The Puppet Maker's Bones (7 page)

***

Prochazka brought Pavel out of his reverie to continue what was becoming a very serious talk with his son, which puzzled Pavel. “The thing is,” Prochazka continued, “we are a little like the scientists. We know how things work. We examine them to try to create the illusion of those things later. We don’t question their origin in terms of explaining them in any other way than what is rational and what we can see. We know why the seasons change, we know that if someone gets sick that it is the sickness that kills them, not God, or a demon, or a vampire.”

“People called me that. Vampire. Demon. Other things,” said Pavel.

“We know. We tried to keep you from that as much as we could.”

“You have.”

Prochazka had a worried expression on his face and rubbed his hands together like he was washing them.

“Nina and I have always been grounded in the real world while we work at creating the imaginary world. It is not the way most people live. Most people live by the Church. You understand this, yes?” Pavel waited for his father to continue. He did not comprehend where the conversation was headed.

“That does not mean that we do not believe in magic, especially when the magic is right in front of us. That magic of course being you, my dear boy.”

Prochazka rubbed his hands together with more vigor.

“People prefer the Church,” said Pavel who was unsure how to react after being referred to as
magic
.

“That they do. Which is what I came to speak to you about.”

“Is something wrong with Máma? Are you saying she is sick?”

Pavel became frightened by the expression on his father’s face.

“No more than I. We
should
be sick, after years of breathing sawdust and bits of metal and such. Our lungs have taken a beating, to be sure. You need to be careful about that. You have many years ahead of you, and this workshop and theatre will all be yours.”

“You aren’t going anywhere.”

A serious expression suddenly flooded his father’s face.

“Pavel, I need you to listen to me. Do you remember when you were very small and some men came to talk to your mother and me?”

“I remember. You were both crying when they left.”

“Yes, well we were crying for a number of reasons.”

“You were sad?”

“We were also ecstatic. We could not believe the number of good fortunes we were given that day. Nina and I had no children, and then we were blessed with our own little puppet.”

Pavel smiled at the memory.

“Me.”

“Yes. You. We were crying because we were happy about that. And those men. The men that came to see us—”

“Who were they?”

“They are business men. They heard you were with us, and they wanted to make sure you were well cared for.”

This did not make sense to Pavel.

“Why would business men take an interest in me?”

“It turns out there are a few special people like you in the world, and it is their job to make sure that you are looked after.”

“Special people?”

“Well, yes, Pavel, you are special.”

“Please. Explain, Táta.”

Pavel’s heart beat a little faster. Was his father telling him there were other people like Pavel? Other odd people who did not grow?

“They set up our family with a business affairs firm in town to look after all our affairs and to make sure that the theatre, workshop and land were all paid for. When they did that, Nina and I thought we’d go head over heels. We were not doing well, and we were afraid we would lose the theatre. I did not know such businesses existed, but they do. They said they would make other investments for us over time, so that when the time came, you would be able to be on your own. They helped us, Pavel. You are, in fact, a very wealthy man.”

This last sentence of Prochazka’s was incomprehensible to Pavel.

“What?”

“Yes. A wealthy young man. But you are still very much a child, Pavel. You are not like others your age. Perhaps that is our fault.”

Pavel tried to unravel the meaning behind everything his father said to him.

Prochazka continued. “It is time that we meet with the business affairs office. Together. I have gone by myself over the years, but you will have to take care of everything now. I have signed over the ownership of the theatre and workshop to you. I will not be here forever. All the paperwork is in order, and you are protected.”

Prochazka went to the wall of Pavel’s room where there were pegs for coats and hats. He gave both a coat and hat to Pavel.

“But—”

“No ‘buts,’ my puppet. This is the way things are done. It is a very modern way of doing things, these men tell me. I want to make sure the theatre does not get sold and turned into a dry goods store with a brothel at the back.”

“Táta!” cried Pavel.

“Oh, I agree, there might be a very high need for that sort of thing, you know, a pound of flour, a sack of oats and a fuck—”

“Táta!” Pavel laughed.

