“If you mean the painting, yes we did. It was kind of you, thank you,” said Mr. Trope.
“Did you find it intriguing, sad, uplifting, melancholy? There are such a variety of emotions one experiences when looking at a piece of art, that one scarcely knows where to begin in describing them. Which was it for you? Which? Hmm?”
“Mr. Trusnik, I believe you are toying with me, somewhat. And you appear to be under the influence of something. Are you?” Pavel made a noise that sounded like something between a laugh and a snort as he paced the room, the smell of cat urine wafting off of him as he moved.
The painting to which Pavel referred, by an artist named Francesco Guardi, was entitled Allegory of Hope. The background of the painting depicted a peasant woman on the shore of a body of water carrying what appeared to be a basket of wheat. One stalk of wheat blew out of the basket. In the foreground, dragging himself across the ground toward the woman, or the wheat, and carrying what might be a log for a fire, or a portion of a pillar from some ruined building, or perhaps dragging himself over debris lying about on the shore, was a young child with small wings sprouting from his shoulders. The woman faced away from the cherub, who would more likely be referred to in art circles of the day as a ‘putti,’ the secular and profane expression of non-religious passion and what people like Pavel, according to Mr. Trope, indeed were. Emphasis on the “profane” if Mr. Trope could be believed, thought Pavel, though he did not believe a shred of it and had read almost every book in Trope & Co.’s library in an effort to refute Trope’s claim.
“Well, Mr. Trope, I believe that the painting represents many things. I arranged to have it purchased on the anniversary of the death of my parents. I could think of no better place for it to hang but in your offices. You have done so much for our family.”
“Are you mocking me, Mr. Trusnik?”
“Not at all. I believe you told me, would you believe over one hundred years ago, that what you do here at Trope & Co. is hope. Hope. Rhymes with Trope. Coincidence? So I bought you a painting that sums up to me what hope is. Hope means being ignored while I drag myself toward some futile ideal, my longing or passion having no end. Perhaps I should throw a bag over my head, jump in the river and drown, to get it all over with. The painting is so bleak, as if I commissioned it myself, but we know that’s impossible. Do you think this too literal an interpretation? I’m afraid I was never formally schooled, so my observations are rather pedestrian, to say the least.”
Mr. Trope sighed, or what could be considered a sigh escaped him, though the exhalation of air more resembled air being squeezed out of a broken bellows—high, whistling, gurgling.
“You are lonely,” said Trope.
“That’s what you gleaned from all of my dripping sarcasm and expensive gifts inspired by bitterness and mockery? I’m lonely? You, Mr. Trope, are a veritable genius.”
Mr. Trope ignored the young man’s rudeness.
“It has been your choice to remain at the theatre and in the workshop which seemed to agree with you. It is, however, unnecessary, and apparently your solitary lifestyle is doing you more harm than good. People do move on, enjoy different lives for themselves, take up new professions, travel, meet new people, et cetera. You have the means to do all of these things, yet you have chosen to stay here and live in a theatre workshop.”
“My family is here.”
“Your family died over one hundred years ago.”
“Prochazka’s bones still rattle in the theatre,” said Pavel.
“You can’t be one of those people that believes in ghosts and that the theatre is haunted by your father.”
“I believe his bones still rattle around the theatre.”
Mr. Trope considered this statement.
“We can take care of human obstacles that endanger you. We can make sure you are financially comfortable, and we can even arrange new identities, new homes, travel and adventure. We can make every attempt to clothe and feed you if that is what you need, and judging from your attire today, we need to pay more attention to that. We can do all of this. What we cannot do is remove your bitterness or your loneliness. I’m sorry, Mr. Trusnik, but directing your anger at us will not satisfy you. You chose to stay in one place with limited experiences to stimulate you, other than the books in our library….”
Mr. McGovern entered the room without speaking and stood by the door. Pavel watched as Mr. Trope shot McGovern a look. Mr. McGovern made a slight bow, and exited the office.
“Yes, yes, I understand. I apologize if I have offended,” said Pavel. “One hundred forty-five years I have been at the theatre—a mere fraction of those years involved having a family. The theatre family is so fickle and transient, one cannot rely on it for any type of comfort, can one? Can one? Really? Especially if one never becomes intimately involved with anyone else, yes?”
“Mr. Trusnik, I—”
More sweat made its way in rivulets down Pavel’s forehead, and he wiped at it with the sleeve of his dinner jacket.
“And I appreciate the use of the books in your library that you have let me help myself to over those years. I have learned much. So very much. And yes. Yes, the theatre does agree with me. But I am here about something else. Have you seen this book? It is new. It was difficult to acquire a copy, but I managed. It is in English.”
Leonard Trope picked up the book. The title read: On the Origin of Species by Means of Natural Selection, or the Preservation of Favoured Races in the Struggle for Life, written by a scientist named Charles Darwin.
“I have not heard of it, I’m afraid,” said Trope.
