Clocktower Page 18

  Johnny took another small sip of his coffee and waited for the man to continue.

  “These days though, well, it’s hard to say. I’ll be damned if I haven’t seen a fresh face in Sonnerie in at least four years. Used to be that when someone officially immigrated, they would be welcomed at the cathedral by Master Hanekawa himself along with the other Indices. We’d make a whole day out of it. A feast that lasted from morning till night. Those were the days,” the man said, tapping on the counter while relishing in memories long past.

  “What does one have to do to become a citizen?” Johnny asked. “I imagine it has to be quite the process.”

  Before the man could answer, the waiter returned with Johnny’s omelet and set it down carefully in front of him.

  “Do you mind if I . . . ?” Johnny asked, motioning to his food.

  “Man’s gotta eat,” the gentleman laughed. “You dig right in, son. Just let me do the talking.”

  Johnny thanked him and began cutting into his remarkably fluffy yellow omelet, revealing a treasure of orange cheddar and sliced mushrooms.

  “Immigration is—or was—handled by Master Kushima. He’s the Ninth, in case you didn’t know.”

  “He doesn’t handle it anymore?” Johnny asked between bites.

  The man shrugged. “I suppose he does, seeing as his position was established to handle immigration. But he’s getting on in years now, which might have something to do with the slowdown.”

  “I see,” Johnny nodded. “But if most people on the outside don’t know about Sonnerie, I imagine that most of his job has to be outside the city. Finding and attracting new immigrants must be exhausting work.”

  “Indeed,” the man said. “Back in the day, we’d only see him around once or twice a year, or when a new batch of arrivals was being welcomed in.”

  The man took another long sip of his coffee and set the empty cup down in front of him. “But anyway, the process is pretty straightforward. It’s easy to tell who’s who by their looks or the language, but the hard part for the new ones is usually with the conversion. You get a lot of folks who were second- or even third-generation in the U.S. during the war, and a lot of them had converted to Christianity. But here, there are no Christians. We’re all of one faith in Sonnerie, and it binds our society together. A rock that keeps us all anchored in common purpose.”

  Johnny swallowed another mouthful and chased it down with a sip of java. The waiter returned and filled up his companion’s mug, then disappeared again behind a stack of dishes.

  “Do you believe in God, Doctor?”

  “No.” Johnny shook his head. “Can’t say I’ve ever been one of the faithful.”

  “Yeah, we get a lot of those too. Especially the first-generation folks. They usually come around easier than the Christians, though.”

  “What changes their minds?” Johnny asked.

  The man’s smile returned to his face. “Well, I’m glad you asked,” he said, picking up his pocketbook and setting it down next to Johnny’s napkin.

  “Everything you’ll ever need to know is right there. Go on, take it.”

  Johnny wiped his mouth clean and pushed his plate aside. “But this is yours,” Johnny tried to refuse.

  “Oh, hell,” he said. “I’ve got a dozen proper copies sitting at home. This one I just take with me on adventures. Besides, if I can help an upstanding man like yourself and get him to move here to Sonnerie? Well!” He slapped his stomach and let out a horse’s laugh that drew the attention of half the café.

  Johnny picked up the book and began flipping through a few of the pages at random. Despite its size, the paper was razor thin, and the volume was much more significant than he had expected.

  “Don’t mind the chicken scratches,” the man said. “In fact, you can use them for help if you get stuck on a certain passage.”

  “Thank you,” Johnny said, sliding the book neatly into his coat’s inside pocket.

  “Don’t mention it.” The man stood and gave Johnny a pat on his shoulder. “If you’re ever lost, you can always find what you seek within the scripture. Good day to you, Doctor, and good luck with your endeavors here in Sonnerie.”

  Johnny gave him a parting nod and watched as the man waddled his way out the front door toward the elevator. The crowd had thinned somewhat, but most of the tables were still packed with guests sharing conversation. Johnny scanned the room for a moment, then returned to his omelet.

