The Clockwork Man (6 page)

Once he had finished the Master allowed me to choose a small souvenir from a vendor on
Neumarkt
Square; I passed over several scale replicas of the city’s great castles and churches in favor of a tiny porcelain dancer with red-gold hair, her limbs spread like butterfly wings. The Master asked me why I chose that particular piece; I told him I admired its fragility and grace. (In these pages I will freely admit it reminded me of Giselle, but were I to tell him this, I fear he would misunderstand my motives.)

Then it was on to Vienna—a marvelous city full of ornate cathedrals, stately Baroque buildings trimmed with gold and crowned with copper towers, and centuries-old cobblestone streets—where Herr Gruber had been summoned to repair a glitch in his automated clock near the Imperial Palace. Apparently its workings are too complex for the local engineers to comprehend. I have seen the Master’s drawings before, but in person the clock is grander than I could have imagined: an automated string quartet powered by steam that, when the clock strikes noon, emerges from the base on a series of interconnected tracks and plays Mozart’s
Eine kleine Nachtmusik
in its entirety. This clock, in particular, isclose to his heart. He claims Mozart’s music is clockwork transformed into sound, each note a tiny cog that moves the whole toward a singular effect, and when he hears it played he drifts off into a kind of blissful trance.

Because of a lightning strike in late summer, the violist’s arm had ceased to draw its bow across the strings, and the Master spent most of the day tinkering with the figure’s innards, examining the tiny parts through the loupe over his eye. Up close, the figures bore a strong resemblance to myself, aside from the powdered wigs and eighteenth-century garb—from a distance I suspect one could not immediately identify them as automatons. But their eyes were lifeless, each stroke of their bows predetermined and repeated each day.

By and large the Master insisted I stay close to him while he repaired the arm; at first the curious crowded around in large numbers and distracted him from his work, though when I moved to help him they stepped back abruptly. It is strange to observe: even in as cosmopolitan a city as this, where I am known at least by name, certain people still shrink at the sight of me. I suspect that, like the many historic landmarks I have seen on this trip, reading about me and seeing me in person must, to them, be very different things. The Master ingeniously thought to disguise me, and on the second day asked me to don a long greatcoat and wide-brimmed hat, thus obscuring my visage and physique. I stood with my back to the street, careful not to reveal my face unless necessary, and so incurred very few stares. Only when I moved components too heavy for any human assistant did people recognize me, some of the children creeping up to me and poking at me as the Master worked, then running away when I turned around.

He tinkered with the violist for three days, and by noon on the third day, had the entire mechanism working again. When the music began, the gathered crowd marveled at the display, then broke into raucous applause. He waved to them once, then closed his eyes and rested his hand on my shoulder. “Listen,” he said. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” I said, though at that moment I was simply pleased to be sharing in his joy.

Later that evening, I accompanied the Master to the
Wiener Hofoper
for a production of Haydn’s
Orfeo ed Euridice
. As I had never before seen an opera, he was determined that my first should be special, and since this was the greatest opera house in the world, it could not be more so. And it was; I found myself dumbstruck at the sight of the enormous stone arches guarded by statues of the great figures of music, the elegant green dome rising high above the streets of Vienna—visible for miles in any direction. It took the Master several minutes to convince the ushers to allow me entry. They knew of his accomplishments, but feared I might disrupt the performance through malfunction or the unchecked curiosity of onlookers. The Master vouched for my behavior, and I took a moment to guarantee the head usher my conduct would be impeccable. He was, I think, too stunned to respond, and the Master led me past.

On the Master’s suggestion I pulled my greatcoat collar up under my chin and tipped my hat over my eyes until the stage went dim. The box seats situated around us were full of spectators in fine clothing, chattering in many languages (some of which I had never before heard), but only a few stared. Either they did not notice me or considered it unseemly to gawk.

