The Clockwork Man (7 page)

The Master has been in a foul mood for much of the day. During the first hour of our train trip back to Frankfurt an American named Wilson recognized me in the dining car and, in awkward German, paid his respects to Herr Gruber. Surprisingly, he asked me what I thought of the sights on the trip, and seemed delighted when I responded in English. Finally he opened his briefcase and handed the Master a two-week-old edition of
The New York Times
he had bought at the train station, pointing out a small article which quoted Herr Edison denouncing me as a fraud, in his words a “walking cuckoo clock,” and had filed a patent himself on behalf of his Detroit Edison Company, whom he claimed would have a virtual army of clockwork servants ready for the market within five years. The Master said nothing, but his face turned bright crimson, and he crumpled the page in his hands.

“Sorry, friend,” Herr Wilson said. “Just thought I should warn you. Edison does this to everyone. He’s been trying to ruin that Tesla fellow for years.”

“Yes, thank you,” the Master said, and offered to pay for the American’s paper.

The American declined politely. “For what it’s worth, just from these few minutes I’ve shared with you, I don’t believe a word of it.”

The Master remained silent for quite some time. While he does not sleep well on trains, preferring to relax quietly and view the scenery from the cabin window, his silence was more oppressive than usual, and he continually balled his left hand into a fist so tight Icould hear his knuckles crunch. “He will never copy you,” he finally said, never taking his eyes from the window. “He could work for twenty years and never come close.” He looked at me sadly and patted my arm. “You are one of a kind, Ernst. And you will stay that way.”

I had thought his good spirits might return after that, but his mood only worsened. I wondered why, despite his confidence that Herr Edison could never duplicate his design, he continued to brood so. Upon reflection I believe his long-held admiration for the great inventor blinded him to Herr Edison’s motives, and is the source of his disappointment. I have yet to know such disappointment or betrayal, and it comforts me that, so long as I am in the care of the Master and his family, I never will.

Despite the sobering news Herr Gruber recently received, and which I have previously discussed, Fräulein Gruenwald has managed to convince him to take a nap in his den to replenish his energy from the long journey. Nonetheless, as I write this from the relative isolation of my cubby I can occasionally hear faint, angry grumbles punctuating his snoring. I do not believe he will forget Herr Edison’s slight in the near future.

We arrived home at 6:45 this morning, during an early, light snowfall. The trees were nearly bare on our return, but the hills had taken on a frosty shroud, which practically gleamed in the sunlight. I found the sight pleasing, and as the carriage neared his home, an oasis of brick against the white street and sidewalks, the Master’s stern features finally seemed to soften.

Jakob had not yet risen, but Giselle, in her nightgown and terry robe, flew into her father’s arms when we entered, ignoring the thin dusting of snow on the Master’s overcoat. He smiled weakly, perhaps trying to disguise his disappointment, but was unable to fool her.

“What’s wrong, Father?” she said, her arms still wrapped round his neck. “Has something happened?”

“It’s nothing,” he said. “Everything is fine.” He kissed her forehead and shuffled into the kitchen.

Giselle turned her affections on me next, standing on tiptoe to kiss my suede cheek. “I want to show you something,” she said. She took my hand and led me through the library to my private alcove, placing her right hand over my eyes as we neared it. I had already seen the collage, with its elm-leaf face and maple hat, framed on the wall before she blocked my view, but I feigned surprise just the same.

“I hope you like it,” she said.

“It’s wonderful,” I replied, in all sincerity. This was not a simple child’s rendering—though I had been deeply moved by Adi’s impromptu sketch—but an intricately detailed likeness down to the subtlest angles and contours of my face and the different shades of tan in my suede skin. It must have taken weeks to select the proper leaves—longer to fashion them into the portrait.

“I think it livens your corner up a bit. Now you’ll have something to look at besides all these books.”

I thanked her profusely, and showed her Adi’s drawing. She laughed like a ringing bell. “It’s adorable,” she said, and tacked it to the wall below her magnificent collage. “There. See, you have two admirers.”

I did not show her the ceramic ballerina the Master had boughtme, instead keeping it tucked in my left breast pocket until I could find a way to display it in a manner appropriate to its delicateness and elegance.

