The Clockwork Three (6 page)

The immigration buildings sat opposite the docks and took up almost a whole city block, like a warehouse for people. Giuseppe entered the main building, lined on either side by walled booths and barred windows through which the shipping agents and the immigration officers conducted their business. The arrangement struck Giuseppe as a mix between a bank and a stable. Hundreds of families massed inside like the cattle and sheep waiting in pens down on the Quay. The shipping companies had offices near the entrance where they sold tickets for passage.

Giuseppe fought his way through the crowd to get there, but before he reached the desk he noticed a little girl waiting in line with her parents. They all looked haggard. The father rubbed his neck while the mother
simply stared up into the rafters. The little girl sat on a trunk, and in spite of the dark circles under her eyes and a dirty dress she must have worn the entire voyage, she swung her short legs and smiled.

She did not look timid or scared. She seemed excited to be in a new city, a new country. But she had come over with her family. Giuseppe remembered his own first day, drowning in loneliness like an ant in the ocean. The man who had paid his uncle had led him from the dark bowels of the ship, and they had waited in the pressing crowd. He had held Giuseppe’s hand in a painful grip, and never said a single reassuring word.

Then Stephano had come, the man had handed Giuseppe over, and everything had changed. Giuseppe tipped his cap to the girl and kept going.

When he stepped up to the shipping company’s window, the man behind the counter looked down at him over half-moon spectacles that rode low on his nose. Small eyes, sharp as needles, peered out from beneath bushy eyebrows.

“What do you want?” His eyes appeared to focus only on Giuseppe’s fiddle.

“Uh …”

“Speak up, boy. Does your padrone know you’re here?”

Giuseppe realized that he had made a mistake. He looked around. He remembered now how Stephano had slipped money into the hands of numerous men that first day, shipping agents and immigration officers alike. The men here were with Stephano and the other padrones.

“Never mind.” Giuseppe turned to leave.

“Hold on, I asked you a question. Who’s your padrone? Stop!”

But Giuseppe had already started to run, for the second time that day. He burst out of the warehouse. He thundered back down the docks,
off into an alley, and soon emerged onto the bustle of Gilbert Square. He cut right across the middle and headed for the Old Rock Church.

After watching the street for a few minutes, he entered the churchyard and smiled at the angel on his way to Stroop’s tomb. “Pardon me,” he said as he opened the tomb, held his breath, and reached inside, withdrawing the green violin.

A few minutes later, he headed for a block of factories down on the Old Fort Road. He had wasted most of the morning in his failed effort to find out the cost of a steamboat ticket. Soon the factory whistles would blow and the workers would take their noon break. Giuseppe arrived outside the gates and waited amid the vendors setting up their lunch carts. Black kettles bore fried fish, roasted corn, and potatoes boiled with parsley, with fresh milk and cider to drink.

The aromas set his stomach working on the nothing he had eaten for breakfast, but he had no money on him to buy any food. Yet. The vendors eyed him sidelong. He ignored their suspicious glares and sat down on a building stoop to wait. He thought about his morning at the docks and cursed his carelessness. Stephano could find out what he was up to if Giuseppe went there himself. He had to figure out another way to learn the price, let alone buy the ticket and board the ship.

Several minutes later, the whistles blared. A few minutes after that, the streets choked up with men from the steelworks, and women from the fabric mills. They formed lines at the food carts, while some sat down with lunches in tin pails they had brought from home. Giuseppe watched them for a few moments, set his hat on the ground, stood up on the stoop, and started to play.

The notes cleared the air, as if peeling away the steam and the smoke and the despair. People stopped chewing their food. They gathered. Even
the vendors set down their ladles. Giuseppe played them a country tune about an apple orchard, a silly tune really. But it spirited all the listeners away from where they were, just as Giuseppe had intended it to. He freed them from the city like pigeons from an opened coop, and they took to the sky in droves.