  When he was nearly finished, the waiter came by again to remove the dishes and clean the spot next to Johnny. “Would you care for another cup of coffee?” he asked as he wiped the counter clean.

  “No thank you,” Johnny said, pulling the mobile phone Mutsumi Baba had given him from his pocket. It was as heavy as a brick, and he contorted his face at its blocky aesthetic. He had no idea what the Sixth Index would ask of him, but before he committed to anything, there was someone he wanted to speak with.

  Johnny polished off the last of his drink, then stood and headed for the exit, arriving at the elevators just as one of the doors opened, letting him inside. He pressed the button for the first floor, then started the long walk down the main road toward the edge of The Bezel.

  Twenty-First Movement

  Watchmaker

  He kept his head down for most of the journey, not that he had to after the first few blocks. The bad weather kept most pedestrians off the streets, but even so he found himself seeking to avoid unwanted attention. After twenty minutes, he passed Flute Street and the Mishima home, then continued on for another full block until he reached Pinion’s shop.

  It was different seeing its red brick walls now, standing alone along a short row of the drab and lifeless buildings at the lower end of The Bezel. A solemn, vibrant oasis of horology and craftsmanship. In a town that strived to deify the watchmaker, Pinion alone seemed to be shunned in this one tiny corner of Sonnerie. Exiled to a dead-end street, producing timeless instruments for the satisfaction of no one but himself.

  Johnny reached into his jacket and pulled out one of two cigarettes remaining in the box he had brought with him, then lit it under the rusted awning of Pinion’s northern neighbor. Another spritz of rain had started to dampen the air once more, and he watched its droplets slant diagonally with the wind as he filled his lungs with hot nicotine.

  Across the road from where he stood was the entrance to the alley that led back toward Mari Mishima’s house. Johnny stared at it for a long while, remembering the sight of Mari at the feet of her father’s hanging body, helplessly sobbing at the horrific scene that she had been powerless to prevent. It wasn’t some simple trick of the light or a mere hallucination. She had really been there, if “being” was the right way to describe her existence now. She had borne witness to the death of her father, and Johnny shivered at the thought of it.

  And yet, what was the meaning of death to the deathless? Johnny took another drag as he thought. Were Mari and Ayano the first to be subjected to this heretofore unimaginable augmentation of flesh and machine? Or did there exist others who had transcended their mortal coil and left their humanity behind?

  Wrapped in his thoughts, Johnny remained unaware of his surroundings until a soft rub against his ankle drew his attention to a small, black cat sitting atop his right foot. It looked up at him with a pair of cyan-blue eyes briefly before reaching up to his knee and letting out an overlong yawn. Johnny took one final drag from his cigarette before flicking the butt away in a small puddle that had formed in front of him.

  He reached down and scratched the stray by the scruff of its neck until it started to let out a low-hummed purr.

  “Where’d you come from, scamp?” he asked as it rubbed its head against his shin. Johnny kneeled down and gave the feline a look over. It had no collar or any identifying tags, but it seemed to be well fed and unafraid of humans.

  “George?” Johnny heard
the voice of Pinion call from inside his shop. The cat on his foot instantly looked up and turned its pointed ears.

  “George, huh?” Johnny said as the cat jumped away and squeezed through the narrow gap between Pinion’s shop and the one he was taking refuge in front of.

  Johnny ran a hand through his own black hair, then made a short dash to the awning over Pinion’s shop. From inside, he could hear the scratches of an old LP playing Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture, and when he opened the door, he was overwhelmed by a crescendo of brass and bells.

  “Welcome,” Pinion’s voice called over the music from the back room. “I’ll be with you shortly.”

  “Take your time,” Johnny yelled back as the cannons fired. He ran his hand over a wall-length glass case of timepieces until arriving at the front counter.

  Pinion’s head popped around the corner. “Mr. Tokisaki?” he said, adjusting his glasses.

