“You have learned to take calming breaths when you are feeling uncomfortable?” Mr. Trope asked. Pavel felt as if his mind was being intruded upon.
“Prochazka and Nina taught me. It is an old theatre trick used by actors. To concentrate.”
Mr. Trope smiled and brought his tea back to his lips to take a sip. Pavel noticed his lips were quite thin which added to the rodent-like nature of the man. Pavel focused his gaze upon those lips. Mr. Trope placed his teacup back down on the desk. Pavel marveled at the delicacy with which he handled the teacup in such bulky gloves.
“Why do you wear gloves?” asked Pavel.
Mr. Trope did not answer. He continued instead with the topic at hand.
“Prochazka and Nina have lived long, healthy lives and are in their seventies. They have lived longer than most people around us. Most people die when they are much younger, after a short life filled with hard labor that breaks the body. Your parents have not suffered from disease or even an accident. So many things can destroy a body before it has a chance to get old. Their long life is due, in part, to the fact that perhaps they are happy. Happy people tend to live longer. We think you have helped make them happy, Pavel.”
“But?” Pavel asked. He did not appreciate the condescending tone Mr. Trope had when talking about Prochazka and Nina. He sounded like he was referring to them as pets.
“Time is a funny thing. For a man like you, time tends to move in a very rapid manner; days go by in a mere flash. Years to us are what days must seem like to other people. It must seem like yesterday that you first arrived on the doorstep of Prochazka and Nina, and yet here they are, old, gray, soon to leave this Earth.”
Pavel started breathing again, concentrating on the objects in the room. He focused on a globe in the corner and tried to make out various locations. He was about to get angry, and his parents always told him he was not allowed to get angry. He did not want to let Prochazka down today. He chose his next words with care.
“I would prefer that you not speak of my father and mother like that.”
Mr. Trope put up a gloved hand and made some sort of gurgling noise in the back of his throat that Pavel guessed was supposed to be some sort of reassuring sigh, but the sound sickened Pavel.
“How old are you, Pavel?”
Pavel did not know the exact day or year of his birth, but he tended not to think about his age. Prochazka and Nina had never talked about it with him, other than to say that he was “stunted.”
“Time does not move quite the same way for you, does it? Still feel like a young boy? A mere lad in his teens?”
“I suppose. Why am I like this?”
“Perhaps that book reading of yours would allow you some answers? The study of the physics of time, perhaps?”
Pavel had no idea what the man was getting to and was eager for Mr. Trope to explain everything to him. Mr. Trope, however, parsed out information in a slow and deliberate manner, as if he were handing Pavel individual pebbles with a pair of tweezers, one by one, stopping after each to take a sip of his tea while wearing his gigantic gloves.
“The what?”
“Never mind. I get ahead of myself sometimes,” Trope said. Pavel thought that last claim was ridiculous. The man had told him nothing, let alone gotten ahead of himself. “Well, to answer your earlier request, you are more than welcome to come here, whenever you are not busy in your workshop, and help yourself to any of the books here. We have every available subject for the person who prefers to be self-taught. History, language, art, music, even the erotic arts.” Mr. Trope put an odd emphasis on his last words which he followed with a short, high-pitched, giggle.
Pavel cleared his throat. “Indeed,” he said, shifting in his seat, uncomfortable.
“Whether at home or in formal university or in many different academies or universities over time, people who live as long as you do may as well become educated on a variety of subjects. Languages, for example. You will more than likely not be doing theatre and making puppets fifty years from now.”
Pavel’s curiosity was piqued. “You said something about people who live as long as I do. How long is that?”
Mr. Trope did not give a direct answer, a habit Pavel was finding increasingly annoying.
“You did not tell me your age,” Mr. Trope said. “I will say it. You are thirty-nine. What do you tell people?”
Prochazka and Nina had long ago advised Pavel against mentioning his age to others.
“I do not mention my age to the people I meet. It may alarm them.”
“But of course. Look at you. You appear to be the age of a young lover who has yet to meet his future bride.” Mr. Trope made the high giggling noise again. Pavel felt as if Mr. Trope was taunting him.
“I beg your pardon?”
The mention of a bride started a tiny seed in Pavel’s mind, to grow and irritate and crowd out other thoughts. What was Trope up to? At that moment, Trope switched subjects and slid an inkwell over to Pavel and handed him a quill.
Mr. Trope cleared his throat. “Would you like to take care of the matter of the paperwork before we continue our conversation? It is rather pressing that the pesky business of money be out of the way. There are deeds to add your name to, properties to transfer.”
“Properties?” asked Pavel, his mind still on Trope’s mention of a “future bride.”
“Yes, Mr. Trusnik. In addition to the theatre, adjoining workshop and residential house, there are other properties that we took the liberty of investing in for you over the past thirty years or so. With care and with deliberation, we made a purchase every few years, so as not to draw attention. We will continue to do so, of course, and will, with the proper preparation, venture further abroad with your investments than here in Prague. You own this very building, for example.”
“What?” Pavel was stunned, because the building seemed enormous. Mr. Trope laughed a wheezy and phlegmatic laugh in response to the look of surprise on Pavel’s face.
“Oh, not the entirety of the structure that lines the street. You can go outside and see where structure meets structure by different architectural hand. No, only this building, but I assure you, there are several businesses and dwellings within that provide a modest, yet significant source of income.”
Pavel was stunned. Prochazka, by all modern standards, was the financial equivalent of an aristocrat. Over the course of the next hour, Mr. Trope brought out paper after paper, to which he added his name or transferred into his name. By the end of the hour, on paper at least, Pavel, like his adopted father, was one of the wealthier people in the entire city. Only in the event of the death of both Prochazka and Nina would all ownership be transferred to Pavel Trusnik.
