The Puppet Maker's Bones (4 page)

Thus began Pavel’s apprenticeship at the age of seven to Prochazka—maker of traditional puppets for the Czech theatre.

***

“You can put your things here, though it doesn’t look like you have much,” Prochazka said to Pavel and pointed at a small room with a bed and a chest of drawers. “There’s a pot under the bed for you to relieve yourself. You’re responsible for cleaning that out. I’ll show you where to take it.” They had reached the room by walking through an enormous cavern of work tables and lumber and tools. The space seemed vast to Pavel. It smelled of sawdust, glue and resin. Hundreds of puppets hung from the ceiling and from hooks on the walls. Others were draped over workbenches and chairs. Miles of fabric, tulle, and lace were piled on one table, and women sat in a corner and sewed, while men with chisels and saws stood at the tables working on pieces of wood. The women contemplated Prochazka and the boy when they entered and watched without smiling as he led the boy to his new room. Prochazka picked up a marionette from a workbench and walked it behind Pavel, copying Pavel’s walk.

“This is Sammy, the Redheaded Weird Boy,” said Prochazka. “He’s a very bad actor, so I can’t put him in any of the shows, but if I give him to you, maybe you’ll be able to teach him a thing or two. Would you like to do that?”

Pavel was mesmerized by the puppet. “Sammy, the Redheaded Weird Boy—what kind of name is that?” Pavel asked.

“The right one. Look at him!” said Prochazka.

“Hmm.” Pavel could see he had a point. The marionette was an odd looking distribution of arms and legs, and its crooked painted face was topped by a fright of long red hair woven from thick yarn.

Prochazka manipulated the puppet to walk behind Pavel as they entered the room. Pavel put his small roll on the bed and turned to face Prochazka. Prochazka removed one hand from the control of the marionette and extended it as if to place his hand on the boy’s shoulder. Pavel stepped back.

“What’s wrong, Pavel?” asked Prochazka.

“You better not touch me. They told you about me? I’m some sort of monster, they tell me.”

“Who says this about you?” said Prochazka, alarmed.

“The orphanage. Everyone. The bakery owner where I was before here. They call me a demon and say I make people sick. They say I killed my family.” The young Pavel stated all of this with a matter-of-fact intensity that was far beyond his few years.

Prochazka studied the boy for what seemed a very long time, and once again reached out to the boy in an attempt to reassure him. Pavel winced and moved away.

“The plague killed your family, boy. See? I’m fine,” said Prochazka.

“But—”

“I’ll tell you what I heard. I heard that you might be one of my puppets, escaped and let loose in the world, that’s what I heard.”

“What?” Pavel stared wide-eyed at the large man.

“That’s right. They said, ‘We have this boy. He sits there until you tell him what to do, and he does it. Just like you tell him. And he never smiles. He’s some sort of puppet. He even has scars on his back from where the strings used to be. We think he escaped from your shop, that’s what we think,’” said Prochazka.

“Who… who told you that?” asked Pavel.

“Oh, everyone and anyone. Or no one. You can never be sure when people are talking about escaped puppets. They all lie. Are you an escaped puppet? What do you think, Sammy, is the boy an escaped puppet?”

“Could be,” said Sammy, as intoned by Prochazka.

Pavel laughed for the first time. “No, that’s silly!”

“Ah! So you
can
laugh. You see? They all lie. May I see the scars? Would that be all right?”

Pavel was frightened, but he had learned that it was best to do as he was told. He had learned that at the end of many a broomstick when he was still at the orphanage, and again, at the bakery. Pavel did not mind being touched, nor did he believe that he could make people sick by touching them. That did not make sense. He did not like to be touched when the touch became a beating. He turned his back on Prochazka and removed his tunic. Prochazka said nothing. Pavel turned and faced the large man who looked very sad.

“Well, it seems that someone might be telling the truth. You may indeed be an escaped puppet. Someone cut your strings, it does appear. I wonder who would do that sort of thing. What do you think about that, Pavel?”

“You’re not telling the truth.”

“Maybe, maybe. But now that you’re here, who better to apprentice in a puppet workshop than an escaped puppet, I ask you? I think that’s marvelous! Isn’t that marvelous, Sammy?” Sammy shook his head in wild abandon, his red yarn hair flying in every direction. Prochazka let out a big laugh and moved to pat Pavel on the shoulder, yet again. Pavel moved away and put his tunic back on.

Prochazka manipulated Sammy closer to Pavel. “I think Sammy would like to pat you on the shoulder—I think that would be okay.” Sammy did a little dance and waved his arms in a jerky fashion, and the expression painted upon his face gave him the appearance of insanity.

“No,” said Pavel, though he did find the puppet to be very funny.

“Very well, Puppet Pavel. You do not wish to be touched. And so you won’t be. We are artists here, and artists respect each other, even if no one else will!” He laughed again. “We eat in an hour. There is a lavatory for washing up on the other side of the workshop. I suggest you get yourself cleaned up. You look like you haven’t seen a cake of soap in quite a while—can’t have you coming to the table a dirty puppet, now can we?”

“I’m not a puppet!” exclaimed Pavel.

“We shall see, we shall see,” said Prochazka. The large man glanced toward the boy, then shook his head and placed Sammy the Redheaded Weird Boy down on the bed, He returned to the workshop where he sat at a workbench with his back to the boy, bent over a piece of wood and began to chisel.

Pavel examined the puppet on his bed. He believed this was the first time he had received a gift of any kind, and he made a promise in his head to Prochazka that he would take great care of it. He wondered how Prochazka had made it walk like that, like him.

