The Puppet Maker's Bones (9 page)

“What if I don’t believe you? What if I wish to marry someone, and we choose to have children?” asked Pavel.

“You may not sire children, Pavel. There is great risk.” Trope’s voice was firm.

“What happens?” asked Pavel.

“What do you mean what happens?”

“If I sire children. You mean the mother will die in childbirth, like mine did? Did I have a father who is like me?”

Trope shook his head. “The mother will not live long enough to get pregnant, let alone give you a child.”

Mr. Trope went back over to the basin and wet the cloth again, brought it to Pavel and handed it to him. Pavel took it and dabbed at both his face and neck; however, he kept missing the area he intended to apply the cloth, the blood pumping through his ears and head causing him to be distracted and clumsy. He felt anxious and wanted to leave the room, so he stood and paced. Mr. Trope walked to the door and opened it. A large man with red hair entered the room and stood by the door.

“This is McGovern,” said Mr. Trope. “He is here to moderate our meeting, should we have need of that.”

Pavel considered the large man, then turned his attention back to Mr. Trope and continued his pacing over the odd floor rug. Mr. Trope went back to his place behind the desk.

“You were born to normal mortal people who lived normal mortal lifespans. What happened to your mother was tragic, albeit common. In your father’s case, his life was cut short by the plague. That is the story we adhere to, although in your heart, I believe you know better.”

Pavel’s eyes teared, and he wiped his hand across his face.

“Mortal people.”

Mr. Trope placed his gloved hands on the desk and spread his fingers.

“We are neither mortal, nor immortal. We can be killed. We can kill ourselves. We can die of old age. We do die, eventually.”

A thought began to form in Pavel’s head.

“The gloves. Do you wear the gloves to protect your hands, or are you protecting others from your touch?”

Mr. Trope got up from the desk again, moved to a cabinet on the wall, opened it and removed two pairs of gloves identical to the ones he was wearing. He handed them to Pavel.

“These are for you. We do recommend that you wear them when around other people.”

Pavel examined the gloves, then put them in his lap, unsure what else to do with them.

“What about homosexuals? They do not have children, yet they couple. I am aware of this. I have met many who have come through the theatre over the years. Are there homosexuals of my kind?”

“Yes. And their circumstances are the same as yours— you are asking for yourself?” Pavel shook his head. “No, they may not couple. People of your kind, whether homosexual or not, cannot make love because they cannot, for want of a better term, enter another. Become one. There are no exceptions.”

“Explain this to me. What are we? Please be honest. No euphemisms, no hints, no more wheezy giggling.”

Mr. Trope’s face grew still at the obvious insult, then his expression changed to one of resignation.

“Your parents led me to believe you were a likeable young man. Far more grown up than you appear to be today. You are actually quite immature, aren’t you? And it appears you have a vindictive streak in you, don’t you. Maybe you are a bully?”

Pavel knew he had gone too far. His father was in the other room and would be disappointed. Worse, Pavel would not get any further information if he was rude to this man.

“I am sorry. That was rude of me,” said Pavel.

Mr. Trope coughed once and motioned for Pavel to drink more of his tea.

“Why do I have scars on my back?” asked Pavel.

“Pavel, I have to explain these things in a kind of order. There is a—”

“Why do I have scars on my back? Was there something there that was removed when I was born?”

“As I was saying, there is an order to how we explain these things to our clients. We can’t start anywhere and have things make sense.”

“I repeat. Why do I have scars on my back?” Pavel raised his voice. “What was removed from my shoulders?”

“Mr. Trusnik, I am afraid we have to adjourn our meeting for today. We need you to be calm when we give you all the information.”

Pavel reached across the desk and in one move, grabbed the lapel of Mr. Trope’s jacket and dragged him across the desk, holding him before him. He put his face close to Mr. Trope and in a menacing whisper asked “What
am
I?”

The man called McGovern moved from his place in front of the door to get between Pavel and Mr. Trope. He removed Pavel’s hands from Mr. Trope’s lapel and, without any effort, moved Pavel to a spot on the other side of the room.

McGovern spoke for the first time. “Please remain calm, Pavel. It is crucial that you remain calm.” Pavel backed away from the large man.

“What do you think of the rug you are standing on?” asked Mr. Trope, who seemed unmoved by being attacked. His lack of reaction made Pavel even more furious. His frustration led to the sudden fear that he was here to be removed from his parents, which led to sudden rage, and Pavel lunged again at Mr. Trope. McGovern barely got to him in time to hold him back. Mr. Trope backed away and answered the question.

“They were wings,” said Mr. Trope.

“
What
?”

“You were born with wings. They were removed at birth by the midwife.”

“Wings? Like a bird?”

“Yes.”

Pavel snorted and pulled his arms away from McGovern’s grasp. “Did they have
feathers
.”

“First you insulted me. Now you are mocking me. I asked you if you had heard of a Putto. Or Putti, if we’re to use the plural. They are pictured in the rug you are now standing on.”

Pavel looked down at the winged children dancing among the unicorns and shook his head. “This is preposterous.”

“I assure you, everything we have discussed today is true, as preposterous as it sounds, to use your word.”

“What is a Putto? You aren’t going to tell me that I’m an
angel
. A mythical creature? Like the unicorn? I may not believe in a God, but if there was one, they would not create something like me. No one could be that cruel. This is more likely some sort of deformity, like a sixth finger, or a tail or a missing arm.”

“A deformity does not allow you to live for hundreds of years, Pavel,” said Trope.

Mr. Trope made a slight wave with one hand at McGovern who moved back toward the door and stood at attention.

“An
angel
?” Pavel stood, mouth agape, uncomprehending.