It seemed that everyone there tossed in a coin, and by the time the second whistle blew, calling them all back to the factories, Giuseppe figured he had earned at least three dollars. He stuffed the money into his pockets and put his hat on. He ambled over to a food cart and bought a steaming potato. The vendor, a man by the name of Fleischman, gave him a pinch of coarse salt. Giuseppe took a bite too big for his mouth and cooled it between his teeth. As he chewed, he closed his eyes and sighed. He finished the potato and strolled away just like the satisfied rich folk he had seen walking through the tame side of McCauley Park on Sunday mornings.

A little farther along the road he heard some scuffling and shouting. He peeked around a corner, down a pocket street between factories, and saw a couple of big street kids pounding another boy. The two were gang runners, not buskers, but the boy they had on the ground looked like he came from somewhere up near the Heights. His clothes were nicer, his knuckles were clean, and he looked scared. But he was actually trying to fight them off.

Giuseppe had to do something, but he could not fight them both on his own, and by the looks of it the boy on the ground would be worthless in a scrape. He looked older than Giuseppe by a year or two, but Giuseppe figured even he could take him.

Then Giuseppe caught an idea, and he set his violin safely aside where no one would see it. He stepped around the corner, picked up a small
rock, and chucked it. It caught the bigger of the two attackers on the side of the head and bounced hard. They both turned toward him.

“He’s mine,” Giuseppe said. He leaned up against the alley wall, arms across his chest. “And we’re with Stephano.”

The one boy rubbed his temple. The other stepped up to Giuseppe. “But he didn’t have no instrument.”

“He made more than me, so I broke it,” Giuseppe said. “I was gonna throttle him, too.”

“What about his clothes?”

“That’s what he was wearing when we nabbed him a couple weeks ago.”

The gang boy made a gesture of stepping aside. “Well, pardon me. Kid didn’t have no money, so we was just havin’ some fun with him.” He held out his hand like an usher. “He’s all yours.”

Giuseppe hesitated. He stepped around them and walked up to the boy on the ground. The kid looked dazed, like he was lost in a blizzard. Giuseppe balled his fist.

The one with the goose egg on his head called out, “What’cha waiting for?”

He shook his head. “I better not.”

“Why?”

“’Cause Ezio wants him.”

The two gang runners looked at each other.

“Yeah, Ezio’s coming.” Giuseppe turned away from them. “He’ll be mad enough as it is when he sees what you two did. He wants some for himself.” When he turned back, the two were gone, torn off, running down the street.

Giuseppe laughed and held out his hand to the boy on the ground. “I
never thought Ezio would save my skin. I wonder what’ll happen when this gets back to him. Come on, chap. I’ll help you up.”

The boy said nothing. He did not move. He just stared at Giuseppe’s hand.

“Relax. I wasn’t really going to hit you. You all right?”

The boy stiffened. He struggled to his feet like his back was sore. “I’m fine, and I don’t need your help up. I didn’t need your help at all.”

Giuseppe withdrew his hand and lifted both eyebrows. “That’s a fine thank-you-kindly. From where I stood, you were getting thumped pretty bad.”

The other boy ignored him and brushed off his jacket.

“I’m Giuseppe, by the way. What’s your name? What’re you doing down here?”

The boy looked at him like it was a riddle. “Frederick,” he said. “My name is Frederick.” He started gathering up scraps of metal from the ground and said nothing more.

Giuseppe shook his head. “All right, then. I guess you’re fine now.” He started back down the alley. Over his shoulder he said, “See you around, Frederick.”

“Wait.”

Giuseppe turned.

The boy hesitated. “That was really something the way you … Well, what I mean is … thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Freddy. You should probably clear out of here. Rich chap like you —”

“I’m not rich.”

“No?”

“No. I’m only an apprentice clockmaker. What made you think I was rich?”

“You just look taken care of, that’s all.”

“I take care of myself.” He said it as if he was keeping something inside, like a pot simmering with the lid on. “I will be rich one day, though. Soon.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, it is. When I make journeyman, I’ll open up my own shop, and make my own clocks.”