Mr. Trope took the quill away from Pavel and lay it upon a blotting rag on his desk. “There. It is done. We are very pleased that our little firm may be of assistance to you. Do you have any further questions?”
Pavel had one question that had been nagging at him from the moment Mr. Trope had mentioned it, and it had stolen his focus during the entire business portion of the signing of the documents.
“You called me “a young lover who has yet to meet his future bride.”
“Ah. Yes. Love. One day you wish to fall in love. You will wish to marry, is that it? But you are already thirty-nine and that has not happened. Why are you thus concerned?”
“I would like to think it possible, if I met the right person and if she would have me.”
Mr. Trope’s eyes with the odd and swirling pupils fixed on Pavel. His expression became quite serious. “You and others like you were born different. The oldest of your kind that I have met is four hundred years old. But our lifespan potential might be longer than that. We do not know. We do know that we don’t live forever.” Mr. Trope made a show of examining his gloved hands.
“That is impossible,” said Pavel.
“I assure you that it is not.”
“What you are saying is insane,” insisted Pavel.
“Beliefs and facts are beginning to get confusing, aren’t they? You see yourself in the mirror every day, Pavel. What do you think?” Pavel did not know how to answer this man. He accepted what Prochazka and Nina told him and everyone else. That he was stunted. He accepted that was reality.
“Tell me. What do you know about art?” asked Mr. Trope.
Pavel was getting impatient with Mr. Trope. He seemed to keep changing the topic, or choosing roundabout ways of getting to the point. Pavel’s annoyance grew, and he shifted again in his seat, crossing one leg over the other as he answered Mr. Trope with a shortness that revealed his impatience.
“Not much. I like some of it well enough.”
Mr. Trope rubbed his gloved hands back and forth over one another.
“Have you ever heard of a Putto?” Pavel had no idea to what Mr. Trope was referring, but that feeling of being taunted returned to him.
“I admit to toying with you about mention of the erotic arts, young love and marriage,” Trope continued. “I suppose I wanted to see how you would react. My hope was that you would be one who is unaffected by the subjects. How regrettable that I was wrong, and for that I’m sorry.”
Pavel felt his face flush. Mr. Trope had admitted to toying with him. About love. He sat, waiting for him to finish.
“You may not fall in love, Pavel. Your kind cannot marry. You cannot engage in the erotic arts.”
Pavel felt himself getting upset and he started his rhythmic breathing again, the way his parents had taught him, concentrating on the grain of the oak desk in front of him, the worn spot on the rug below his feet, the rug pattern itself of unicorns running among trees, surrounded by small winged children. An odd pattern for a floor rug, more appropriate to a tapestry, he thought. He allowed his focus to return to Mr. Trope, who had continued speaking, his tone quite serious. It sounded as if Mr. Trope was issuing an order.
“Not only is it dangerous, but it is forbidden. Consider yourself informed. You are not, under any circumstances, to engage in any act of physical love with another. The consequences of that are quite severe.”
Pavel stared at the horrible man. First Mr. Trope told him his parents would die soon, then he told him he could never love or marry. According to Mr. Trope, Pavel was to live for countless years. Alone? The idea was impossible to grasp. Mr. Trope continued.
“Some of your kind join the Church. We suggested that as a possibility to your parents.” Pavel realized why Nina was crying that morning and why Prochazka was talking about the Church.
“More as a way of discretion, I should suppose,” said Trope. “As you experienced yourself as a boy, people like us can often draw the attention of others even when attempting to avoid it. Someone who never gets sick? Who stays young? These people are often fodder for religious hysteria or superstition. Where better to avoid that than within the walls of a church? You can travel from congregation to congregation every decade or so.”
Pavel succeeded in controlling his breathing enough that he felt he could respond.
“I can assure you, I have no intention of joining the Church.”
“No, I suppose you would not,” said Trope.
Pavel gestured his hand around the office where they sat.
“What about you?” asked Pavel. “Is this your ‘monastic’ existence? Handling the business affairs and acquiring wealth for others like us?”
“Yes, I suppose it is.”
“And how old are you, if I may ask,” said Pavel.
“Two hundred fifty-seven on my last birthday, though the date of my birth is questionable. My mother died in childbirth and there are no relatives who lived much longer after I was born who could tell me when that exact date was.” The sound of Mr. Trope’s high giggle following that statement seemed to tear a hole straight through Pavel’s head.
Pavel’s face felt quite hot again, and his breath came in short, staccato inhalations that did not produce enough air. He did not feel well at all. Mr. Trope went to a basin on the counter and wet a cloth which he handed Pavel.
“I’m sorry,” Mr. Trope said as he laid the cloth upon Pavel’s brow.
“I feel sick,” said Pavel. Trope reached out a gloved hand and placed it on Pavel’s shoulder in a calming gesture and held it there until Pavel’s breathing slowed to a normal rate. Pavel concentrated on a spot upon the floor, but he had too many thoughts running through his head as his pulse raced. Fear and adrenaline coursed through his veins as he became overwhelmed with the information he was hearing from Mr. Trope.
“These meetings never go without leaving our clients feeling a little sick over the knowledge that they are so very different from their fellows. The financial stability does not seem to lessen that.”
“We cannot have children?” asked Pavel once his breath returned to a more regular rhythm.
“I am very sorry Pavel, but that cannot happen. We have made arrangements that you will want for nothing. You have wealth and property.
“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 a
t 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.
The Puppet Maker's Bones Page 6