Downstairs we heard the Master’s workshop door close, and she looked up at me. “Father seems unhappy,” she whispered. “What happened while you were away? He didn’t mention anything in his letters.”

It was not my place to betray the Master’s confidence, so I told her he was simply tired from travel and would regain his good humor after sufficient rest.

“I suppose so,” she said, raising one eyebrow in the dim light. “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?” For no obvious reason I suddenly found myself staring at her long red-gold hair, wanting very much to run my fingers through it, to cast the worry lines away from her forehead, as if her skin were a soft white sheet, easily smoothed.

After a moment the worry left her face. “Of course you wouldn’t.” She smiled shyly and her gaze dropped to the floor. “Ernst, could you do something for me?”

“Of course,” I said, expecting to complete some errand on her behalf. “Anything.”

She wrapped a delicate arm around my waist, and took my hand. “Dance with me.”

I pointed out that there was no music, that the phonograph would wake Jakob, but she raised a finger to her lips. “We don’t need the phonograph.” Softly, she began to hum the melody of a slow Brahms waltz over the quiet ticking of my winding apparatus, and I could feel her gently leading me. We spun quietly, by slow degrees, my oxfords and her bare feet sliding softly across the maplefloor. Our hands entwined, we circled through the library, across the dining hall floor and the foyer, then, somehow—for I have no memory of how the door opened—outside into the snow. I feared she might catch a chill, or that her feet might freeze, so I finally let her go. She held my right hand and twirled once beneath it, then slowly came to a halt, glowing like fine porcelain in the light of sunrise.

She clapped her hands and smiled broadly. “You’re getting better all the time.”

She laughed. “Wasn’t that amazing?”

It took a moment to find my voice, as if I had forgotten how to speak. Then a weak tinny voice echoed involuntarily from my throat: “Absolutely splendid.”

For the past two days the Master has been in his study, a small square of a room adjoining the den, attempting to compose a rebuttal to Herr Edison’s claim that I am a fraud. He believes that, if published in
The New York Times
or some other highly circulated newspaper, he will gain moral vindication, and has tossed aside a score of drafts as being unworthy of a gentleman. Giselle and Fräulein Gruenwald have been charged with preparing food for the upcoming family gathering, while for most of that time I have been at his side, or fetching him carafes of coffee and wine, only leaving to check on Giselle and Jakob or to wind myself. He instructed me to inform the children that he is finalizing arrangements for the Nonnberg Abbey clock—the detail is primarily for Giselle, who would balk at a less specific excuse—and was not to be disturbed. Jakobhas spent most of this time trying to sled outside, though the snow is hardly deep enough; for her part, Giselle continues to suspect her father’s distress is not the product of fatigue, but has thus far respected his request for privacy. He has slept only sporadically since beginning the letter; from time to time he falls face-first at his writing desk in midsentence. He ordered me to prod him awake if he should doze, but on Fräulein Gruenwald’s suggestion I have taken to letting him sleep up to an hour before rousing him.

It appears the Master is attempting to enlist me as his silent partner. From time to time he consults me on his choice of words, reading me short passages and waiting for my reaction. I tell him I am sorry, I have no experience writing this kind of letter, and he glares at me sternly before ripping the page from the typewriter and beginning anew. The floor around his desk is so littered that one can no longer walk within five feet in any direction without hearing crumpled paper crunching underfoot. (He has forbidden Fräulein Gruenwald and me to clear them, in case he wishes to revisit some previously rejected thought expressed therein.)

He was interrupted only once, yesterday evening, when Fräulein Gruenwald knocked at his door to inform us that our neighbor, Herr Brundt, thought he’d seen someone prowling behind the house. The Master was unconcerned—in this part of the city crime is very rare—but ordered me outside to look around, just to ease Fräulein Gruenwald’s mind. It was 8:11 p.m. and quite dark, the only light the glow of gaslights from the windows. I trudged in the snow for minutes, scanning the road for several blocks on either side and the grove of trees in the park across the street, but saw nothing.