“You make clocks, huh? I guess that’s what this stuff is for.” Giuseppe pointed at the pieces of metal in Frederick’s hands. “You’re pretty smart, aren’t you, Frederick? And from what you’re wearing, seems your master buys you clothes, so you look respectable.”

“I suppose.”

“I’m figuring the way I saved you just now, you maybe owe me something.”

Frederick clutched the metal tighter. “I suppose that’s true as well,” he said. “And what would a busker like you be interested in? Do you want food? Money?”

Giuseppe snorted. “Nah. Money’s not a problem for me anymore. What I got in mind is a favor.”

A Commission

F
REDERICK FOUND GIUSEPPE SITTING ON THE STEPS OF THE
Gilbert Hotel, right where he had left him. The afternoon glow on the marble stairs lit the pale stone as if from the inside. Giuseppe was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, playing with the sweat-stained rim of his cap. When he looked up at Frederick, he hopped down to him three steps at a time.

“Well?” Giuseppe put his hat on.

“Forty-five dollars.”

“That much?”

Frederick nodded.

Giuseppe’s shoulders slumped, and he stooped his neck, eyes on the ground. Then he put his hands on his hips. He looked up toward Frederick, but not really at him, like he was working on something in his head. Then his eyes came back into focus, and he smiled.

“Thanks, Freddy. Thanks for the favor.” He nodded once and started to leave. “See you around, maybe.”

“Why did …” Frederick began.

Giuseppe came back.

“Why do you want to go back to Italy?”

The busker paused. “That’s where my brother and sister are.”

“What about your parents?”

“They died.”

“Mine too.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Frederick said. “My dad first. Then my mom left me at an orphanage.” He was shocked. He had never said that out loud before, to anyone. Not even to Master Branch, who had never pressed him.

“I’m sorry.”

The two boys had just shared something. Frederick had not meant to, and he wanted it back. Sharing his memories felt like handing over a sharp knife. A knife that others might handle carelessly. A knife that could be used to hurt him. “It’s not a problem,” he said. “I do fine on my own.”

“Sure. You got out of that orphanage, anyway, right? Now you’re a clockmaker.”

“An apprentice clockmaker.”

“But like you said, not for long.”

Frederick smiled. “Hopefully not.”

“Where’s your place?”

“Master Branch has a shop on Sycamore Street a couple of blocks from the clockmakers’ guildhall. I live there in the shop.”

“Well, maybe I’ll come by and see you sometime.”

No one had ever come by to see Frederick before. Everyone who visited the shop was either a customer or a friend of Master Branch. “Please do,” Frederick said.

Giuseppe smiled and walked off. His fiddle bounced on his back.

Frederick watched him saunter away and then took in the square. He noted the time on the massive Opera House clock with dismay. It
glowered, hoarding counted seconds as if in perpetual irritation at the lack of precision in the world. It was afternoon and Frederick needed to get back to Master Branch’s shop. He had spent too much of the day on Giuseppe, time he should have used for his own search.

Several days before, he had fitted his clockwork man with its chest plate. The image of the completed metal body, with its intricacies and subtleties, filled Frederick with a sublime pride that deflated the instant he thought about his creation’s missing head. The iron rods and ties, the solid flywheels and delicate gears, the elegant balance and ingenuity amounted to nothing without the engine to drive it. Frederick still had no idea how to resolve this design flaw, and Master Branch’s words settled around him like a fog. Frederick leaned into the doubt and pressed forward, his mind engaged in clockwork.

He strode across the square, down streets and lanes, oblivious to the traffic. He filed his vision down to a single point in front of him, and he kept it there as he walked. His automatic steps eventually carried him back to Master Branch’s shop. Lost in thought, he went to walk through the front entrance and bumped up against a tall man blocking the door. Frederick looked up, startled. The man wore dark robes, had long black hair, and he eyed Frederick with the suspicion of a guard at his post.

Frederick swallowed. “Excuse me. May I pass?”

