Джаспер Ффорде - One of Our Thursdays Is Missing

“Permission to speak, madam?” said the automaton once I had wound him sufficiently to reboot his memory and thought processes. He spoke with the rich, plummy tones of the perfect gentleman’s gentleman, but with a faint buzz—a bit like a bumblebee stuck inside a cello.

“Of course.”

“I am one of the older Duplex-5 models, so if madam would only wind me as far as twenty-eight turns, I would be most grateful. My spring will take a full thirty-two, but the last four winds have an unpredictable effect upon my central reasoning gears that render me unable to offer my best.”

“I’ll remember that,” I said.

“And if I might be so bold,” added the clockwork man, “I would highly recommend that you do not let me fall below two winds, as I fear I might become somewhat languorous in my movements and may stray unforgivably into short-tempered impertinence.”

“Between two and twenty-eight it is.”

I finished winding him but, as requested, was careful not to go beyond the red mark on the mainspring tension indicator just under his chin. Once I was done, he turned to face me, and his single expressive eyebrow quivered momentarily and then pointed to “Uncomfortable.” I knew exactly what he meant: that the winding of a manservant is a mildly embarrassing undertaking, and to preserve both employer and employee’s mutual respect, should not be commented upon again.

“That’s a very useful eyebrow.”

“It’s a standard feature of the Duplex-5s. Since we have few genuine emotions, it helps to telegraph how we think we should be feeling, given the circumstances.”

“It works for me, Mr. . . . ?”

“Sprockett,” said Sprockett. “Ready and willing to enter your employ.”

“I’m not sure I need a butler.”

“In that you would be in error, ma’am. It has been long proved that everyone needs a butler. Besides, you saved my life.”

It was complex, but I knew what he meant. Because I had saved him, he was indebted to me—and to refuse him an opportunity to reciprocate my kindness would leave him burdened by a favor unpaid. And if you had a potential life of a thousand years or more, you could be a long time fretting, and fretting increases wear on cogs. Clockwork life-forms could be annoyingly steadfast, but it was their saving grace, too.

“All right,” I agreed, “but for a trial period only.”

“Very good, ma’am. Would you care for a cocktail? I do a very good Tahiti Tingle—without the umbrella if you think they are a bit passé.”

“Not now. I’m working.”

“In Conspiracy, ma’am?”

I pointed at the book traffic that was moving constantly overhead.

“One of those came down last night, and I’m here to find out why.”

“I see,” said Sprockett, his eyebrow pointer nodding toward “Worried” as he looked upwards. “I will assist in whatever capacity I can.”

We made our way toward the regional offices. Sprockett talked and thought well for an automaton, and aside from a slight limp, his empty features and a muted buzz when he moved or thought, he was reasonably lifelike. I asked him where he was from, and he told me he was from Vanity—in a pilot book for a series titled The League of Cogmen, about the many adventures that befall a series of mechanical men designed by an Edwardian inventor. Sprockett had been initially built as a butler but soon transcended his calling to become a dynamic machine of action. A mixture of The Admirable Crichton, Biggles and The 1903 Watchmaker’s Review. When unemployment beckoned, he reverted to domestic service—butlers are more sought after than are action heroes.

“What was your book like?”

“Uneven,” replied Sprockett. “A fine concept, but lacking in legs to carry it off. Sadly, I have too few emotions to be engaging as a principal character.”

“Because you were designed as a butler?”

“Not at all—because I’m only a Duplex-5. The empathy escapement was never quite perfected before we went into production. I can indicate a range of emotions through my eyebrow pointer, but that’s about it. I can recognize your sorrow and act accordingly—but I cannot feel emotions nor truly understand what ‘emotion’ or ‘feel’ actually means.”

“But surely you felt danger when you were about to be stoned and relief when rescued?”

“Yes, but only in the context that to be destroyed would deny me the opportunity to serve cocktails—and that would contravene the second law of domestic robotics.”

Sprockett told me that his books were hastily printed, had not been read once in seventeen years and now, aside from a few copies in the circulation of friends and family, were sitting unread in a cardboard box in the writer’s garage in Cirencester.

“And becoming damp, too,” he added. “Sometimes rain is blown under the garage doors. There is mold and damp seeping up the print run—look.”

He rolled up a trouser leg to reveal a green patch of patination on his otherwise shiny bronze leg. His would be a long, lingering journey to unreadfulness. He would gradually look more tarnished and increasingly lost over the years until the last copy would be destroyed and—unless picked up in another book—he’d suddenly wink out of existence.

“What’s it like living in Vanity?”

“May I be candid?”

“I’ d welcome it.”

“We tend not to use the term Vanity anymore. It sounds derogatory. We refer to it as Self-Published or Collaborative, and you’d be surprised just how much good prose is interspersed with that of an uneven nature.”

This was true. Beatrix Potter, Keats and George Eliot had all been self-published, as was the first issue of Alice in Wonderland . I looked across to where the island of Vanity lay just off the coast beyond the Cliff of Notes. Even from here the high-stacked apartment buildings could clearly be seen. The turbulent waterway between Vanity and the mainland was swept with dangerous currents, whirlpools and tidal rips. Despite this, many Vanitarians attempted to make the perilous journey to brighter prospects on the mainland. Of those who survived, most were turned back.

“I’d like to come out and see the conditions for myself,” I said, the unease in my voice setting Sprockett’s eyebrow to flicker twice before pointing at “Worried.”

“No, really,” I said, “I would. You can’t believe anything you read in The Word these days.”

Sprockett demurred politely, but his eyebrow said it all—speaking of an entire genre kept marginalized, right on the edges of Fiction. The “Vanity Question” was one of many issues that had dogged the political elite since the remaking. The problem was, no published books liked anything self-published in the neighborhood. They argued—and quite eloquently, as it turned out—that the point of having similar books clustered in neighborhoods and genres was for mutual cross-fertilization of ideas, themes and topics. Having something from Vanity close by would, they claimed, “lower the tone of the prose.” Liberal factions within the Council of Genres had attempted a cross-genre experiment and placed The Man Who Died a Lot right into the middle of McEwan on the basis that the localized erudition could only have a bettering effect on the Vanity book. It was a disaster. None of the characters within McEwan would talk to them and even claimed that some descriptive passages had been stolen. It was then that McEwan and the nearby Rushdie and Amis threatened to go on strike and lower their Literary Highbrow Index to a shockingly low 7.2 unless The Man Who Died a Lot was removed. The offending book was gone before teatime, and no one had tried anything since. Vanity’s contribution to Fiction in general was an abundance of cheap labor and the occasional blockbuster, which was accepted onto the island with an apologetic, “Gosh, don’t know how that happened.”