Luke Williams - The Echo Chamber

There was once a stranger, formerly a watchmaker, now a murderer, who would become a grandfather. He met a student with a scar on his chin, who would become a father. The stranger carried a letter, which he asked the student to deliver. First they went to the dining car. As they ate the stranger told his story.

‘Ever since Julia fell sick I have been in a state of grief and agitation. But, you understand, I had my work to distract me. At the time of Julia’s death I had almost solved the most pressing problem of my life. Julia had a weak heart. No, I should say, the most extraordinarily fragile heart and I knew she was not long for this world. Of course, I hoped she would survive … And as I hoped, I realized that the fact that she and I had met; no, the happy fate of our meeting and marrying, was a sign that I could help to prolong her life. You see, I am, or, I ought to admit, was a watchmaker. Not only this, I also made automata — you know, those miniature dolls that look so lifelike and even move like humans, their hearts made of boxed clockwork. I was quite famous. Tsars and princes were commissioning my work. Perhaps you have read about the little Mozart whom I made for Sophia von Hohenberg, the Austrian princess. I sat him at a miniature Hammerklavier and he played the finale from the 1777 sonata in C major, and he played as well as the Austrian himself. But it was not just little people I made. My most lucrative venture was musical clocks. I managed to compress air through pipes in such a way as to produce devices that perfectly imitated the song of certain birds — the golden plover, the shearwater, the bluethroat, the nightingale, the curlew and countless others. It was this which gave me the idea to try to preserve Julia’s failing heart. She had the heart of a bird; I can hear it now, quivering, flute-like, below her breast. I thought, if I can reproduce the song of the curlew, I might be able to reproduce a human heart in clockwork. I had tried everything else. I had read everything concerning the nature of time. I conducted research into the arcane science of anamnesis. If, as I believed, it were possible to stall time, that is divide it into such small portions that it were impossible to measure the present second — for this is the logical upshot of the watchmaker’s art — then time just might stand still, and Julia would not be ravaged by its decaying effects. I can’t tell you the trials I put poor Julia through, all in her best interest you understand, although she didn’t see it that way at the time. There were instances — I admit — when I had to use force, against my conjugal duty, in order to realize these experiments. Oh how she would beg me to let her depart in peace. But I couldn’t see my beloved leave me without feeling I had done everything in my power to try to prevent it. So when these experiments into the practical application of theories of time had run their course, failed that is, I turned to the aforementioned idea. I now attempted to build Julia a clockwork heart.’

As he spoke the stranger looked intently at the student. He had become increasingly agitated, taking quick sips of his wine, and glancing around the dining car. The student appeared at once horrified and intrigued. Both had neglected the food, and the dining attendants, in their umber-coloured livery, curved past the tables, unfazed by the motion of the train, clearing the plates, cutlery and glasses and producing the next course. Speaking hurriedly, the stranger continued his tale.

‘If one reads the Encyclopaedia Britannica , it will tell you that the word watch derives from the old English wæcce , which suggests a keeping guard or watching. The word, by derivation, means “that which keeps wakeful observation over everything”. This notion became my starting point — for the heart must remain ever watchful over the body. I focused my attention upon creating a mechanism that would connect in subtle ways to Julia’s arteries. By means of research and through a series of terrible experiments I mapped the exact passage of the blood as it flows through the body. The human heart possesses two chambers — ventricles — which propel blood to the organs. I, in turn, made twin pumps, each with a disk-shaped mechanism. The action of my clockwork heart was similar to that of the human heart. There was, however, one difference — the heart is living muscle, while clockwork is nothing more than a series of mechanical components. Julia’s new heart needed some internal source of life. Naturally, I couldn’t see her wound up every so often like a regular clock. I had to find a way to keep her independently ticking, so to speak. It was then I came upon a magnificent invention. In 1780, Breguet invented the first self-winding watch. He called it the perpétuelle . Using two barrels, a carefully balanced weight reacting to the slightest movement and an additional train wheel to provide a going-period of sixty hours, he produced a watch that could be used by someone leading a relatively inactive life. The perpétuelle was capable of running for eight years without being overhauled or going slow. With this technology I felt able to build Julia’s clockwork heart.

‘I won’t go into details about the operation to fit the device. Rest assured, it was a messy business. When I’d completed the fitting, having set the clockwork in motion, I rebuilt Julia’s ribcage and stitched her skin. I waited for her to wake from her opium-induced stupor. But she never woke. Inside her otherwise lifeless chest I could hear the clockwork, ticking just as I had hoped. The heart appeared to be functioning perfectly — it even produced tiny tremors on her breast — and yet her chest failed to rise and fall, and I did not feel her breath when I wet my palm and pressed it to her lips.

‘And now, through no more than husbandly devotion, I find myself wanted for murder! If uxoriousness is a crime, let me be damned!’

The stranger slumped in his seat. His limbs and shoulders dropped, and his whole body trembled. The student bent his head. He unwound his tie and placed it across his legs. He picked at the inside seam.

With a series of drawn-out whistles the train sped through York station, the platform filled with people standing to attention. The engine roared; black smoke gushed from the funnel and plumed past the window. Inside, diners, having finished their luncheon, began to smoke. The student indicated that he himself wanted a cigarette, but the stranger was oblivious. The student wiped the palms of his hands against his trouser leg and helped himself to the packet.

‘I must get off this train,’ the stranger said. ‘But first,’ he said, rising from his seat, ‘I will give you the letter.’ He produced a crumpled but otherwise perfectly ordinary-looking envelope.

‘Promise me you’ll see it to its destination.’

‘I promise,’ said the student.

‘I must get off the train! Should anyone ask, we never met.’

The student was alone in the dining car, clutching the letter. It was surprisingly heavy. He smoothed the wrinkles then scanned the address: Evelyn Rafferty, 16 Ingolstadt Place, Oxford. There was the first surprise — a woman! In his mind the addressee had assumed a theatre of forms — madman, accomplice, alibi, or target for the stranger’s murderous imagination — but not a woman. He read the name again: Evelyn. Evie. Eve. (My name, of course, and my mother’s too. But I was not named after her; I acquired my name by accident.) The student turned the letter — how gently the stranger had held it! — and lifted it to the window. He saw lines like tightly scrabbling ants beneath the envelope. He held it up to the sun. And those words, which he could not make out, stirred a desire in him.

Why did the student decide to deliver the letter? Why, when the stranger was unreliable, and his story improbable, was he prepared to embroil himself in an unknown fate? Perhaps because he had made a promise; perhaps for the sense of adventure it foretold; or maybe it was the stranger’s own guarantee — ‘Nothing of what I say will cause you harm or adversely affect you in any way.’ In my opinion, there is a more immediate explanation. The student was simply curious.