“Who are you?” the man asked in a Russian accent.

“Frederick. I’m Master Branch’s apprentice.”

The man stepped aside without another word, and Frederick skirted past him into the shop. Inside, a very large woman dressed in black tilted halfway over the counter, and Master Branch bent away from her like a reed before a gale.

“Your work is marvelous, Master Clockmaker,” she said.

“Thank you, Madame.” Master Branch clutched the lapels of his jacket. Frederick knew that such praise made the shy old man uncomfortable.

The woman had a much quieter companion at her side, a young girl with long hair. Both of their backs were to him, but the girl seemed familiar.

“I must commission a piece,” the woman said.

Master Branch nodded. “Yes, of course, Madame. In thinking about what you desire, do any of the pieces here inspire you?”

“Let me see.” She looked away from Master Branch for a moment to survey the room, and then she spotted Frederick. “And who is this young man?”

The woman’s companion turned around then, and Frederick recognized her as the girl from the street. That night her thick hair had been braided, but now it fell loose over her shoulders. She appeared to recognize him, too, because she gave him a curious smile.

Master Branch perked up. “Oh, this is my apprentice, Frederick.”

“What a handsome boy,” the woman said. “But it looks as though he’s been in some sort of row.”

Frederick had not thought about how he must look after the alley fight.

Master Branch squinted at him. “Goodness. Are you all right, Frederick?”

“I’m fine.”

“Boys. It’s just in their nature,” the woman said. “Frederick, are any of these your work?” She gestured toward the clocks hanging about the shop, and the watches in the display cases.

“A few,” Frederick said.

“Don’t be modest, lad,” Master Branch said. He appeared relieved at the opportunity to deflect some of the attention, and came out from around the shelter of the counter. “Many of them are his.”

The woman turned back to Master Branch. She smiled and began to pace the small shop with her hands behind her back. She leaned her nose toward the clocks and the glass cases, and cooed like a dove. “My, but they are all so wonderful,” she said.

“Take your time, Madame.” Master Branch rubbed his forehead.

The girl from the street slid over near Frederick, turned to him, and whispered, “Your poor donkey isn’t still missing, is he?”

Frederick laughed, but it came out rigid and artificial. He felt a heat like the metal forge on his cheeks. “Thank — thank you again for giving me directions the other night. I was —”

“I believe I have made a selection,” the large woman said. She spun on feet that seemed too small for her size. “But I have an unusual request, Master Clockmaker, one that I hope will not offend you.”

“At my age I am not easily offended, Madame. Ask of me what you will.”

“I would like for Frederick to make my clock.”

Frederick felt a thrill that almost lifted him to his toes. He watched Master Branch for the old man’s reaction.

“Madame Pomeroy,” Master Branch said. “Such a request might very well offend another clockmaker. But I am honest with myself about the degree to which I rely on my apprentice. I will design your clock, and Frederick shall construct it. What would you like us to create for you?”

“There again, my request is unusual. I do not want a clock.”

“No?” Master Branch sounded intrigued. “A watch, then?”

“No. Within the courts of the various kings and queens that I’ve been honored to visit, I have seen many clever little contraptions called automatons.”

Frederick studied the woman. There was no way she could know about his clockwork man, but the direction of this discussion still made him uneasy.

Master Branch said, “I have seen many automatons in my day, Madame, and I have made quite a few.”

“Wonderful!”

“What type of clockwork would most delight you?”

“There, I trust entirely in your ingenuity.”

“Then Frederick and I will strive to satisfy your expectations.”

“Thank you, Master Clockmaker, for your modesty and for granting my request. Come, Hannah.”

Frederick took note of the girl’s name.

He and Master Branch bowed to the two as they left the shop. Through the open door, Frederick saw the tall man withdraw from his post to follow the strange woman and her companion.
Hannah
. The door closed.

Both of them stood there for a moment in a silence that lingered like the traumatized calm after a peal of thunder. Frederick looked at his shoes. “Thank you,” he said.

