The Puppet Maker's Bones (12 page)

“Hello?”

He recognized the stern voice on the other end of the line.

“It’s McGovern.” Why would he be calling after all this time?

“Is something wrong?”

“Word has come to us that you may be in need of assistance with a matter of some delicacy.”

“Are you speaking of the letter I received from Trope regarding someone accessing the blueprints to my home?”

“Indeed. When do you expect your visitor?”

Pavel sighed. His privacy since the time he broke the Great Rule was rather an illusion. They knew about the visitor. McGovern had a way of inserting himself into Pavel’s life. Though contact was rare, and there was no socializing for Pavel per the terms of his current arrangement, McGovern and the others like him kept tabs on the lives of certain individuals and offered assistance in times of great need or when the potential for exposure was imminent. Recent events warranted their involvement.

“I am capable of addressing the issue.”

“There was an incident north of here a while back. A family. Violent. Troubling.”

Pavel considered this. A thousand images flooded his head, his theatrical imagination working overtime.

“That sounds dreadful.”

“Yes. It is. It is not an isolated incident. Our investigators have revealed some things that are alarming, to say the least.”

“Have you spoken to the police?”

“We are working out the best way of informing the proper authorities without drawing unnecessary attention, of course.”

McGovern’s information gave Pavel a burst of renewed energy, and he was anxious to get off the phone so he could finish his preparations.

“I have prepared for the situation, I assure you.”

“We have every reason to believe that very same person has targeted your home.”

Pavel was growing more impatient but tried to keep his voice neutral when speaking to McGovern.

“Yes, I am aware. I received the letter about the blueprints. I have been watching the subject of your concern. And I have taken every precaution.”

“The unstable are very unpredictable, Mr. Trusnik.”

You have no idea, Pavel thought. Being left alone with no social contact for seventy years had taken a toll on his own stability.

“So are old theatre rats, McGovern.” Pavel smiled for the first time in a long time. “I believe it has been too long since I have put on a show. Don’t you?”

“Will you be attempting to contact Mr. Lamb, then?”

Mr. Lamb. A name Pavel had not heard in a very long time. He answered, choosing his words with care before speaking.

“I was told contact was forbidden. You know that. I have had no contact with any of you, and I have not seen my dear friend in a very long time. I would have no idea how to reach him now.”

There was silence at the other end of the phone. It was obvious to Pavel that McGovern did not believe him.

“Strange. We have not heard from Mr. Lamb, either, in quite a few decades. We had reason to believe that he might try to get in contact with you or that he may have travelled to see you. When did you see him last?”

Pavel thought how best to answer.

“Are you telling me that Mr. Lamb is missing? How is that possible?”

McGovern sighed over the phone. Pavel continued.

“It has been too long to remember. Prague? I think when last we spoke he planned on traveling to Corsica. Or perhaps it was Morocco. I can’t remember. He does travel the world, though. It is his stage, as he likes to say. I am sure wherever he is, he is being quite entertaining.”

“Right. Very well. We wish you good luck.” McGovern hung up.

“Yes, indeed. It has been a very long time.” Pavel walked back to the workshop and surveyed the many puppets lining the walls, hanging from the ceiling and sitting around like actors waiting backstage for their cue. He approached one cupboard, a floor to ceiling cabinet built into the wall with a lock on the front. He took an antique skeleton key from around his neck and opened the cabinet.

“Hello, my dearest dears. We have not had a proper visit together in such a very long time.”

Four large rod- and wire-controlled puppets hung inside. The woodworking of their faces was exquisite. Pavel spoke to each of them in turn. “My Lear, how I have missed you and your counsel. Dear Mother Gertrude, your hugs and laughter. Hello, my beloved Juliet. Not a night goes by that I do not relive every touch, every look, every embrace, every laugh. Ah, Othello. My dearest friend. Such talent. Such perfection for the stage. I miss you. I miss you all. My family. My escaped puppets.”

Pavel’s puppets that he had tucked away in a locked cabinet, were carved replicas of Prochazka, Nina and his beloved Žophie. The last puppet, the one he called Othello… upon looking at Othello, he felt a pang of tremendous regret and again, he felt something wet upon his face. The poem tugged again at his unreliable memory.
Thursday’s child has far to go….

The detail and structure of the puppet faces had been achieved by taking plaster casts of living peoples’ faces to use as templates. Over the years, Pavel had carved and painted each face, away from the prying eyes of other craftsmen in the workshop.