Prochazka laughed with him.

“But I would prefer it remain a theatre. Give me something to haunt after I’m gone, yes? You are quite an artist, you know. I taught you what I know, but you have taken that skill much further than I could have hoped. The master now learns from the apprentice.”

Pavel knew there was something his father was not telling him.

“So. You were crying because you were happy.”

“Yes.”

“No other reason? Were they able to tell you anything about me? If these men look after people… like me, they must have some information.”

Prochazka did not meet his eye, which was an unusual thing for the large man to do.

“Yes. That was the day when we were introduced to much that could not be explained. We never spoke of it with you.”

“No.”

“You are not angry with us for that, are you?” asked Prochazka.

“I could never be angry with you, Táta, but I would hope for honesty.”

His father looked uncomfortable, worried. Pavel had never seen him in this state. The large man who feared nothing, suddenly seemed more than a little frightened.

“It is important that you do not get angry,” said his father.

“You said these men looked after people like me—were
they
like me?” Pavel’s heart beat a little faster.

“They were like you.”

“They were escaped puppets?”

Pavel inspected Prochazka’s face, so earnest and serious.

“Ah yes, my escaped puppet with his clipped strings. I’m afraid I lied about that.”

Pavel smiled, relaxing a bit. “Of course you did. All men lie when it comes to talking about escaped puppets. You taught me that. You might be shocked to know that I am also aware there is no Sankt Nikolaus.”

Prochazka smiled at his son.

“That I did.”

Pavel thought about the scars on his shoulders. “So. These men. Let us call them escaped puppets for now. Did
these
men have clipped strings?”

“I did not see them.” Prochazka sighed.

At that moment, Nina stepped into the doorway.

“Máma. You are both so serious today. What can I do?”

Nina began to weep, and sat down on the end of the bed, clutching a portion of the blanket that she proceeded to knead in her shaking hands as a sort of worry cloth.

“Darling, all you need to know is that we were blessed when you were brought to us, as those men explained. You brought us hope. As they said you would.”

Pavel had many questions but knew he would have to wait for answers, at least for now. He put on the coat and hat handed to him by his father.

“I wish to meet these men,” Pavel said to Prochazka.

“They are expecting us.”

Pavel and Prochazka walked to the town. The streets were crowded with people who brushed past the two men as they walked, side by side. Pavel was oblivious to everyone, lost in thought. People had no faces that day; as if he were walking past hundreds of moving oil paintings, thick brush strokes that revealed outlines and color and the stones of the street below his feet, basics of people’s clothing, but the faces were blurred, making everyone anonymous or interchangeable with anyone else. He was too excited and too focused on the people he was
about
to meet to have any interest in the hundreds of people going about their activities. He tried to concentrate on everything his father had told him. The theatre was his! And whoever he was, or wherever he had come from, he had people looking after him. They in turn had taken care of Nina and Prochazka, for which he would thank them.

In town, tucked into a large row of stone buildings flanking a dusty cobblestone street, was a door that led to a basement room.

Trope & Co
. was etched into the door glass. A simple sign. An unremarkable door, inconspicuous to passersby.

Pavel turned the handle on the door and found it locked. He turned to Prochazka.

“They are expecting us?” Pavel asked.

At that moment the door was unlocked from the inside, and it opened inward to a modest entry. A tall man stood right inside. He wore expensive clothing and shoes, and Pavel noticed also the heavy leather gloves upon his hands, almost like the work gloves he and Prochazka used in the workshop. The thick, rough gloves were very out of place with both the surroundings and the clothing worn by the man who seemed a gentleman of means. What was odder to Pavel was how very ordinary the man looked. He was tall, but not so tall that he would stand out or above a crowd. His age was indiscernible. He could have been in his twenties as easily as his fifties; it was impossible to tell. His facial features were so ordinary that if Pavel were to be asked to describe him later, he would not be able to, as if Mr. Trope wore some sort of unnatural mask, making it impossible for Pavel to discern his real face. When Mr. Trope spoke, however, his voice caused Pavel to start. The man had a voice that conjured a picture of a weasel in Pavel’s head. Scratchy, high pitched, with a certain condescending lilt to each word. Pavel did not like him.

