The Automanagerie Prologue

The cadence of excited colloquies infused with a music box chiming issues from a polite line. The tune is Smetana’s Vltava, though I can’t say how I came to know it. Women in prim laced-up dresses, soft pinks and lavenders, giggle softly. Men, dashing in black tailcoats, tip their top hats, exchanging How do you do. A sign, dazzled with illuminated round bulbs, reads, THE AUTOMANAGERIE--Clockwork brought to life! Tickets Here!

I stand in this line, heart palpitating, as I try to peer past the broad brims and billowing cloth roses. Daring to stand on the tips of my toes, I lean forward and make out elegant lace-gloved hands on top of a lacquered counter, producing two slips of rectangles, daisy white bordered by teal. I lose my balance.

As I tip forward, arms flailing, I catch a series of Oh my’s and Oh dear’s from behind me. A gentle hand steadies my elbow from in front of me. “Is all well, madam?” asks its owner, concern contorting his broad mustachioed face. The ladies in front of us turn in curiosity; as quick as a raindrop loses its shape as it splatters to the ground, I have an audience. I turn beet red. 

“I-I’m s-so sorry, sir!” I stammer. He gifts me with a small smile. 

“Now, now. No offence taken, dear lady. If all is well…” He removes his hat and dips into a shallow bow. With all resolved, my audience returns to their prior poise as if to say, No blunders today, my friends. Oh no, that would be too rude. I, too, try to regain my equilibrium,  imagining calm waters and flat platforms. 

The music box chimes on as the line moves forward, measure by measure. I hear a How many and a That will be three dream pieces, please as hands fiddle with coin purses. Preparing for my own turn, I reach into my pockets. Empty. Before panic’s cold grasp can seize me, I come to face the lace-gloved hands, intricate daisies delicately embroidered. They’re so lovely that I’m caught off guard. “May I help you, my dear?” She inquires. I try to answer, but shame colors my face. How could I mortify myself in such a place? 

Apologies painted on my lips, I look up at the woman behind the lacquered counter, and I am utterly befuddled. She is adorned in an opulent white dress, the match to her lace-gloved hands, and her hair streams into rich teal curls, the same color as her benevolent eyes. She looks at my lips and delightful recognition spreads over her features.

“My word, aren’t you just a breath of fresh air! Welcome to The Automanagerie, doll,” she beams. Remorse floods into my stomach where its previous occupant, mortification, had been. 

“I’m sorry, miss. There’s been a mistake. I- I don’t have any coins on me,” I confess, bracing for her smile to wither. 

But it doesn’t. She points her laced fingertip to a sign on her counter. 

BLUE LIPS……...3 dream pcs. FLUSH LIPS…….FREE

Baffled, I look behind me. All the dignified ladies and gentlemen remain poised, not a parasol out of place nor a cane out of line. However, now I see. As I look up at gentle faces, their lips are a Prussian blue, almost a dark gray. I touch my own lips, soft and warm. My mind seeks to reason. Must be a class statement, I think and return my attention back to the lacquered counter, the teal haired lady, and her unwavering delight.

“First time, I presume?” I nod, self-conscious.

She gently takes my hand, opens it flat, and there, she places the ticket, daisy white bordered with teal, the texture smooth as petals. In the center, a looping calligraphy reads, The Automanagerie- Free Admittance. 

“Oh, you are in for a treat, my doll,” she gushes. “We have automata from all the ages. We have-.” She shakes her head and chuckles. “Well, you will see. Step this way.” She waves a petite arm towards the entrance.

I walk up to a barrier. Two brass stanchions connected by a fuzzy red velvet rope separates me from velvet black curtains and a stand-up sign marking the entrance. Something rummages behind the curtain. A man in gray velvet appears with a silver grinning mask, a single sparkling tear-drop fixated on the cheek.    

“My apologies, miss. Hope you didn’t have to wait too long. Ticket?” I hand him the rectangular slip, a little sad to see its beauty go, and he guides me past the partitions. “You must go in alone, you see. To get the full experience. Enjoy,” he says to me, a hand parting the black curtains. Heart pumping, I walk into the darkness. 

The dim glow of gas lights mark the hall and red velvet ropes lead the way. Soft tinkling of music boxes permeates around me. 

Under the first gas lamp, I see a small room. Inside, a glass box with something moving within. THE FORTUNE TELLER, a card informs me. It is a dark-skinned man with a third eye, a purple turban, and a crystal ball. The fortune teller moves his head mechanically to the tinkling. His brown eyes blink- tink- head bowing to gaze at his crystal ball -tink- his hand jerks up- tink- he touches the ball -tink- his eyes look into mine and a paper emerges. LEAVE. I shiver. There must be a draft in here, I think to myself.

