The Horologist Read online

  He yanked it up to his face. Food tumbled onto the table. He took his left ankle and set it above his right knee while shifting his hips. He sat like the stud he was and scanned the left panel of news summaries in silence. No one spoke.

  Finally, he looked up with an iron smile and excused himself and Isabella out to the garden. As Isabella closed the sliding door, she found Oliver’s eyes through the glass. All the optimism they had built up plummeted.

  Antonio was a protector. He watched over his stepdaughter with a careful eye. And as good fathers do, he found it hard to accept that Isabella was growing up, and that boys viewed her as charming, and fun, and lovely.

  Pacing in his garden, Antonio had a tough time with this, so he pushed back on the irrational script that is puppy love, questioning her decision to bring the boy home.

  “I’m not going to be around forever, Isabella. I just want to make sure you’re taken care of, that you’re provided for, that you are treated the way you deserve.”

  “But . . . I’ve fallen for Oliver! I’ve known him for so long. He’s not just a random boy.”

  Antonio dismissed the possibility. He had seen this false pretense before; he’d seen friends rush into relationships they weren’t ready to handle. “Isabella, here’s what I fear will happen. You two may stay together and even marry young. You’d live peacefully for a few years and be happy for that time and you’d find comfort in the steadiness and calmness that untested love brings. But there is an itch, Isabella, a natural, biological itch in men that women cannot scratch. It has nothing to do with you. It’s just something built into us, like a flaw. We are reckless at heart. We have to let the savage in us breathe before we can genuinely settle down.”

  Antonio continued pacing. “Even for me, Isabella. It took me time to mature. And this boy is not there yet. He longs to see the world, to find danger, to roam free. And if he ends his journey here, at some point he will be so consumed by the possibility of ‘what if’ that it will tear you two apart. I fear that eventually he will grow unhappy, and you’ll regret having asked him to stay.”

  “But how do you know this is the right decision?”

  “Because, Isabella, I can hear it in his words, see it on his face, and feel it in my stomach. You have to trust me. I’m just trying to look out for you.”

  She looked at the ground, defeated. “It’s just sometimes I feel so trapped.”

  “If you two really are meant for each other, one day he will return.” Antonio hugged her deeply, trying to absorb her anguish.

  Isabella took Antonio’s advice with solace. She understood that most things in life are exciting in the beginning but quickly lose their luster. If Oliver was the one, they would meet again. One day.

  With an empty spirit, Oliver thanked Sofia for the meal, shook hands with Antonio, and hugged the girls. Oliver was full of cheap glory as he withdrew from the grounds down the succession of terraced lawns, and away from love.

  When the stars hung over the water that night, Oliver snuck back to Isabella’s home. The young couple wanted to see each other one last time, so they had agreed to meet in the pink-caper garden under the moonlight.

  When they met, Isabella held back, but there was still unmistakable electricity passing between them. Oliver gently stroked her hairline. As he moved away, Oliver thought he saw something sapphire flicker in her eyes. The blue flash flew across only for a second, but it was long enough for him to see it.

  He turned and descended the lawns as a cold shudder passed through him. The moon and the stars blackened and the darkness of the night swallowed him.

  In a fateful way, Oliver lost his heart that night.

  THE BEL ETAGE

  OLIVER WAS BACK in the Bel Étage, standing in front of the lacquered bar. Behind the countertop, a groomed man with metallic blue eyes and a starched shirt was polishing the wooden surface. The bartender didn’t give any notice to Oliver or the man he was with.

  Around Oliver’s neck was a seven-fold tie and beneath that a virile suit. In his hand was a black umbrella that was folded in and soaking wet, which was unusual, as they were indoors.

  Oliver glanced at his wristwatch. It wasn’t working. He checked again, staring at the second-hand for a few moments. There was no movement. The watch was dead. Something was off here, as if Oliver had crossed an invisible line into a place he never dreamt he’d come.

  Oliver set the umbrella across a stool and took a seat. The man with him did the same. Seeing this, the bartender nodded and began mixing ingredients into a shaker. Oliver leaned forward on the bar and put his hand to his jawline. It was bristly and scruffy. He could feel the age on his face—life was beginning to weight him down.