Local legend claimed that even after Prochazka died, his bones still rattled on the stage when the company performed a tragedy. Pavel chuckled at the memory as he unbuttoned the clothing on the puppet which was a perfect replica of his beloved Prochazka.

“I think for tonight’s performance, we will give you something less to wear,” said Pavel, and he continued to remove the last of the garments on the large marionette. He stood back and admired the restored human skeleton. The bones were ancient.

The bones were Prochazka’s.

He removed the puppet from the cabinet and brought it over to the table. He placed his expert fingers under the wood façade that covered the skull and removed the exquisitely carved puppet face, leaving the bleached white skull without ornament.

He studied the bones, all that remained of his adopted father, who had withered and died. How many audiences had continued to enjoy Prochazka, but as a puppet in his own theatre, after Prochazka died? Hundreds. Thousands. He could not be sure. He turned to the marionettes remaining in the cabinet.

“I will be back for you later, my dears.” Pavel shut and locked the cabinet and secret crypt.

***

Before leaving the workroom, Pavel stood and took a good look out the back window at his garden, again breathing deeply upon imaginary scents. Ophelia’s distraught speech from
Hamlet
entered his memory as he, from his spot behind the window, inspected the traditional English knot garden he had planted years before.

“
There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance. Pray you, love, remember. And there is pansies, that’s for thoughts. There’s fennel for you, and columbines. There’s rue for you, and here’s some for me; we may call it herb of grace o’ Sundays. O, you must wear your rue with a difference. There’s a daisy. I would give you some violets, but they withered all when my father died.
”

Patterned after one of the rugs in his foyer, the knot garden had been planted in an intricate geometric pattern using a dwarf hedge of meticulously trimmed rosemary with various compartments for other herbs, separated by brick, pea gravel and sand. Most of the other herbs were inspired by mention in Shakespeare’s plays. The rosemary had been long in need of trimming, the hedge no longer in any discernible pattern and smothering most of the surrounding herbs. In fact, all the herbs had long since flowered, and dead blossoms hung down, in need of dead-heading. The gardeners that came to maintain the yard were under instruction to leave the knot garden alone, for that was Pavel’s alone to maintain. A bee flew around the herbs in search of something substantial to collect and soon left. A tiny hummingbird flitted around the dead flowers of the rue. The bird was no bigger than an inch or two in length. Pavel remembered a moment in the back yard years before, when he was watering the garden with a hose, and one such hummingbird hovered in front of him, bathing in the spray from the hose. When had he allowed his garden to become so sloppy and ill-cared for? His precious herbs. Even more precious, his rosemary.
Rosemary, that’s for remembrance.

1882

“I
enjoyed your show,” said a woman as Pavel exited the theatre.

Pavel squinted at the slight figure before him, silhouetted by the bright sun.

“Thank you.”

“I love the puppet theatre. Did you make them as well?”

“Yes, we make all of them.”

“My name is Žofie. I already know your name, Pavel Trusnik.”

Pavel made a slight bow. He did not respond for she continued without seeming to take a breath. The tiny woman was quite enthusiastic.

“I’m
fascinated
by puppet theatre. I think that I am quite obsessed. Such work. Such imagination. Such
life
goes into every puppet. The way you make them move! I’d like to see your workshop now, please.” She seemed quite determined.

Pavel was somewhat taken aback.

“Aren’t you with someone?” he asked. “ Do you have a chaperone? You should not be out alone.”

“To see puppet theatre? In the afternoon? You must be mad.”

Žofie seemed not much more than a girl, sixteen or seventeen, with a glorious mane of auburn hair contained by her sensible bonnet, and bright blue eyes that seemed to twinkle when she gazed up at him. She was very small in stature, with a tiny waist and small shoulders covered by an equally sensible long-sleeved dress in dark wool that cascaded to the pavement, her tiny shoes barely visible, poking out from beneath. He thought she was beautiful. Pavel had managed to avoid much, if any, interaction with people outside of the puppet workshop or theatre for many years, and the longer the woman stood there talking to him, the more uncomfortable he became. His hand shook a little, and he wiped it across his face.

“Oh, dear, I’ve insulted you,” she said.

“No. It is… no.”

“Good! Then may I see your workshop now, please?”

He was saved from answering by one of his colleagues. Andrej Cerny, a dark-skinned, handsome young man, came through the stage door behind the theatre. Andrej had joined the theatre within the past couple of years as one of the few live actors. Like most Czech theatres, many plays combined live actors and puppets onstage, though the majority of the acting was done using puppets, to keep costs down

“Pavel, talking to a lady?” Andrej joked.