Next is a collection. There is a clown on a unicycle wobbling back and forth, and a magician pulling a white rabbit out of a black magician’s hat. Then, a couple dancing a waltz. Then, a man in a kabuki mask and samurai armor. He strings a bow and draws it, his arrow zipping by. 

The automatons I see range in size. Some are miniatures like the monkey in a little red hat, beating on his drum as I pass. Others are life-sized like the Parisian lady, light hair gathered in ringlets high on her head, wearing a gorgeous light blue dress. I am in awe as she plays Mozart on her piano.       

Amazed, I walk through the hall slowly; yet, all songs must come to an end. I reach the grand finale. The title card elucidates,

ANNIE CAMPBELL’S LAMENT

Annie Campbell mourns her love, Alan Morrison. 

Lost at sea in 1788.

Though both be gone, may Annie’s woe live on.

I frown, discomfited. It does not seem right for Annie’s sorrow to outlast her own life. 

Upon entering, I see a woman in a simple green dress; she sits on a wooden stool. Rough coral, pearls, and broken sea shells are strewn at her feet. She sings,

“Hì ri bhò hò ru bhì

Hì ri bhò hò rinn o ho

Ailein Duinn, ò hì shiubhlainn leat”

Her wailing crescendo lilts into a soft diminuendo- my soul weeps for her. Although it is silly, I feel the urge to do something. I remove a handkerchief from my sleeve and place it on her lap.

“You will be with him soon,” I whisper all the comfort I can give to a clockwork machine. Is that a tear I see? But of course, it is my imagination.     

Disheartened, I know I must leave. How enraptured I was until poor Annie! I refuse to go without an encore.

At the end, there is a room partitioned off, a gaping black hole. A sign stands, OUT OF ORDER- Under Repairs, Please come again. 

Music box tinkling weakly drifts towards me and I have not come across another guest. Just a peak won’t go amiss. I walk further into the darkness.

        Tic! Tic-Tic! Cogs and gears are scattered about, a metal trail of breadcrumbs. I follow to where they spill out, a gutted square pedestal, mahogany brown. Tic! Tic-Tic! Above the pedestal, a full-sized torso protrudes, arms steadying on a flat surface. Tic! Tic-Tic! Hand clenched around a pen, it ticks across a paper. Tic! Tic-Tic! A warry step forward, heart galloping now, I take a peek at the page. Tic! Tic-Tic!

Scrolling across in flourishing print, emboldened by numerous overwritten lines,  Emily. My name. Tic! Tic-Tic!

Tingling waves wash over my body. My lips go numb. I force myself to look up at a metallurgic visage. Tic! Tic-Tic! Youthful masculine cheekbones, hair undercut and messy on top. Oh, he is handsome. Tic! Tic-Tic! One eyelid rapidly twitches as his mouth twists.

“Tic! E-e-eh Tic! M-Muh-Mah Tic-Tic! L-L-Lee Tic! Eh...Mah..Lee...Tic! Tic-Tic!” Emily. 

“Oh dear. Oh, no no no. You are not supposed to be here, doll.”

Palms sweating, I pry my eyes away from the stammering half-man. She stands at the threshold, teal eyes kindly regarding.

“Do not fear, doll. We will fix him right up. He is under repairs, you see.” She reaches her lace-gloved hands toward me.

______________________

I shutter a great heaving gasp and rip off the covers of my princess pink bedding. I am awake and crying. 

“MMMMMMMMmmooooOooooMMMMMM!” I scream. 

A stream of bad words banks down the hall, calming me as it gets closer. “God Dammit! What?!” She opens the door and walks inside, not bothering to turn on the light.

  A pained hiss.

  “Mother f---How many times have I told you and your brothers to pick up the Legos?!” 

“I--I had a bad dream. There were robots,” I whimper. “L-like the ones in front of nonna’s house.”

Mom sighs and sits down on my bed. “Oh honey, they’re just machines. Is this because we are going to grandma’s tomorrow?” 

“But these ones were real! And they knew my name!” 

“Well, no robots will get you if I am here. Would you like me to sleep with you tonight?” I am a bobblehead, furiously nodding. “And tomorrow, you will see that they are just machine powered metal. Just big ol’ pieces of junk.” 

I open my mouth to protest. 

“No! I will stay with you tonight if you can promise me you will be a big girl tomorrow. Got it?” My nod is a bare inch. “Good. Now go to sleep. Sweet dreams. Sleep well.” 

I fall into slumber, safe in my mother’s arms. 

***