The performance itself was miraculous, the music filling the amphitheater like a thousand bells ringing, a sound so rich and full the whole of my body trembled at the crescendos—a very pleasant and intense sensation. I have read the story of Orpheus, but onstage the stuff of myth, previously relegated to words on a page, became real. The tenor’s affected pain was all too apparent as he mourned his deceased Eurydice, his grief so great, it drove him to enter the underworld where no living man could go to retrieve her. I have seen the same look on the Master’s face, after he has gazed upon the photograph of his late wife, and am sure he would sacrifice nearly anything to have her back. I wonder if my own cog-driven heart might love or grieve as much, and if so, what it might lead me to do. But it is pointless to reflect on this; I was not made for such depth of joy or sorrow. Such feeling is strictly the purview of flesh and blood. And perhaps I should be grateful for that.

It has been a trying day for the Master, as his most recent clients have been less than accommodating. He has little patience for difficult people, but this is one of his larger commissions of recent years, and the rewards he will reap from it far outweigh any aggravation he might suffer.

At the moment he is asleep in our room in a small inn on the outskirts of Salzburg. Though I would very much have liked to linger in Vienna, we have come here for a series of meetings with Sister Renate, his contact. He is here to finalize plans for a new clockoutside Nonnberg Abbey, this one depicting a life-sized Nativity scene. When it is finished, the three wise men will emerge from the base into the Christ child’s manger and present him with gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh. I am sure it will be quite splendid, and hope to see it when it is completed. The clock is being financed by a wealthy merchant in town, who the Master claims wishes to associate his name with the abbey for business purposes. While their order was quite pleased to accept such an exorbitant gift, some of the sisters remain hesitant about the Master’s involvement (they are familiar enough with me to be uncomfortable), and have not been entirely helpful with the planning.

I was instructed to remain out on the street for this meeting, as the sisters tend toward fundamentalist leanings and might be offended by the presence of a thinking, sentient mechanical man—an abomination in the eyes of God, they say. In a letter to the Master, Sister Renate specified that in no way were the automated figures in his clock to read poetry or paint landscapes. (While I have on occasion read the works of the English Romantic poets, I have never painted a landscape and have no interest in doing so.) I would like to have explored more of the city, but the construction of these clocks is the Master’s livelihood, and I can in no way jeopardize the commission. It was enough for me to stand on the sidewalk and stare at the gleaming peaks rising above the hills, even dwarfing the great fortress overlooking the city. I had never before seen mountains, and witnessing their grandeur was more than sufficient compensation for failing to look at a few buildings.

However, after his meeting, the Master was kind enough to take me to some of the places where Mozart is said to have dwelled; Ibelieve the highlight of his day was drinking a rich, golden pilsner in the beer hall purported to be Herr Mozart’s favorite. After he drank it down, the tension gradually vanished from his forehead and eyes, and it gratified me to see serenity return to his face.

Our travels are nearly at their end, and I find myself anxious to return home. However, we have made one final stop so that the Master can visit with an old friend.

As of this writing I am in the den of a middle-class home in the town of Branau. The Master has an affinity for its greenery and open water, and on our way in took great pleasure in pointing out the slim white towers near the River Inn—the rolling, frost-covered hills stretching to the horizon. It was the Master’s wish to call on his old friend Alois, whom he had met a year before I was first wound. He is fond of sharing the story of their first meeting, particularly after a few glasses of
Weissbier:
in the latter stages of my construction, the Master was transporting me to Vienna in a disassembled state to consult with an expert on human anatomy. Alois, a customs official, discovered the large crate of body parts the Master was hauling, and at first thought he had stumbled upon a grisly murder. Once the Master explained his experiment, the two men had a good laugh, and Alois became intrigued with the idea of me. Later that evening they met over drinks to discuss the Master’s work in further detail, and have corresponded ever since.

Alois and his wife, Klara, who appeared to be with child, greetedus warmly when we arrived at their country home. He was a severe-looking man, well dressed, with a large round head and thick mustache that poked from under his nose like a cat’s whiskers. He and the Master embraced; then he clamped his hand on my shoulder with alarming strength. “So you are Ernst,” he said. “You’re very famous, you know. When Herr Gruber told me he was building a mechanical man, I never imagined his stack of loose limbs would turn out so splendidly.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“I’ve told my children all about you; my youngest has wanted to see you up close for months. Adi, come out here!”

