The Clockwork Man by William Jablonsky Read Free Book Online Page B

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),