“Perhaps. There are so many different stories. Myths. Legends. What we know is that, for whatever reason, something inherent in our nature brings a feeling of hope to people. We feel the same deep amount of hope within ourselves, and that hope provides in us a certain measure of optimism in our fellows. It keeps us from… well, from becoming destructive, which we have a great capacity for. I will get to that. Think about the hope you brought to Prochazka and Nina. They despaired before you arrived at their door. The cruel other side to bringing hope is that we cannot touch those people. They get sick. They die.”

Pavel got up to leave. He stopped and turned to Mr. Trope. McGovern adjusted his position in front of the door.

“I am some sort of angel of
death
, then, is that what you are saying?”

“We don’t like to think of ourselves that way. So dark, so sad. We call ourselves Putti. A term in the art world given to winged children who possess great passion.”

Pavel pointed at the carpet. “Like Cupid?” he asked, skepticism dripping from his voice.

Mr. Trope released a phlegmatic sigh. “I don’t expect you to accept this today.”

“Are there no women born like this?”

Mr. Trope shook his head. “Sadly, not that we have found, but that does not mean it has not happened. It means that they have not survived.”

“Survived?” asked Pavel.”

Mr. Trope completed a wheezy sigh and continued, though he seemed to have tired of their meeting, and of Pavel.

“Mr. Trusnik, I assure you we have thought of this. You must understand that the world of men has not been kind to the fairer sex. Nor has it been kind to
anyone
perceived to be different, and therefore misunderstood. People have been burned at the stake for having green eyes. Or that extra finger you mentioned. Or a mole in the wrong location on their body. If there were women who were born like you, and it is possible and very likely there may have been, they were probably put to death at birth. Many of the boys have been. You were to be put in a bag and drowned in the river. But that did not happen.”

Pavel blinked, his breathing starting to get rapid again. He felt a stitch in his chest from the flow of anxiety. “What am I supposed to do?”

Mr. Trope tried to speak in a soothing manner, but the wheezing and raspy quality of his voice brought further anxiety to Pavel.

“Continue bringing hope to people. Your theatre is a very good place for you, now that I consider it more carefully. I suppose the theatre is a church of its own variety. Audiences go there to congregate between the walls of the theatre and wait for the show, all possessing a desire to be uplifted, transformed, or to escape. You fulfill that hope, in a brilliant and magical way, year after year. I have been to shows in your theatre, and they are quite good. That is what you can do. And perhaps, with your new financial circumstances, I have given you a little hope as well, yes?”

“I have read my Greek mythology, Mr. Trope.
Hope
is the virtue that was left behind, cowering in the corner of a box, shut up and forgotten after Pandora released everything
else
into the world. What you have given me today is not hope. You have given me money. And disappointing advice. That is all.”

Mr. Trope moved back around the desk to face Pavel and motioned to McGovern.

“Your emotions are in a heightened state and I am afraid you will have to remain our guest a while longer until you are calm again. Your passion could bring about unfortunate consequences for the people outside in the street if you were to leave here angry. “Mr. McGovern, will you please ask Mr. Peters and Mr. Prochazka to come in here a moment.”

Pavel was again enraged. “You cannot keep me here!”

Mr. Trope spread his hands before him. “Yes, I assure you that we can. It will be for the best. You can amuse yourself in our library. Very soothing.”

Prochazka entered the room with the man whom he had accompanied to tea, Mr. Peters. Prochazka had a worried expression on his face.

“Pavel?” he said.

“Pavel will be staying with us for a few days, while he adjusts to all the information we gave him today. I feel it may have overwhelmed him.”

Pavel started to lunge for the door, but McGovern and Peters grabbed hold of him and held him back.

“Táta!” yelled Pavel. He managed to break away from both men and attempted to hug his father. Prochazka, frightened, stepped away from his son.

“Táta?” A realization came to Pavel at that moment. Everything came to him in blinding and sudden clarity. Táta would not touch him. Something in that moment struck him, and he looked down and noticed his clothing, as if for the first time. He wore all hand-me-downs, from other people. Nothing ever fitted or tailored to his body. No mother or seamstress had ever touched him with a piece of cloth or measuring tape. His parents were, according to Mr. Trope, quite well-to-do, but his clothes were cast-offs. His entire life coming to the fore of his brain, Pavel realized that he had never been touched, hugged, kissed or embraced in any way, by anyone. Most importantly, neither of his parents had ever held their son. And now his father backed away from him in fear. Pavel felt his heart breaking.

1720

“W
ake up, my little puppet.” Nina stood over Pavel’s bed in the workshop, smiling at him. She made a little motion with her hands that mimed what a puppeteer would do when controlling a marionette to hug another marionette or person. This motion was how Prochazka and Nina expressed their affection for Pavel, instead of hugging or kissing him.

Pavel remembered the first time they started the game that became the family’s normal way of expressing love for one another. He had arrived, afraid of beatings or of being touched. Prochazka had told him that they would honor his wishes, though Nina seemed reluctant. He remembered that three men had come to their home and that after they came, his parents stopped trying to pat him or hug him or kiss him or any of the things his adopted mother first tried. Prochazka had patted him on the back on one occasion, that being when he first arrived, but never again after the three men had come to visit. His mother had cried after they left.

Sammy the Redheaded Weird Boy was the name given to Pavel’s first puppet and the marionette who Pavel trained with until he was ready to master the others in the workshop. Pavel remembered Prochazka showing him how to work the controls until he could make the odd looking puppet work perfectly on his own. Prochazka always taught him by picking up one of the other marionettes in the workshop and using that as an example, instructing Pavel to watch with great concentration and to then copy Prochazka. In this way, Prochazka taught Pavel how to hug.