I was about to give up when I saw him—a tall, rather lankyman bundled in a thin black overcoat and black hat, standing at the edge of the trees behind the house. I very nearly missed him. He appeared to be staring at the house’s western face, unmoving as he stood in the snow. I assumed he was a traveler whose carriage had lost a wheel and who was seeking assistance—not unusual this time of year, when the roads can be quite slippery—and shuffled out toward him.

“Good evening,” I said. “May I help you with something?”

His gaze briefly turned toward me; I could not make out his features, as they were obscured by a thin plaid scarf and a wide-brimmed hat. He remained still, neither answering nor moving, and I thought he might be frightened of me.

“Are you hurt?” I asked.

When I had come within twenty feet of him he pivoted on his heel and began to walk away, rather quickly. I followed him to the edge of the yard, continuing to ask if he was in some kind of distress, but he soon disappeared from view. The Master would likely not have approved of my following him through the park, so I made my way toward the back door. Perhaps he was lost, or searching for another house. On my way back I looked up at the west wall; in the darkness I saw a warm glow from one of the upstairs windows—Giselle’s room, to be specific—and inside, barely visible through the crack in the curtain, Giselle, in her nightgown, running a round brush through her long reddish-blonde hair. I stood in the snow and, for just a moment, watched her hair spilling repeatedly over her shoulders, then rejoined the Master in his study.

“Well?” He pulled yet another sheet of paper from the typewriter, crumpled it in his two hands, and tossed it over his shoulder. Hedid not seem in the mood for a detailed account, so I decided not to burden him further.

“Nothing,” I said. “A traveler who had taken the wrong route.” I felt it unnecessary to tell him more, though for a moment I admit I wondered if he may have been an agent of Herr Edison’s, meant to pressure the Master into selling my designs. In any case, he has not returned.

“I thought as much,” the Master said. “That Brundt worries over everything. For now, no more interruptions.”

“Of course,” I said, and closed the door behind me.

After mailing off his letter to
The New York Times
—a ten-page document decrying Herr Edison’s treachery and bemoaning the rise of mass production at the expense of the artist’s unique vision, the Master announced that, come spring, we would be traveling to America to personally unravel the lie Herr Edison has perpetrated, starting with New York City and, if necessary, ending on his doorstep in Menlo Park, New Jersey. I very much look forward to seeing New York, in particular the Statue of Liberty, which the Master says is quite spectacular, especially at night.

Once the letter was finished, the Master’s mood seemed to improve significantly. The timing is fortunate: his extended family will be arriving tomorrow for the festivities, and I have been enlisted to help with the preparations. In keeping with Giselle’s mother’s tradition, Giselle and Fräulein Gruenwald are preparing to make amagnificent feast of several courses. Today I accompanied Fräulein Gruenwald and the children to market in the city to purchase the many foods they will be serving: geese and pork loins for roasting; several varieties of potato, for mashing and roasting (while Frau Gruber will not approve of the potatoes, the children and the Master certainly will); bread, apples, celery, and raisins for stuffing; milk and molasses for pudding. I followed close behind them in my hat and overcoat, carrying their parcels in hemp sacks over my shoulder. As I have previously stated, I am well known here and attracted little attention, save for a pair of errant children who ran up to poke at me before their parents fetched them. Jakob attempted to trip me once, but I sidestepped him easily and Giselle slapped him away. A pair of old women on the street crossed themselves and backed away when I passed; Giselle laughed at them—a mocking laughter that, strangely, retained some of its sweetness. “That’s it, run away,” she called after them. “If you’re not careful he’ll recite poetry to you.” Thus confronted, the old women bundled themselves in their thick shawls and hobbled away.

Fräulein Gruenwald says the key to a successful feast is to prepare ahead of time, to minimize the work on the actual holiday. She has thus enlisted the entire household to help—even Jakob. Once home I was put to work in the kitchen chopping apples and celery, a task which I am able to complete in seconds and perform at length, as my wrists do not tire and I need not fear cutting myself. She seemed quite pleased with my efforts; no sooner would she transfer one bowl of chopped celery to the icebox than I had already filled another. This, of course, is the extent of my dabbling in the culinary arts; Ican neither smell nor taste, so the fine nuances of cooking are lost on me. I was simply happy to be of assistance.