the Master’s workshop as I had found it. Since then I have remained in the sitting room or the dining hall, never far from the window that I might welcome him when he returns.

Though I ask your forgiveness, Professor Wellesley, I shall refrain from writing any more entries for the time being, and will resume once the Master and Jakob are safely home. I humbly apologize if my hiatus in any way devalues this text, but for now I can offer no further detail that might enrich it.

My dear Professor Wellesley,

I am sorry to be the bearer of disappointment, but I fear this entry shall be the end of my depositions. To put it as succinctly as possible, I cannot continue under present conditions, and have therefore determined that my existence must end.

The Master’s home has been empty since his departure, but for one brief visit by Fräulein Gruenwald a week after he was taken. She collected some of Jakob’s things and then left as hurriedly as she arrived. I asked after the Master’s condition, but she only shook her head and said she did not know. She kissed my cheek and told me to keep the house ready for the Master and Jakob’s eventual homecoming: she insisted we would all shortly be together again and that life would return to this house. Then she took her leave, trudging away through the snow. She has not returned since, and I begin to believe I shall not see her again.

I am overcome by a strange, empty sensation, which must be loneliness, or perhaps defeat—I have little experience with either and am unable to judge. It first came to me on the eve of the New Year, when in place of the raucous crowd of champagne-swirling friends that it has been the Master’s tradition to welcome since my inception, there was only the silent dark. While I have not seen much conversation since Giselle’s passing, the quiet is all the more oppressive now that this house has been abandoned.

Now, in particular, her absence fills me with a void I had not previously thought possible. I must confess I have, from time to time, wandered down into the Master’s workshop and uncovered the stark replica on the bench. I have even talked to it, though it offers no reply. For a brief time I entertained the idea of studying the Master’s blueprints and continuing his work. By lantern light I have pored over his designs, but they have proven more complex than my own, and as I have mentioned earlier in this document, I possess limited knowledge of my own workings.

And another thought strikes me—even if I were to duplicate his genius and complete the project in his stead, I would have but an imitation, a hollow shell of metal and wire. The very idea strikes me as obscene. For the first time I have begun to doubt the Master’s judgment—an intolerable state, no doubt brought on by my long isolation.

I have considered disguising myself in my greatcoat, shrouding my face in my hat and scarf, and going into the city in search of Giselle’s murderer, perhaps even bringing him to some final and permanent justice so the Master might finally know peace. I did not think myself capable of entertaining such ideas, but they surface regardless. I find no relief in them; no retribution could return Giselle to her father, or to me.

I do not think I shall recover from her loss, nor do I wish to. She is gone, the Master’s house empty, my purpose effectively ended. Therefore, I will shortly retire to her attic observatory and indulge in her memory until my ticking slows and I finally wink out and cease to be. I have left a brief note explaining my wishes to the Master, Fräulein Gruenwald, or whoever may find it in the days to come; I only hope their regard for me is sufficient to honor my request.