Clockworks by A. Umbral
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Clockworks A. Umbral He bid good night to his last customer and locked the door. “Another day my children and another one of you returned to your home,” he said to himself as he set the brass table clock on a cherry wood sideboard. “You are so patient and well behaved. I am going to treat you to some music today,” he chuckled and made his way over to the hi-fi stereo cabinet. He set a vinyl disc on the turntable and soon static gave way to a melancholy brass that filled the studio with sweet melody. The light of the tiffany lampshades and mini-chandeliers suffused the studio in a golden tinge of comfort. Gaspar had inherited the Clockwork and Antique Studio thirty years ago from his father. The showroom was crammed with antique furniture, lamps, and grandfather clocks. He never refused to repair a clock, no matter the condition it was in, or whether the client had the means to pay for the repairs. Some of the street urchins that infested the Montrose district had caught on to this and had broken into some homes and sold the clocks to him. He figured he would rather give them a few dollars and recover the clocks than run the risk of losing one. Of course he had immediately called the police and told them of his situation. He informed the policeman that he had recognized the etched plate under the base of the clocks, which his grandfather had repaired and placed there. On the plate was the old address, the one before they had moved to the Montrose district. He said he would call the clock’s owner and deliver it if necessary. The Officer had let him off with a warning the first time and after a while he had warmed up to Gaspar. Of course, he attributed it to the generous donations of Spanish wines he had often sent to the officer as a sign of good faith. He had given the last customer the fifty dollars he had, and was worried it would not be enough, but as it turned out, the man had no idea that the English made clock was a J.W. Benson,
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Mougin worth about twenty-five hundred. Much to his surprise the man was in no mood to bargain and took the money without a second thought. Gaspar’s hands were thick and rough with age and the nature of his work. Nevertheless his grip was like a vice. He had drawn a bottle of wine from the wine box, the latest shipment, and pulled the cork with ease. “Tonight we will celebrate,” he said as he poured some wine into an antique glass goblet. The wine had come from a little vineyard in La Mancha, a gift from a customer. The man dealt in international trade and had often referred the studio to his own clients as an excellent place to purchase vintage antiques. He held the goblet up to the light, still amazed at the wine’s light diffusing quality, before quaffing it down and pouring him self another glass. The wine was delicate and sweet, yet finely balanced. Its dark oily density always made him think of blood. He had refused the gift, but the man had insisted, in fact pleaded, that he accept it since he had repaired the family grandfather clock. The clock was unique and more than a hundred years old. Replacement parts had to be made or else the clock was destined for permanent silence. Gaspar made blueprints and had machined the new pieces himself. The man had wept when he saw that the old clock was fully functional once more. The old clockmaker considered it his finest work to date. “Tonight is our fiftieth anniversary. Inez would have been sixty-four to my sixty-five,” he announced. His shoulders slumped slightly as he looked at the ground and removed his eyeglasses. He set down the goblet and rubbed out the tears that had threatened to inundate his vision. He took a deep breath, replaced his eyeglasses. “A toast to Inez. Wish you were here my dove,” he said and drank the entire glass of wine. He poured another glass, closed his eyes and hummed along to the music. He held up his arms and danced with an imaginary partner in between the crowded spaces. When he danced his way back to the little wine table he pulled a small cigar from his pocket and lit it. He sat on
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the green leather ottoman, crossed his legs and took a long slow pull from his cigar. “I know, I know,” he mumbled, nodding his head at no one. “But it’s only this once, only to honor Inez. These little ones were her favorite. I have a few more – for posterity’s sake you know. Junior would understand.” He took another slow pull. Then he noticed that something was different in the studio. He heard a small creak of wood as if someone was in the studio with him. It came from the workroom. I must’ve left the bay door open and maybe the cats got in again. He put out the cigar and got up from the ottoman to investigate. He walked into the workroom. The light of day had faded and the workbenches and tools were cloaked in deep shadow. He switched the light on and much to his surprise the bay door was closed. The pale green illumination of the fluorescent lights showed an empty workshop. He walked over to make sure the chains were secure; the lock was in place. He began to wonder if he was just hearing things. He began to move to the door when he noticed an iron bound box on one of the worktables. It was large enough to be a suitcase; yet, it was made of a dark wood that seemed aged and worn. The latch, a finely wrought image of some kind of squid like creature was unlocked. He scratched his head and decided to open it. Inside the box he found an envelope atop a sea of foam peanuts. It was addressed to him: Here I am. He gazed at the scrawled handwriting. It seemed familiar. Something tugged at the back of his mind, but he could not place it. A draft wafted the scent of rosewater off of the page. Is it you? With trembling hands he put the letter down on the workbench. Reluctantly he made up his mind and began sifting through the packing. He could feel something metallic in his hands and pulled it out of the box; a gear shaft, made of brass, or a metal he could not readily identify. He continued