  “Time is harsh, Oliver. It doesn’t give you a chance to go back and fix a mistake. So, to cope, your mind creates a gossamer of regeneration to convince itself that everything will be alright. But the mind cannot fool the soul . . . and deep in your gut, you know that it may not be. This is a battle we all face. We are forced to balance our physical world and our shared reality with an abstract universe of unknown creation. So, no matter how far the tides of time wash our minds away from our actions, a splinter of regret will always remain lodged within us. When you left Isabella, your mind was forced to create the pain you experienced. But the cosmos is speaking to you . . . it wants to help you heal your heart.”

  Suddenly, Oliver was very aware of the rapid beating in his chest. He turned to respond to the man sitting next to him, and when he did, Oliver again caught the eyes of the horologist. Black pearls of hematite for the pupils. Filmy conceptions beneath. And where a strained, red vein might diverge like a river system, there was order. The whiteness of his eyes was layered over something. It wasn’t clear if the markings originated above or below, but the grid was like a matrix of double-helixes. The horologist had the DNA of something metaphysical. Oliver widened his mouth and led with his index finger. “You’re the horologist? Weren’t we over—”

  With a look of incomprehension, Oliver rotated from the bar to the restaurant. The dining room was now scarred and dilapidated by the acoustics of time. The walls, scorched by heat. The piano was not sleek and raven but coated with an antique dust. The door at the top of the staircase was now stone and Paleolithic, like the entrance to a tomb.

  The mammoth glass window looked out to an unbroken expanse of sand dunes and a dead, grey sky. Oliver watched as a turret of wind took a dune and smashed it into the ground. Like the toppling of a domino, this first gust swirled up into a raging storm, generating waves of static over the wasteland. The sky crackled as low peals of thunder roared and beaded lightning illuminated the tundra. The land beyond was of bleached bone—a ruin more ancient than Egypt and more bloodless than a sand pit.

  Oliver returned his focus inside. He stared at the floor of the restaurant and noticed a rectangular patch of moonlight shining in from above. Through a hole in the ceiling, he could see a full moon. The violet-black moonlight trickled in and gave the Bel Étage a mauve, surreal distinctness.

  No one in the restaurant behaved any differently. The servers were bustling, the diners were feasting, and the attendants were chaperoning the affair. Oliver began to panic.

  Time decelerated as his heartbeat grew louder and a swell of silence filled the restaurant. Every person in the dining room stopped what they were doing and stared at Oliver, like each and every unrelated conversation came to the same pause. The stillness was suffocating.

  Relief washed over him when the horologist answered. “Yes, Oliver, I’m the horologist. We’ve met once before. The décor. You must be wondering—”

  “Is this really the same place?”

  “Define place, Oliver. Is a place physical? Or is a place simply the brain’s interaction with its surroundings?” The horologist spoke in concepts and fusillades of the earliest ideas in history. “Places are defined by our perception of them. So, in a way, where we are right now, is really just a reflection of you.”

  The ba
rtender walked over and set down a pair of clear martinis with a gaseous, sapphire vapor swirling from the brim like dry ice. The horologist plucked one from the bar and took a sip.

  Oliver did the same, taking a long slug to clear his head. The bouquet rippled up his nose and the liquid rolled over his tongue. Each sip was satisfying, but not a single drop emptied from the drink. The horologist resumed. “At some point in life, love gets taken from us all. In fact, the loss of love is what kills everyone in the end. Because without it, we feel rotten, we feel like there’s poison eating us from the inside, drying us out, making us desolate and hollow. So, you see, Oliver, this is exactly what I’ve been trying to fix, because lost love is the one thing which time can never heal.”

  Just then, a weight dropped into Oliver’s breast pocket. Transcendentalism exposed the arcane as he withdrew the alloy pocket watch. It had not been there before. Oliver held the clock, feeling its weight and power in his hand, and gradually, his brain became aware of what he was seeing.

  “Time has exquisite things in store for you, Oliver. Then again, time has exquisite things in store for us all.”