  “Yes. Hello, Pinion.” Johnny gave him a small smile and pointed toward the phonograph in the corner.

  “Ah!” Pinion jumped out and shuffled over to the LP. “Forgive the noise,” he said, lifting the stylus from the record.

  “Tchaikovsky?” Johnny asked.

  Pinion turned and grinned at him. “A man of the classics? You can tell a lot from a fellow’s taste in music.”

  “I wouldn’t quite call it my taste,” Johnny said, shaking his head. “My wife loved the old European stuff. Never really understood why.”

  Pinion stepped over to the counter across from him. “Really?” he asked. “I think you could learn a lot going through those records one day. Take Tchaikovsky, for example. Did you know he hated the 1812 Overture? He wasn’t even living in Russia when he wrote it, yet it’s about his home. A song commemorating the retreat of Napoleon’s armies in 1812, and the victory of the Russians.”

  “So what?” Johnny questioned, not unkindly.

  “A creator makes something that brings him fame and wealth. Recognition, pride, standing. Yet he despises this creation with all of his heart. Perhaps he wishes that he had never created it in the first place. But he can’t undo what he has done. So he lives with it. He bears it. It’s such a . . . human story.”

  Johnny watched his eyes move as he spoke. It was as if Tchaikovsky had been one of his old friends, whose fate he had long lamented.

  “I’m just finishing up with your timepiece back here,” Pinion said, motioning toward the room behind him. “Have a look around the shop if you’d like. I shouldn’t be too long.”

  Johnny nodded, and Pinion disappeared behind the corner.

  “It’s been quite a thrill,” Pinion called out from the back. “Working on something that isn’t my own. I’d forgotten the simpler joys of the craft. Unbreaking the broken. Starting time again when it’s stopped.”

  “It’s an underappreciated craft here in the States. I don’t even think there’s a proper American watch brand anymore. Not since Hamilton closed shop and left in the sixties, anyway,” Johnny said, looking ponderously at a set of three ticking timepieces in the case before him.

  “Hmm.” Pinion paused. “You may be right about that. I imagine there are some microbrands scattered about here and there, but nothing of significance. Especially since the quartz revolution.”

  He heard Pinion’s footsteps along the splintered wooden floor, and looked up to see him cross the threshold, holding his watch on a cream-colored display pad.

  “And here she is,” Pinion said, beaming with pride. He set the pad between them and waited for Johnny to take it.

  It was the picture of perfection, as handsome and clean as it had been the day he’d first received it. Johnny ran his hands across the fluted bezel, then down to the bottom lugs and bracelet. The hands showed the time at 8:15. Precisely where he had left it.

  “Thank you for keeping the time as it was. I know it was an odd request.”

  “Think nothing of it. It’s your piece, after all. You decide how best to cherish it, not I,” Pinion responded. “Everything besides the rotor is in tip-top shape. That means she’ll stay that way as long as you choose. You won’t have to worry about it winding itself just via the movement of your wrist. But the crown and mainspring are in working order. If you ever decide you want to hear her tick again, just wind her up and let her go.”

  Johnny undid the buckle and placed it over his wrist. “I felt naked without it,” he said. “Are you sure you won’t accept any kind of payment? I know these kinds of services aren’t easy.”

  Pinion held out his hand and shook his head. “It is I who should be thanking you for the opportunity. You’ve given this old codger something to look forward to in the mornings, even though it lasted just a couple short days.”

  “You don’t look forward to all of these?” Johnny asked, pointing down at the case below him.

  “I make watches because I am a watchmaker. Just like Tchaikovsky wrote the 1812 Overture because he was a composer. It is what I do, so I do it. I’m sure your work feels much the same?”

  “You could say that,” Johnny said, sliding his Rolex along his wrist slightly until it sat where he wanted it to. He admired it for another moment before setting his hands back down on the case and leaning forward.

  “Can I ask you a question, Mr. Tokisaki?” Pinion scratched at his mustache as he spoke.