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unpacking the box until he had filled the worktable with parts and diagrams. Each piece of metal and wood was meticulously etched in some strange writing. He wondered why there was no master blueprint. He surveyed the pieces and noticed that the record had stopped playing. He gathered the diagrams and went into the studio. He turned off the stereo and put away the wine. He lit the cigar and began to look closely at the diagrams. It was only a short while till he had fallen asleep in the chair with his feet propped on the ottoman. He awoke in the early hours of the morning. He noticed the cigar in the ashtray that had burned down to a nub. He wondered if what he had experienced the night before was just his imagination until he saw the diagrams strewn on the floor beside him. The cold morning light began to creep into the studio. It invigorated him. He looked at the diagrams scattered on the floor. Today was a Sunday and he would not have any customers today. He decided to find out what this box was all about. He began by placing the diagrams on the wall of the workroom. These also had the strange indecipherable writings on them. The longer he looked at them the more the diagrams began to make sense. They began to come together in his mind. He placed the diagrams in what he believed was the best order, and then he began assembling the pieces in his own slow and tedious fashion. He began by placing the largest pieces together and soon a torso emerged. It was slender and shaped like an exquisitely wrought viola. He proceeded on into the night until he could no longer keep his eyes awake. The next morning he awoke in the workroom. He looked about and realized he had fallen asleep at the workbench. Before him was the shapely figure of what appeared to be a clockwork lady, minus arms, legs and face. He heard knocking on the back door. Quickly he covered the table and the clockwork woman with a canvass cloth and went to answer the door.
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The voice at the door said, “Gaspar, it’s me. Are you up yet?” It was Trinidad. He cursed under his breath as he opened the door. “Hello Trini,” he said opening the door just enough to stick his head out. “Gaspar…,” she replied as she offered her cheek, which he kissed in obligatory fashion. She attempted to peer into the shop. She was carrying a casserole of some sort that made his stomach rumble. He resisted her nudge and held his ground. “You’re not going to let me in?” “Uh…not right now Trini. I’m up to my ears in work.” “Well, alright…I guess I’ll leave you to your work, but listen to me for a moment. You’ve got to get out of the house once in a while you know. I’m inviting you to Nancy’s wedding,” she said. He cringed at the thought of having to endure an entire day of wedding festivities. “I’ve already put you on the guest list. It’s in two weeks so let me know if we need to take you shopping for a suit. Ok?” She waited for him to respond. “Okay…okay, I’ll be there. By the way, is that for me?” he said and offered her his best boyish grin. She always softened up when he smiled at her in that fashion. “Of course Gaspar. I thought that you might like to try my new enchilada recipe so I thought I would bring some over,” she said with a smile that told him he had won her over for at least as long as it took him to finish the clockwork woman in the workroom. “Thank you Trini, I’ll get this dish back to you in a couple of days,” he lied. “Not to worry, I’ll be stopping by in a few days to check on you,” she replied. Great! He would have to placate her for the moment until he could make an exhausting visit to her apartment. “Well then I’ll see you in a few days,” he said.
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“Okay Gaspar,” she said as she stuck out her cheek again which he kissed quickly and shut the door. He heard her gasp slightly and begin to curse under her breath as she walked away. He placed the “CLOSED” sign up in the window, then went back to the workbench and began to finish what he had started. He continued to build the clockwork woman. Her arms were slender and ended in long fingers that appeared fragile, but he knew could be strong as a vice. The clockwork woman was almost complete by nightfall. One last piece remained. Her face. He unwrapped the face from its wax paper. It was made of porcelain and painstakingly accurate, even mimicking the texture of skin. As he looked at the face, he began to weep. He pulled it close to his chest. “Inez…” He labored non-stop to attach the last and final piece. When he finally finished he almost lost his balance. His mind reeled at the completed figure before him. “Is this some cruel joke?” he whispered, his lips trembling. He shook his head and turned away from the thing he had assembled on the worktable. He walked into the kitchenette attached to the far side of the workroom. He could feel the shakiness that came from not eating on time. The enchiladas had long grown cold. He knew he would not eat them. His body was telling him to eat at the same time weakness threatened to pull him to the floor. He pulled the bread out of the refrigerator and placed it on the table as well as a package of deli meat. “Where’s the mayo?” he cried. “Where the hell is the mayo!?” he said again then slammed the refrigerator door. He sat down hard at the little table and began shoving bread and meat into his mouth. He was ravenous. He spit the food out of his mouth when it became too much for him to swallow. Sobs erupted from his mouth and nose. He was a mess. He placed his face in his hands and