Pavel went across the workshop to the lavatory—a small and narrow room where a pitcher of water was placed next to a large bowl on top of a long table. Someone had filled the pitcher with water and he poured from it into the bowl beside it. A mirror hung on the wall over the table. A large basin sat on the ground, and Pavel guessed it was used for bathing. The orphanage infirmary had a similar one, and he’d been allowed to use it, once. This particular one was stained from the dyes used for the costumes. He peered around the lavatory for a cloth to wipe his face and noticed a shelf under the long table that contained cloths for washing and drying. He picked one. A cake of soap was already in the bottom of the bowl, ready to be used. Pavel got to work and cleaned the grime from his head, face, neck and shoulders. The water felt warm on Pavel’s face. He removed his tunic and washed his torso. He faced his reflection in the mirror and ran his fingers through his hair until it looked more presentable. He wished he had a comb. Curious, Pavel turned his back to the mirror and twisted his neck around as far as it would reach so that he could see the scars. There were two of them—one over each shoulder blade. He couldn’t reach them with his hands to scratch the scars where they’d gotten bumpy and hard and often itched. He saw where the stitches had pierced his skin, white lines that crossed over one another. He did not know why they were there. The nurses in the infirmary had whispered about them but he was never able to understand their words. During his sweeping job at the plaza bakery, the owner had needed Pavel and had come into the small alcove where he slept. Pavel had his shirt off. The owner chased him from the bakery with a broom, and Pavel grabbed his few belongings as he ran, but not before the baker landed a few good whacks across Pavel’s backside.

“Leave here, devil! Don’t come back!”

Was Prochazka right that he was an escaped puppet? Maybe he did not remember. No, that was silly. You would remember something like that. Pavel put on his tunic and went into the workshop. A plump, pretty woman stood with Prochazka, her brown hair pinned in a messy fashion so that strands hung around her face and down her back. She regarded him with eyes that were such a pale blue, they were almost clear, like lights. A huge smile spread across her face.

“Sasha, you didn’t tell me he was such a small boy!” The woman approached Pavel with her arms outstretched.

“Come here, you dear thing!”

Pavel stood frozen, terrified.

“Nina, leave the boy alone. Not yet. You’ll frighten him.”

“Oh, how ridiculous.”

“Nina. Stop. Give the boy some time.”

Prochazka spoke to the boy. “Pavel, this is my wife, Nina. She is quite excited to meet you, as you can see. We do not have a lot of children around here other than the puppets and she has never met an actual
escaped
puppet before. Isn’t that right, Nina?”

“Oh, would you stop,” said Nina.

“Pavel, I wonder if you would do Nina the kindness of showing her where they cut off your strings?”

“I’m not a puppet.” Pavel said, frightened, remembering the bakery owner and the broom. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Of course not! My wife has a tendency to not believe anything I say, and she is perhaps correct in that, because as I told you, everyone lies when it comes to talking about escaped puppets, so I wanted to show her proof that not only can puppets escape, but they can become handsome young boys.”

Pavel awaited a sign from Prochazka, who motioned for Pavel to lift his garment. Pavel did what he was told, though it frightened him to have his back to them. He turned around and pulled his garment up over his shoulders, enough to show her the scars. He heard a sharp intake of breath behind him, and he flinched, waiting for the familiar crack of the broom across his back. Nothing happened.

“That’s alright, Pavel, you may put your clothing back on. I’m starved! What do you think, Nina, should we have something to eat? Shall we feed this young puppet who has found his way home?”

Nina’s gaze traveled from her husband to Pavel and back again. Pavel thought she might be crying, but she ran her hand across her eyes and smiled at him.

“Of course! He looks like he could use some fattening up. What do you think, Pavel? Are you hungry?” She stepped toward him then stopped herself.

“Pavel has said he does not like to be touched, Nina. I think we can respect that, yes? He has to come to trust us,” said Prochazka.

“Yes. Yes, of course. Follow me when you are ready to eat.”

Nina walked out, but first put her hand on her husband’s arm, searched his eyes with her own, then patted Prochazka’s large face before walking out the door that led to their living space.

“You’ll be safe here, Pavel,” said Prochazka, his eyes following his wife as she exited. “You do not have anything to worry about.”

“I’m not a puppet,” said Pavel.

“I know, my dear boy. I know. But allow us our little story, eh? It’s a good one.” Prochazka walked to the door, motioning for the boy to follow him.

Present Day

P
avel sighed and ambled into the spacious kitchen, pristine in its historic authenticity and unsullied by modern makeovers and granite countertops. He put a kettle on the antique iron range in preparation of a cup of tea. He then turned on a small stereo unit on the counter, the one piece of modernity in the room. Mozart’s
Nocturne No. 4 in A Major
wafted from unseen speakers recessed into the ceiling overhead, the various speakers installed by his expert hand. He had made some alterations over time to the house without a moment’s thought to the people at the Historical Preservation Society. He loved this particular Mozart
Nocturne
which managed to be hopeful, yet melancholy at the same time. He stood at the sink and through the kitchen window he surveyed the house across the street, while he finished the last of his turnip. He cleaned the paring knife until it gleamed again, unlocked and returned it to the drawer as he studied the house opposite his own. He examined the other knives in the drawer and sighed. He turned off the music. Tonight’s venture into the back garden and all of its accompanying comfort, aromas and memories would have to wait, for there was to be an unwelcome visitor. He had to prepare.

***

Dear Mr. Trusnik:

It has been brought to our attention that recent inquiries into the architectural blueprints of your home have been made and that said blueprints have been reproduced and removed from the Office of Historical Records. We regret the intrusion into your privacy. Our firm takes pride in making every effort to prevent these types of indiscretions. Please be advised that we are taking measures to acquire the copies, and that the lapse in judgment on the part of the staff at the Office of Historical Records has been dealt with. We will keep you apprised of any further information on this matter.

Sincerely,

Leonard Trope, III