“For what, Frederick?”

“For letting me make the clock.”

“But it would have been you.”

“But you made sure she knew it.”

“Years from now, she’ll be wanting your design as well as your work.”

Years from now
. Frederick looked up at the ceiling, sure that Master Branch had said the same thing to his previous, failed apprentices.

“I’m closing the shop for the rest of the day,” Master Branch said. He walked to the door. “I must meet a colleague at the guildhall.”

Frederick nodded. “I’ll lock up.”

Master Branch opened the door. “How would you like to accompany me?”

A pause. “Truly?”

“I have something I’d like to show you.”

“Thank you, Master Branch. I’d like to come.”

“Let’s be off, then.”

Master Branch pulled out his keys and locked the door behind them. They crossed a few streets, and Frederick forced a measured pace. He wondered what this meant, that Master Branch was bringing him along. Probably nothing. Master Branch had just said it would be years, after all, but anticipation still tickled him like a gnat in his ear. A couple of blocks from the shop they arrived at the guildhall, and together they entered.

Frederick had been here before on various errands. The building flexed with heavy timbers stained the color of coffee. The columns marched along in regular rows, supporting a lattice of rafters above. Frederick walked among them, admiring the clocks mounted on all four sides of each post. Dozens and dozens of clocks filled the space with so much ticking and chattering that the sound became an excited frenzy in the ear. There were American clocks, German clocks, and French clocks, too. A small group of guild members gathered and leaned in close conversation, tick-tocking in their own way. They murmured a greeting to Master Branch, and Frederick bowed his head to them as he walked by.

Master Branch led him from the main hall and down several dark corridors. They came up to a small door, and Master Branch paused before opening it.

“This is a very special room, Frederick.”

“What is it?”

“The guild’s private exhibition room.” He opened the door. “I thought we might get some inspiration for Madame Pomeroy’s commission.”

Frederick stepped through and gasped.

Inside were dozens of displays of the most ingenious clockwork he had ever seen. The number and variety of automatons overwhelmed him. He did not know where to focus his attention first.

“Reginald Diamond would eat a mountain of dust the size of his museum to possess this collection.” Master Branch motioned for Frederick. “Come look at this, lad.”

Frederick stepped up to the first display, a miniature old-style carriage made of wood, with horses and coachmen in replica livery. The wheels appeared to turn once every second.

“What happens on the hour?” Frederick asked.

“The little horses and men come alive. Sometimes the driver raises his whip or waves. Sometimes a horse will stamp its hoof or raise its head. I never know exactly what will happen.”

“I want to see the next one.” Frederick moved on. “I want to see them all.”

“Probably not all today.” Master Branch came up beside him, close enough for their shoulders to brush. “I’ve always loved this next one.” He smiled over a life-size clockwork rooster. “Simple elegance.”

Frederick shifted a comfortable distance away from the old man. “I like it, too.”

The rooster looked real enough to convince a chicken to let it in the henhouse, a squawking barnyard bird bronzed in all its glory. Each unique feather had been stamped from a sheet of metal and shaped. No detail had been overlooked, down to the scales on its feet and the wrinkled skin around its jeweled eyes.

Master Branch said, “Each morning, this clockwork beats its wings and announces the arrival of the sun, just as every rooster has done since the very first rooster on the very first dawn.”

Frederick nodded and went on to the next display, a little shepherd boy. It sat on a rock and stared downward, as if resting at the top of a hill, a flock of sheep scattered below it. In its hands it held a flute, and it touched the flute to its lips.

“What does it do?” Frederick asked.

“I’ll show you.” Master Branch stepped around behind the shepherd and cranked a lever. Clockwork whirred inside. Frederick heard the hiss of air flowing, the sound of the flute, and then the clockwork’s delicate wooden fingers flickered over the holes on the instrument. It started playing a song, and not crudely.

“The shepherd can play three tunes,” Master Branch said. “It can even change the quality of tone with a velvet tongue. Quite impressive, really.”