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began weeping uncontrollably. Then he heard the sound of footsteps approaching. He knew that sound. He had heard it for years and recognized them as easily as his own. Hope bloomed in his heart. Don’t cry papa…everything’s okay. Here, let me make you a sandwich just the way you like it – with a little bit of lettuce, tomato and what was that other thing? Oh, yes I remember, how could I forget? You like mayo. Here’s the mayo in the door shelf and look you’re so sweet to get the deli meat and bread out for me. You just sit and relax, it won’t be long papa. Would you like a glass of milk? He looked at the Inez that clearly was not Inez. It walked and talked and looked like Inez, yet something was wrong. He knew it. Inez was dead. He had gone to the funeral in the rain and stood and watched as they buried her casket in the Forest Lawn Park Cemetery. “What is this thing?” He had put it together with his own hands. It had to be some kind of joke, but who would go to such lengths. Yet, he thought to himself, could this be her? He thought about how much he missed her. Her smile, her touch, her way of knowing him and doing for him that made their relationship special. He also thought about how, in their early years together, she had often berated him, emasculated him, and even cheated on him – with his own brother. Yet he loved her. Yet he missed her. The thing in the kitchen looked like Inez, so why couldn’t he just accept things the way they were. That’s what he had done before and that’s what had kept their marriage together. He never pleaded with her to stop sleeping with his brother. After all, he reasoned, Sisco was giving her what I could not. No, this was not so bad. Would you like a glass of milk with your sandwich papa? He could see it now. Acceptance. Yes this was the key to life. Acceptance. Inez looked as radiant as ever.
Clockworks “Yes, my sweetness,” he replied. “A glass of milk with a touch of vanilla and sugar, the way you used to make it.” He could see the smile on her face. She sensed it. Acceptance…he could tell. A knock on the back door disturbed his reverie. He got up from his chair. “Sit down here my sweetness, this will only take a moment,” he said to Inez and led her to his chair by the table where he also placed the plate of sandwich and the cold glass of milk. The knock on the door was insistent. “Gaspar,” shouted the woman’s voice. He knew it was Trinidad, his sister in law. Now what does she want? “Coming,” he shouted across the workroom. He opened the door. “Trinidad,” he said as he hugged her and kissed her on her cheek. “I’m fine Gaspar,” she said with a hint of annoyance in her voice. “Aren’t you going to let me in?” she asked. Gaspar hesitated. “Oh, you don’t want to come right now, I have the place a mess. How can I help you?” he asked. “How can I help you? What kind of crap is that? Just move out of the way,” she said as she barged past him and into the shop. “I bet you haven’t even made coffee yet” “Well I am quite busy Trini I need to get a project done for a client” “You know that’s the trouble with you Gaspar, you’re always working. Why don’t you hire an apprentice? You know that Junior has been asking you to show him the ropes” “I know Trini, but you’ve got to give me a couple of months…” Trini walked into the kitchen and for a moment she stood with her hands over her mouth. Gaspar saw that she had discovered Inez.
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“Oh my God, Gaspar, what is this?” she said pointing at Inez. “It’s Inez. Gaspar, what on earth have you done.” Trini looked at the desiccated woman held together within brass fittings and rods. Then she looked back at him. He was smiling with tears running down his cheeks. “Yes, it’s Inez. She’s come back.” “This is your wife’s corpse! You’ve gone crazy. Can’t you see that?” she said pointing at the thing sitting in the kitchen, her hand shaking. She could see that he had placed gears into her torso much like a grandfather clock. She looked into the workroom and saw the pine box on the worktable. “Look at her,” he said as he walked over to the thing in the kitchen and placed his arm around its shoulders. “She’s as beautiful as ever.” “Gaspar,” said Trini, her eyes were wide and her voice wavered, “you have to let her go.” “Nonsense!” he said. “Why can’t you just accept things the way they are? You never could do that could you? You couldn’t accept Inez as my wife, and you still don’t accept that Junior is your dead husband’s son. That’s why he looks like him and not me. You thought that Inez and me could take care of him. I sent him to live with Sisco so he could be with his father not just because you were Inez’s sister. He was Sisco’s son for god’s sake. He loved Junior. And he loved Inez. But now she is back and my brother’s not here to mess things up for me. I worked and worked to get my grandfather’s shop while Sisco sat around chasing women and boozing it up. That’s how he met you. Don’t you remember?” “Gaspar, you cannot keep a corpse in your kitchen!” “Get out. Get out now!”
Clockworks He was done with Trini. Now that he had Inez back, Trini held no interest for him. He watched as Trini left, slamming the backdoor shut. He was glad that Trini had left. He wanted to be alone with Inez. Gaspar, why did Trini say all those mean things to you? “I don’t know my sweetness. Don’t worry about her. We have some catching up to do,” said Gaspar as he unbuckled his pants.
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