  Oliver brushed his fingers over the crafted trinket of synchronicity. He felt like he could fold the world in half; like he had a grip on the constellations.

  The horologist whispered, “Oliver. This is yours. This is your time. I make one for every life, but few get to see my design. You have been brought here for a reason, and I believe that reason is important. Oliver, if one life were to be lived fully and completely, giving form to every feeling, expressing every thought, realizing every dream, the world would gain such a fresh impulse of what life is that people would unwind from their habit of not living. Fortunately, the direction of the world can be altered with one oar. And I believe that oar, Oliver, is you, but your clock is ticking.”

  Oliver took another slug of the martini. “How will I know where to row?”

  “Don’t worry about that. Just be yourself. That alone is a challenge in our world that tries to make you someone else. Things will happen when they are meant to. Just remember what I told you. Besides, I’ll be around.”

  The rest of the drink was fog to your protagonist.

  THE CLOTHIER

  TWO MONTHS CRAWLED along as Oliver and Isabella learned to once again live without each other.

  Isabella missed Oliver terribly. She missed his charm, his humor, his pride. She missed him holding her. She daydreamed, and imagined him coming back in a mirage of passion, of poetry, of vigor. And she told herself that she would wait.

  Oliver felt contrite, he felt rueful, forlorn and cleaved. He had been swept up by the euphoric wave of love only to be flattened by the patriarchal hand of doubt. He felt like Cupid’s evil twin had sprayed petrol over his ribs, rubbed gunpowder across his sternum, and blown the cage.

  His heart hung open, exposed like a fresh wound. It sat there shriveled, delicate in its beating. Oliver had lent it out and made himself vulnerable, and all that came back was pain.

  Oliver went north after Barcelona, and in eastern France his Vespa died. He hiked into the nearest town as the sun was setting, and found the local mechanic drunk at a pub. After listening to the boy’s determined plea, the mechanic finally agreed to tow the scooter into his garage that night. Oliver watched the mechanic sway in his steps as he led them to his grimy truck. The mechanic’s eyes glossed over while he choked the engine on and set it in gear. The moon was only a sliver that night and the headlights of the tow were dull and dim. Everything about the ride made Oliver uneasy, and when they arrived at the Vespa, his gut had been right.

  As the tow approached, the truck began to veer off the lip of the road. Oliver cried out at the mechanic, whose chin was resting on the wheel. The mechanic reacted too late and the pickup plowed into the scooter like a grenade. The Vespa crunched and folded in; it bounced across the dirt road and ripped apart in a symphony of grinding. The collision took Oliver into the glove box, and the contents of his pack spilt all over the truck cabin. Then everything went quiet.

  The violence of the incident sobered the mechanic, and seeing the wreckage, his blood boiled and animosity tightened his face. Then came screams, and threats. The mechanic’s eyes blew up like bottle rockets as he beefed himself up and warned Oliver that he was not to return to the town—or else. The mechanic was wrathful as he kicked Oliver out into the night and threw his open pack out behind him. The tow turned and drove off.

  Lying on the road, Oliver lifted a strand of hair from his forehead and watched the somber beams of the pickup punch through the night. He felt a million miles away from earth. How could this happen? What did I do to deserve this? He stood, hitched his pants, brushed his shirt, and gathered his pack.

  The money. He couldn’t find the envelope. He turned out his pack and raced his hands across his body. “No. No!” It wasn’t there. The envelope his parents gave him must have fallen out in the cab.

  Oliver whimpered. He missed home. He missed his parents. Should I call and admit I can’t make it on my own? Oliver felt cold with shame. The world seemed to be at its darkest.

  He looked up to the night sky. A string of flickering light was etching its way across the canopy of stars. It was almost blinding. Oliver watched until it faded into the ether. The bright energy seemed to cleanse him. It reminded Oliver how brief life is, and how much he still had to do. The sensation dwarfed his troubles. He thought of the universe and its unfathomable distance, and he began to find himself happy.