“Please come in. My name is Leonard Trope. I’m very pleased to meet you at last, Mr. Trusnik.” Mr. Trope reached out his gloved hand and shook Pavel’s own. Pavel took in the surroundings and gazed at Prochazka who smiled back at him in assurance. Mr. Trope motioned for Pavel to sit in a chair on one side of a large, darkly stained oak desk.

“My father tells me he has business with you. Business about me? I was not told until today.”

Mr. Trope went to a sideboard against the wall and poured tea from a silver set. He held up the sugar bowl and creamer to Pavel who indicated yes to both. He handed Pavel a cup of tea and sat down, continuing to explain the business in his high-pitched rasp. Prochazka stood, looking unsure of himself and curling his hat between his hands.

“Mr. Prochazka, would you be offended if young Mr. Trusnik and I spoke alone for a little while?” Another man with the same nondescript features entered the room from the corridor. He carried a tray of sandwiches and tea. Pavel tried to get a glimpse of the man’s eyes, but the man kept his head down. Pavel noticed that he too, wore heavy gloves.

“Mr. Prochazka,” said the man who’d entered, “if you would do me the kindness of accompanying me for tea, I was about to have it in the library room. Do you mind? There are sandwiches.”

“That would be very nice.” Prochazka winked at Pavel as he left.

The men exited, and Pavel sipped the sweet and milky tea. It was delicious. He raised his eyes to Mr. Trope, who watched his reaction to the tea.

“Bergamot. That’s what gives the tea that flavor you are enjoying. I had a feeling you might like it. An herb that you can grow yourself one day. Dry the flowers and add it to the tea. I’ll send some home with you if you like.”

Pavel took another sip. “Thank you.”

Mr. Trope continued, picking up his own cup of tea and holding it between his gloved hands.

“It was not our intention, nor your father’s, to keep anything from you, but rather a question of timing. We did meet one time. You were very small. You may remember there were some men that came to the house when you first arrived?”

Pavel was surprised. He did remember the men, but he did not think it possible that Mr. Trope could have been one of them. It had been so long ago. Pavel did the math in his head. If this man was like Pavel and was stunted and took a long time to grow…

“Ah, yes, you are trying to figure out how old I must be, yes? How old is a grown man, do you know?” asked Mr. Trope. Pavel noticed for the first time that the man’s eyes had pupils which swirled with the same blue to red to amber and back to blue that were visible in Pavel’s own eyes when he saw his reflection in the glass.

“Are we related?” asked Pavel.

“No, we are not,” said the man. Pavel was glad to hear that. Something about Mr. Trope bothered him a great deal.

“You have a library room?” asked Pavel.

“Yes. Hundreds, no, let me make a correction, thousands of books. Do you have an interest in books?”

“Very much.”

Pavel tried to imagine what a library with thousands of books might look like in this strange, tucked away store front. He imagined passages and corridors lined with bookshelves. Pavel surveyed the office. Dark wood, dark rugs… a heaviness and strength showed in everything that furnished the room, including the well-crafted furniture. Mr. Trope sat behind a heavy oak desk, facing Pavel.

“Prochazka tells me you have no formal education.”

“I was taught to read and write by Prochazka and Nina.”

“What about other languages? French, Italian, German?”

“Well, of course we speak German. We have to, for the theatre, though puppet theatre allows many performances in Czech. Italian and French, no I’m afraid not. Nor English.”

Pavel was not sure why Mr. Trope would be interested in how many languages he was able to speak.

“What about your interests. Do you have any interest in learning anything beyond the art of stage craft? Science? Mathematics? Engineering? The medical arts?”

Pavel felt no desire to educate the weasel-voiced man before him on the use of math and engineering that went into stage craft. He did have a desire to learn much more, however, and the idea of the library Mr. Trope spoke of intrigued him.