“And you are the actor, Andrej Cerny,” declared Žofie.

Andrej feigned surprise. “You know my work, beautiful lady? I am flattered.”

“I can read. You are in the pamphlets. I was attempting to coax your friend here into showing me the workshop where the puppets are made. I am more intrigued by puppets than actors.”

Andrej mimed stabbing himself in the heart and threw his body to the ground. He raised one hand to the woman, pleading.

“You cut me to the quick and then you murder me, beautiful lady! But you may make it up to me. Allow me to give you the tour, and I will forgive you.” Andrej stood and brushed off his clothes. “Pavel is not so good with these things.” Andrej winked at Pavel, who’d remained still and at a loss.

“Now is not a good time. But later. You should have a friend with you? A companion? Your mother, perhaps?” Pavel said.

“I am required to have a chaperone?” said the woman.

“I’m afraid I must insist.”

“But I wish to see it
now
.”

“That will be impossible.”

“If I have to have someone with me to see the workshop, then I will get someone. Will my father be a sufficient chaperone?”

“Why, yes, of course, your father would be fine,” Pavel said.

Andrej Cerny smirked at Pavel. “Our Pavel is a very proper fellow. Yes, bring your father. We love to have more audience at the theatre!”

“I do have to go,” said Pavel. “Perhaps tomorrow, following the afternoon show? You can bring your father, and we will go to the workshop after? I can fix us some tea.”

“We will be here, Pavel Trusnik. I promise!” Žofie walked away from the two men, raising a parasol over her head to shield her from the afternoon sun, the ruffles of her dress dragging on the dusty ground behind her.

Pavel watched the young woman as she walked down the street. He felt a fluttering in his stomach that was unfamiliar to him, and his face felt hot. He felt a stirring in his groin. He realized Andrej was watching him. The actor smiled.

“‘I can fix us some tea’? You are a
very
proper fellow, Pavel Trusnik. Though not so proper, maybe?” Andrej pointed at Pavel’s crotch. Pavel did not have to look down to know there was a bulge there. He was embarrassed. Andrej turned his attention to Žofie. “I think some of our puppets might be larger than her,” said Andrej. “I prefer a little more meat on a woman. But what would you know about that, proper fellow Pavel?”

“Not much,” Pavel said to Andrej.

Andrej laughed and walked away, his gear slung over one shoulder. “See you tonight!”

Pavel gathered his things from the theatre and walked the short distance through the alley back to the workshop to sleep a little before the evening show. As long as he could remember being a part of the workshop, he had kept a bed in the back. People had come and gone over the years. More than one hundred years had passed since Prochazka had died, leaving Pavel with the task of inventing an entire life history that included Prochazka as an ancestor and family patriarch instead of his father. The nomadic world of the theatre artist and constant variety of the audience that came to see the performances had made that an easy task. The initial decades following the death of his parents had been the most difficult, but time, focus and dedication to being part of a puppet theatre made it easy for Pavel to get along in his small world, blending into the workshop. Either he kept to himself, or he hid within the drape of black fabric attached behind the puppets during the performances. He was unremarkable to look at. While not unattractive, he was not someone who stood out or would stay in the mind of people who came through the workshop, whether craftsmen, or actors who wandered from one theatre job to the next. He was plain in appearance and not someone to settle into the mind of an audience member. His hair was neither light, nor dark, his build was moderate, his face was of an average shape and his skin clear of anything that might distinguish him. His eyes were the one thing about him that a person might find interesting, but one had to be quite close in order to see that the pupils had a certain bluish glow to them that could change to deep red or amber and back again to blue. His name was listed in the pamphlets as one of the craftsmen of the theatre, among many others who had crossed through the doors of the workshop over the years. The list included names from the past and the present. Pavel did this in part as cultural pride—a way of displaying the great number of people over the years who helped the theatre prosper and also as a way to further blend into the fabric of the theatre as yet another name among many that had passed through the door on their way to making the type of magic that only a theatre can produce. Prochazka was still listed as the owner and artistic director. Žofie was the first person Pavel had met, since Prochazka, who seemed to not only notice him, but single him out from the others. Pavel found that to be a bit of a mystery, a rather uncomfortable, yet somewhat exciting, mystery. She was quite beautiful, not to mention a bit strange, and Pavel looked forward to meeting her with her father on the morrow.