  “You can ask, but I might not have an answer,” Johnny said.

  “You are here as a guest of the Indices, correct? On some kind of job for one of them, I wager.”

  “Yes, that’s right,” Johnny affirmed. “I can’t talk about the nature of my work, if that’s what you’re going to ask next.”

  “No, no. Of course not. It’s just quite rare to see outsiders these days. I was wondering which one of them actually ventured outside to find you.”

  There was a hesitant curiosity in Pinion’s question, but Johnny went along with it. “To be honest, I don’t know much about the Indices,” he said, redirecting the question. “I had the honor of being at the cathedral this morning during your . . . mass? Can I call it mass?”

  “Indeed? I hope the Grand Luminary didn’t bore you too much.”

  “Actually, I noticed some empty box seats while I was there. There should be twelve Indices, right? I only saw ten.”

  Pinion took a step back and leaned against the wall. The smile had faded from his face, and his eyes moved back and forth as he tapped his fingers on his chin.

  “You would like to know more about them?” he asked.

  “If it’s not too much trouble,” Johnny answered.

  Pinion nodded, but took his time before he answered. Johnny stayed quiet, waiting for him to speak.

  “Are you familiar with the story of Sonnerie?” Pinion asked.

  “Only the basics. The city given to those wrongly imprisoned during the war. A city built by and for those Japanese Americans to be their haven.”

  “Quite correct. The history of Sonnerie is longer than that of the Indices or even the clocktower, though that fact is frequently lost on the younger generation today. It’s hard to be raised in what is and imagine a world when it was not.”

  “I suppose,” Johnny agreed.

  “In the beginning, we had no formal authority or leadership. In fact, there were several bickering factions that arose almost immediately, and it seemed the dream that was Sonnerie might fail before it could ever lift off. That was until the angel came. The divine being that anointed the Mayor and whispered in his ear twelve names that would serve as the governors of his city.”

  “I saw a mural depicting what you describe along the inner walls of the cathedral this morning, though I imagined it was more metaphor than historical fact,” Johnny said, taking a step back.

  “Yes, then you probably know what comes next. The Mayor commissioned the construction of the clocktower. A landmark at the highest point of Sonnerie, standin
g tall as a symbol of unity for all those whose misfortune had caused such great chasms of distrust. Shortly after its completion, the Mayor and the angel both retreated into the clocktower, barring the doors behind them. It was an abrupt occurrence, but they had served their purpose. Twelve leaders had been selected and given dominion over all of Sonnerie.”

  Pinion paused and took a deep breath, then continued.

  “For more than twenty years after that, there was stability and growth. It was a hard life, but the city was ours to make of it as we saw fit. In front of the clocktower, a grand cathedral was erected, and the Church of the Angelic Movement was officially established. That’s when the first cracks began to appear.”

  “Every member is a citizen, and every citizen is a member. At least, that’s what I’ve been told. Was it always that way?” Johnny asked.

  Pinion shook his head. “The formation of the Church was a slow process, and during this time, many of Sonnerie’s citizens still practiced primarily a mix of Shinto and Buddhism. In fact, there was an Index that functioned as the head monk and religious leader of Sonnerie.”

  “Ninomiya?”

  “Not originally, no. The Second Index’s original position was that of Listener. I told you that the Mayor and the angel shut themselves inside the clocktower, yes? Well, Ninomiya was appointed to communicate with them and deliver edicts on their behalf. That was his designation.”

  “I see,” Johnny said, circling a round display case in the center of the room. “But if that’s the case, and a new faith was forming, would it not have made more sense for the Index in charge or religion to spearhead the effort?”

  “You have a sharp mind, Mr. Tokisaki. Indeed, that would have been the logical conclusion. But instead, in the summer of 1970, Ninomiya returned from his duty at the clocktower and announced himself as the Grand Luminary. So now, Sonnerie had two religious leaders.”