  In this moment, Oliver realized that all he would ever want was the means to provide for the people he cared for, and to give back to the people and the world who had given him so much. It wasn’t clear how he would get where he was going, nor where his final destination would be, but somehow he knew he was going to make it.

  Oliver put his feet in front of him, looked down an unknown road, and began to walk. There was no reason to stop. Distance is nothing when one has motive.

  Besides, not everyone who wanders is lost.

  Dawn neared when Oliver reached the next town. Cars and trucks had passed him on the road, but he hadn’t been in the mood to ride. He was exhausted, but he didn’t have money, so he headed for the fields. On the backside of a hill, he found comfort under a beech tree as the stars began to wane. Oliver placed his pack beneath his head and used it as a pillow. He smiled at the simplicity of the world. He had nothing, yet, for the first time since he left Barcelona, it felt like he had everything. As his eyes shut against his pack, he thought, Sometimes, we forget all that we have.

  Oliver stirred to a fresh day. The pasture around him was full of cattle, and for the first moments he had to remember how he got to where he was. He yawned, then began to laugh. Not a merry laugh but a painful laugh, like when your leg is asleep. It was a mix of anguish and irrational faith. Adversity had come, and it had come unfriendly, and vicious; sharp and incisive like a predator with an open snout. Oliver knew that one day he would look back and cherish this interval, but inside the moment, life was notably queer.

  Oliver gathered himself. He checked once more for the money. Still not there. He laughed that painful laugh, then headed into society. He had passed through this town on the road and remembered seeing a market near the center.

  When he arrived, Oliver edged through the rows of vendors and stands. The exchange was surprisingly quiet, and as he slowly moved through, he could feel the yellow, depraved eyes of the vendors crawling all over his body. They stayed in the shadows of their stands, whispering and dispersing behind their piles of inventory, looking at Oliver like a toothsome steak. Each breath he took seemed to sing out like an explosion. The suspense crushed him; he had no idea what to do. Should I beg? Should I ask for food or water or money? Should I try to find a ride home?

  Oliver continued to move along. He found himself timid and fearful. His pride failed him even though he was hungry and thirsty and couldn’t have felt more vulnerable if he had leprosy or wore a sign across his chest with big red
letters reading, Help!

  That night, he went hungry. He returned to the beech tree as darkness flapped like a black wing, and Oliver had a dream that his mother wandered over the hill to save him.

  The next day, things changed when Oliver came to a bird pen in the market. The gate was open. He studied the birds and wondered why they stayed in the cage when freedom was so near. He watched as they hopped on their pencil legs and pecked at the feed. Maybe they were born in captivity, and just didn’t know they could fly. Maybe it would just take one bird, to show the rest the way.

  Oliver stepped back from the pen. He looked around for the owner, but couldn’t tell who it was, so he called to the people nearby. Suddenly, as he spoke, Oliver was very aware of his rugged his appearance and the dirt on his face. It had been a long stretch since he showered.

  On cue, the owner of the terrarium rushed over to shut the gate, and while he did, the bird closest to the exit leapt up to the wiry ledge, poked its beak out, and soared. Swiftly, the scent of freedom spread, and the entire pen began to empty from the cage, ascending in an organized wave and disappearing.

  The owner was fuming as he gaped at his empty lot. “A month of rent. Gone! Why didn’t you shut the gate? You cost me—”

  Oliver stared at nothing. He felt very small as he began to armor himself against the horrors that surely awaited. The man before him was insane, tears boiling from his red eyes. In the archives of his mind, Oliver plowed through shelves looking for some petition, some supplication, some way to escape this man’s wrath.

  “Perhaps the owner should have been more responsible.” This voice came from behind Oliver.

  The veins in the bird-keeper’s forehead enlarged into gyrating worms. He yelled back, “Gabriel! Mind your business!”

  “Oh, I assure you, if anyone was ever doing so, it was I.” Oliver twisted around to see a middle-aged man dressed in the height of fashion. He was adding needles to a foam orb on his wrist. He had a forehead wide rather than high, dark clustering hair, and a strong chin, maybe a bit too strong for his face. He stood from his booth and glided over to protect Oliver like a father does a child.