Josh Roseman - The Clockwork Russian and Other Stories

Oh, and how Vasily was enamored with America. America, he would say at night, as we lay on our bedrolls in the depot, with its freedoms to do whatever one wished, to believe in any God or none at all as you please. In America, no one would kill us if the government changed. In America, we could make our own way, free of the Tsar’s taxes or Rasputin’s Plans. In time, Vasily convinced me, the steadfast and safe older brother, that sneaking into America would be the best thing we could do. In broad daylight, as we took our turns patrolling the border, keeping the Americans at bay — or so we were told — we climbed the fence and escaped into America. This scar on my hand, it is from the chains and wire at the top of the border fence, and I wear it with pride.

But now we were in a foreign land. Vasily spoke some English — there were Englanders on the science council, and they taught him — and he gave me what he could. We made our way along the old highway that connected New Vladivostok — what the Canadians used to call Vancouver — with Seattle, and when we came to this city, Vasily and I found work at a place that repaired and modernized carriages. I only stayed for a year before convincing the old Jew who once ran this shop that I was capable of repairing clocks and watches just as well as he, but Vasily stayed on. Until 1923 we were happy; we shared rooms in a building on the lake, we learned English and spent Saturdays — for the Jew closed this shop on Saturdays, as his people do — at the library, studying, becoming citizens of America. Three years we stayed out of plain sight, but then Vasily’s vehicle depot was purchased by another, one who saw what Vasily could do and who placed him at the head of it.

You know who this other ultimately worked for.

Little changed for those first months, but Vasily would come home at night with stories of the men who brought in their vehicles for repair, of the beautiful women in their beautiful clothes with their beautiful jewelry who hung on the arms of these men. Then one night he did not come home at all. I thought he had found a beautiful woman of his own, for in this city in springtime, when the weather is warm, the women wear such clothes… you know this, a man of action such as yourself. But no, when Vasily came to the shop the next day, his eyes were full of wonder and he told me of this man Frieze, the man who told Vasily he must make a weapon of clockwork and steam, one that could not be stopped by what Frieze called “enemies”. And of course Vasily rose to the challenge.

You remember the influenza of autumn 1923. It took the Jew who owned the shop, and I discovered he had willed it to me. I still close it on Saturdays in his memory. With a loan from the bank, I bought the building in which we lived, and between my earnings — for you Americans have such gadgets and timepieces, and are willing to pay well to repair them and buy new ones — and Vasily’s money from his work for Frieze, we purchased several more buildings on the water. We rented rooms, made money, but one building we allowed for those like us, Russians trying to make their way in America. We let them live for little money, for no money, until they could be independent. And things were so.

“Well,” I say, “what happened in the past year-and-a-half that turned Mr. Frieze against Vasily?”

Pyotr Leonovich shakes his head. “Karol Antonovich Ivanov,” he tells me. “Karol we knew in New Vladivostok. A soldier. On our doorstep, though, last October, he came destitute. He left garrison, afraid for his life, and like others we give him home, help him with job.”

“What kind of job?”

A sigh. “Karol Antonovich was not good at jobs. Angry often, even with me, with Vasily. Took work at the docks, a strong man, but thrown off into Lake Washington when he stole things.”

“Sounds like a lovely individual.” It’s starting to come together, what happened, but I have to hear Pyotr Leonovich tell me, to confirm it. “Go on.”

Pyotr Leonovich picks up his visor, runs the edge between his big fingertips. “Vasily went to Frieze’s man, said Karol Antonovich, he do what jobs are needed. But Karol steals again, this time from Frieze, and hides in our property.”

“And Mr. Frieze isn’t the kind of person who forgives. Or forgets.”

“ Nyet. ” Pyotr Leonovich hasn’t said more than three words in Russian to this point; telling the story of his escape to America must have helped. But he mutters something about stupidity and idealism before continuing. “Frieze, he tells Vasily to find Karol, bring him for justice, but Vasily believes in America and tells Karol to run, gives him money. Lucky that Karol did not steal from me, that I have strongbox with clockwork locks for merchandise.”

“But if Vasily couldn’t find Karol, then why was he on Mr. Frieze’s property?”

“Vasily, he hear that Frieze has Karol, goes to plead for his life. Frieze says yes, in exchange for property. As Vasily told it, he asked for time, Frieze says to take one day, no minute more or less.”

“Sounds like him.”

“As you say,” Pyotr Leonovich says. He puts down the visor, looks straight at me. “Vasily, I think, breaks into Frieze’s gate, try to rescue Karol, maybe remember what Anatoly’s mother did for us in St. Petersburg. And is shot dead.”

I give Pyotr Leonovich a moment to collect himself — his blue eyes are glittering — before I say anything. “You want me to find out if Karol Ivanov was really there, don’t you.” He looks about to answer, but I don’t give him the chance. “This isn’t about what happened to your brother, is it?”

“More money, if you want, I will give—”

“Keep your money,” I say. “I don’t do revenge. You want to know if Karol Ivanov was really in there, you ask Mr. Frieze yourself.” I take my gloves out of my pocket, pull them on. “I’ll return your money by the end of the week, minus the $150. You can have the deed back too.”

Pyotr Leonovich hangs his head. “Very well. My apology, Mr. Bach, for deception. But did not believe you would agree if I told you full truth.”

“I wouldn’t have.” I open the door. The wind has died down, but it’s still bitterly cold. “I’m sorry about your brother, Pyotr Leonovich. I truly am.”

“Thank you,” he says.

I leave before he can say anything else.

Ishmael was right: I don’t eat a very good meal that night. There’s leftover fish and potatoes in my icebox, and I put them in the metal basket in my fireplace. I really should turn the crank and make sure it cooks evenly, but I’m just not in the mood, so half the food is cold and the other half scalding when I carry it down to my workshop with a fork and a mug of hot water. I nibble at one of the potatoes while my tea steeps, reading the front page of the Post-Intelligencer . Pyotr Leonovich was right about one thing: the Russians are not happy about having stopped at the border. I’m glad to see President Coolidge saying we would not be the aggressor, but there’s another quote from the Secretary of War, about how the Russians will be biting off more than they can chew if they cross the border in force. “Will be”… that worries me some.

I set my food aside and take the sachet of tea out of the mug, then give it a slight shake before bringing it to my lips. I feel sometimes that I use all my patience in my work, and when it’s time to eat or drink, I can’t wait around. The tea is watery, weaker than I’d like, but it’s warm, and I need warm. It’s been a cold day.

I’m not in the mood to eat anyway, and after contemplating the editorial page for a few minutes without actually reading any of it, I put the paper aside and take out the latest project in my other job — the job I did for the police for five years, the job I’ve been doing on my own for almost that long. I separate the two halves of the grenade and set them in cup-shaped holders. From my top drawer I retrieve a cross-shaped tool: two screw-driving heads, a pincer, and a rubber mallet. With the pincer I tease out one of the springs and set it in an indentation I planed out of the wooden worktable. There are two more springs there, both tighter than the original, and I start with the tightest one, easing it into place and using a long, thin tool with a flat tip to lock it. I hook the spring to an axle, then set my tools aside in favor of an automatic winder which I align with the main gear. My thumb holds down the switch and the winder begins to move.