A slight boy of about four, with small ears and straight black hair hanging limply over his forehead, ran out to meet us. He came to a grinding halt a few yards from me, his jaw agape. His face was unusual for a small child; the cheeks were hollow, as if someone had scooped them out with a dull spoon, and his eyes began as sharp slits in the outside corners, then opened to wide pools. As Alois and the Master looked on, smiling, I introduced myself and extended my hand to the boy. He slowly crept up to me and finally shook it, staring incredulously at his hand afterward.

“Your hand’s cold,” he said. He looked to his father. “Is he real?”

“Indeed he is,” Alois said. “The world’s first mechanical man. And Herr Gruber here built him. He’s a great genius.”

Adi shook the Master’s hand and bowed slightly. “Father says you’re the smartest man in the world.” The Master laughed and mussed Adi’s hair, and we followed him to his sitting room.

We spent much of the day in Alois’s den talking with him and his twoolder children, introduced as Alois Jr. and Angela, the latter a pretty girl of about ten who reminded me a good deal of Giselle. The two men discussed their work and drank pilsner from Alois’s private stock. Klara offered me drinks and pastries several times; I declined politely, as I neither eat nor drink. Afterward she said little to me, perhaps not knowing how else to interact with a being without such needs.

Late in the afternoon Alois led us to the apiary he kept behind his house; he had for some time been interested in beekeeping, and was rather proud of the colony he had built, though the bees themselves were huddled together for the winter. The Master marveled at the whitewashed wooden slots, each with dense buzzing clusters so thick I could actually feel the warmth from them; Alois promised the Master a jar of honey he had harvested, and suggested he build an animated beehive for his next project. (The Master seemed intrigued at the prospect, and later, after Alois and Klara had gone to bed, began sketching plans for a clockwork bee. I think it will be quite the Masterpiece, should he pursue it to its end.)

As we emerged from the apiary, Adi ran toward us without a coat despite the cold, carrying a sketch pad and pencil. “Herr Ernst,” he said, “can I draw a picture of you?”

Alois sighed. “He’s decided he’s going to be a great artist. Useless profession if you ask me. No money, no respectability.”

“Perhaps you’d like to be an engineer instead?” Alois asked the child. “Or a clockmaker like Herr Gruber?”

“No,” Adi said. “I want to be a painter.” He turned to me. “So can I?”

“Of course,” I said.

He knelt on the chilly ground and began scribbling rough lineson the uneven surface. He looked up at me several times, squinting one eye, then returned to his drawing, his tongue poking from between his lips as he worked. “There.” He held up the pad to show us the sketch: a box with a bow tie and buttons, from which sprouted a square head and scribbled mustache and stick-figure arms and legs. (The likeness was not wholly inaccurate.) He had written the title, “Ernst,” in crudely shaped letters at the bottom, and scribbled the initials
AH
in the bottom right corner.

Alois shook his head. “A waste of paper,” he said.

But the child paid his father no mind, turning to me instead. “Do you like it?”

“It’s lovely,” I said.

“You can have it, if you want,” the boy said, tearing it from the pad and holding it out to me.

I thanked him and tucked the drawing into my breast pocket. “I shall treasure it.” Though Alois and the Master chuckled at my sentiment, I plan to post it on the wall of my private alcove once we return home. I am certain Giselle will appreciate it.

With some relief, I must announce that tomorrow we head for home, just in time for the great feast the Master hosts each year, when his siblings and their children fill the house. (He prefers to spend Christmas at home with his children, and so instead hosts his family early.) It will be gratifying to hear the laughter of children again. And I must confess I still eagerly await the surprise Giselle has planned for me; it is a little thing, and perhaps unworthy of so much thought, but I find a certain peace in it.