The Pickpocket and the Protege

The most important thing, the pickpocket had told the protege, is the misdirection. Your mark will only protect what he thinks you want.

The protege had nodded understandingly, had carefully narrowed his eyes in an expression of intense concentration, and then he had taken another long swallow of his drink and signalled the bartender for another. 

You’re not listening, the pickpocket had said. He was an old man, and his eyes had a layer of cataract so thick the protege imagined he could skim it off like cream from a fresh pail of milk. Clearly past his best days, and good now only, the protege thought, for recounting them in the darkened corners of bars. I am trying to do you a great favor, you know.

Of course you are, the protege had said. Take the thing they don’t think you’re taking. It’s expert advice. 

The pickpocket had rolled his great rheumy eyes, and then he had slapped something down on the wooden counter of the bar. Do you see this? he had said, pointing with one stiff and shaking finger at a watch. It was a massive watch, the kind you needed to crack open to read, as big as a closed fist and covered in some looping script which the protege could not read but was nonetheless beautiful, sunk like a lace of scars into the watch’s body. The pickpocket

had held his hand over it as if to warm his palm. Do you know what I did for this watch? The richest man in the village, I courted his daughter, and plied her with my affections until she loved me, and then I took this watch from her father’s bureau drawer and left her forever. He didn’t notice it was gone until I was. He was worried about losing his daughter, you see. 

Seems like a lot of trouble for an old watch, the protege had said, but he had still followed the pickpocket’s hand with his eyes as he put the watch back into his pocket.

The two had talked for a while longer, although the protege had not paid much attention to the topic of conversation. As soon as was polite, he had excused himself to the bathroom and fled, sticking the pickpocket with the bill. And how’s that for misdirection? he thought to himself now. I’m a natural. He pulled the watch from his pocket and dangled it in front of his face. The day was windy, and fallen leaves rolled and rattled like dice down the cobblestone street, but the watch didn’t even sway on its chain. It was heavy, then. Maybe even real gold.

The protege glanced at the reflection of the street in the shop window before he dared to try and open the watch. This was a favorite trick of his, and one the old pickpocket had never taught him; whenever he had a little trinket he wanted to examine more closely, he found a freshly washed window to stand in front of, so that he could watch the street with his back to it. Today, however, this trick brought him little joy and less comfort. The protege felt eyes on him that he couldn’t see, making tiny pinpricks on the nape of his neck.

And the stem of the watch wouldn’t turn. The protege pressed it first between his fingertips and then more forcefully between his fingernails, but, as much as he twisted, the little golden hands of the watch refused to move across its face. With a hiss, he shoved it back into his pocket. So it would sell for a bit less, that was all. It would still get him plenty of money.

The protege took all of his lucky finds to a pawnshop in the seedier part of town. The pawnbroker was the closest thing the pickpocket had to a friend. She didn’t ask any questions the protege wasn’t willing to answer, as long as he made the risk worth her time. The protege always did.

“I found this in the gutter,” he said, sliding the watch across the counter. By sudden impulse, he kept hold of the chain. “That’s why I always walk with my head down, you know.”

The pawnbroker laughed, and took her eyeglass out of its case. The inspection was a formality at this point, but the protege still felt a sharp pull of nausea at the back of his tongue. “It’s real gold,” he said as she ducked her head over it. “I think it’s—”

The pawnbroker gasped and drew back from the watch as if it had caught fire. “I’m not taking that,” she said, stuffing her eyeglass into her pocket with shaking hands. “I don’t even want to touch it.”

“Don’t get cheap on me now,” said the protege, although he felt oddly relieved. “Nobody’s going to come looking for it.”

The pawnbroker shook her head. “That’s not it. Look at this.” She pointed very carefully to the marks on the watch the protege had noticed earlier, the unreadable letters. “This is— I don’t know what it says, but I don’t think it’s anything good.”

“It’s some words on a watch,” said the protege. “It’s not going to bite you.” He squinted at the letters. “It’s just a foreign language. ‘Property of so and so from such and such province,’ probably.”

“Sorry,” said the pawnbroker. “But I just get a nasty feeling from that thing. Better luck next time.” She stared at the protege until he took the watch back, with a growl, and shoved it back into his pocket. “If I were you,” she said to his back, “I’d put that thing back in the gutter.”

“But you’re not,” said the protege, and left.

The protege walked through the town until he found and inn with clientele who seemed unlikely to stab and rob him. He always stayed in inns, preferring the freedom of travel and the availability of liquor to the security of a home, although he was usually not so picky about the accommodations. The watch sat heavy in his pocket, and the protege realized, as he made his way into the warmth of the dining-room, that he could feel it ticking against his thigh.

Even though the dining-room was well-lit, and most of its occupants seemed wealthier than him, the protege did not dare take the watch out of his pocket to inspect it. Instead, he found a place he could sit with his back to the wall, and ordered a bowl of soup — after paying for a bed here, it was about all he could afford. Once I sell this watch, he thought, trying not to smile too obviously, I’ll have anything I’d like. For a few good weeks, anyway. He ate as quickly as he could, staring out into the room around him all the while. Or maybe I won’t sell it, he thought, and then shook the thought out of his mind.

Only after the protege had locked the door to his room and shoved a chair under the handle did he finally feel safe — or as close to safe as he ever felt — and he pulled the watch out of his pocket and laid it down on his bed, where the light was good. The watch was still ticking, and in fact it had somehow gotten louder, but its hands were still fixed in place. The protege sighed. If he couldn’t find someone to fix the thing, he’d need to melt it down for scrap.

“But that would be a crime, wouldn’t it,” said the protege. “Far worse than pickpocketing, to destroy something like this.” He stroked his finger down the watch’s face, and it seemed to tick even louder in response. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll keep you.”

The protege went to sleep with the watch cradled against his chest, a position he hadn’t assumed with any object since he had been an infant. He told himself that this was necessary to protect the watch, but really he just enjoyed the feeling of the watch’s ticking, and the way the beat of his heart began slowly to match up to it.

In the middle of the night, the protege awoke with a cough. He coughed again, and when this did nothing to dispel the heaviness in his chest he attempted to sit up, and found that he couldn’t. The watch, he thought, still half asleep. He reached up and tried to brush it off his chest, but it would not move. It was ticking, still, more quietly but more closely somehow, and he realized that he could hear its ticking inside the rush of blood that brought his pulse to his ears. He grabbed the watch again and this time it burned to the touch, and he snatched his fingers away. But the burning had begun to spread and now it was in his chest, and he could feel the skin there sizzle and melt and bubble. The protege screamed, and grabbed for the watch again, but all he got was the chain. He pulled it, as hard as he could, and it snapped.

The protege’s hand dropped to his chest. It was smooth again, and solid. He scratched at it for a moment, trying to dig the watch back out, but then his arm went limp, and his eyes fell shut. For a long time they were still, and then they began to twitch, and then they opened.

The pickpocket looked with clear eyes down at his new hands. He looked first at the backs and then at the palms, noting the smoothness of the skin, the joints which held not even a hint of an ache. “I warned you, boy,” he said to himself in what had been the protege’s voice. “Misdirection.” And then he smiled, and lay back down, and went to sleep.