“I don’t believe you. You are a horrible liar. Is there any one thing you tell the truth about? There is not a thing published or talked about, supposed about, no new religion or superstition or rumor or piece of gossip about any of us that this office doesn’t hear about or know about first.”
“This is a book about natural selection of the species. Evolution,” said Trope.
“Exactly! At long last, someone with brains has come up with something that might explain people like us. This accident of nature that stands before you might have an actual, scientific explanation, one that might even turn out to be quite simple. We may be like one of the moths with the spots he talks about. I blend in with my environment, and none of those nasty natural predators affect me, like disease, or aging, or my head exploding in my sleep—”
Mr. Trope started to interrupt, but Pavel cut him off. “Better yet, if he is right, then does it not stand to reason that there are other men and women like us? In the great balance of nature and natural selection? If we are to live such a very long time, it does not make sense for our survival to be what it is, if there are no others.”
“Mr. Trusnik, I am afraid I must ask you again. Have you ingested anything today that would make you intoxicated in any way? You are unnaturally animated.”
Pavel snorted. “Unnaturally animated. I would think all of us are unnaturally animated, wouldn’t you agree?”
Mr. Trope could not hide his annoyance. “I am simply saying that if you are in any way intoxicated, that it might be a good idea to stay with us a bit until it is out of your system. We wouldn’t want you drawing unnecessary attention to yourself, yes? Your pupils are quite dilated. Very noticeable. And the unusual nature of our eyes is something we do not wish to draw attention to. In your current state that is impossible.”
Pavel bobbed his head vigorously up and down, like a mechanical doll. He paced the room. Mr. Trope took that to mean agreement.
“Mr. Trusnik, there are very few of us, and it is because we upset the natural order of things that there are so few. We are an anomaly.”
“There are a lot of paintings of us if we are such an anomaly,” Pavel said. “Everywhere. Babies with wings, babies with horrid looks on their faces like those of a demon, or angelic faces of those that bring joy and light and love into the world. Tell me, was it babies like us who modeled for those paintings?”
“Per
haps the earliest ones were inspired by our kind. That is before my time. Later, it became something akin to myth or religion, and reality was no longer at play. I have been told in the early times, the wings were considered a blessing of some kind. A sign of fortune. The babies were allowed to keep their wings.”
“What happened?”
“People died, of course. Do you listen to anything? And then people got frightened. It was the natural order of things.”
“I want you to invest in the scientist, Darwin. Give him money for more research. I want to give him the opportunity to find out more. That is the investment I wish to make today.”
“I see,” said Mr. Trope.
“And don’t look so worried. I have no intention of making myself known to this man, nor do I have any plans to meet him in person though that is my desire. I wish to ask him any number of questions, but I realize that is impossible. I am not stupid, Mr. Trope.”
Mr. Trope shook his head at Pavel. “No, you are not stupid. You are immature and dangerous.”
“Well, that is encouraging,” said Pavel.
“I have to set up an anonymous foundation for financial gifts, and the money, of course, must come from a bank in England, but yes, that can be done. For a time. It cannot be done in perpetuity.”
“But others will continue his study and his research!”
“And the churches will do everything they can to stop that from happening. Pay attention to your own history of experiences. We must be careful. Even anonymous investors get unearthed by those who do not share their worldview.”
“Please do it.” Pavel picked up the book. “And enjoy the painting!” He burst back through the doorway with the same frenetic energy that had carried him inside.
***
Pavel rushed back to his workshop, ignoring the looks of the people in the street who gave him wide berth, or the shopkeepers that closed their doors upon his passing. Upon entering the workshop, Pavel went straight to the cupboard over the stove to search for various tea tins, but all of them were empty! The various craftsmen and seamstresses in the shop bent their heads, hard at work on their next production, and did not look at Pavel.
“Pavel.”
Pavel whipped around. Mr. McGovern sat in a chair at the table used for meals.
“Did you do this?” Pavel shook an empty tea tin.
Mr. McGovern took notice of the others in the workshop who had dared to look up at the two men. He waved at them.
“Please take off the rest of the day,” said McGovern, and all the workers exited the shop.
Pavel was incredulous. “You can’t do that!”
McGovern said nothing, but picked up Pavel, threw him over his shoulder, and while Pavel kicked at him like a trapped animal, McGovern carried him into the lavatory and put him, clothing and all, into the bathtub. Pavel had engineered a pump which connected a series of pipes to the outside well, and water flowed through the pipes into the basin, which then ran into the bathtub. McGovern pumped the well handle until water began to flow freely from the spout. He put Pavel’s head under the spout where the water proceeded to rush over the back of his head and neck. McGovern held him there, Pavel yelling and sputtering the entire time. McGovern was too strong for Pavel’s struggling, and after what seemed an interminable length of time, Pavel gave in and succumbed to the forced bath, allowing the water to continue rushing over his head. McGovern held him there for some time. After he determined that Pavel was no longer going to fight him, he grabbed the cake of soap and a cloth and proceeded to bathe Pavel with a rough hand.
“You stink, you are wearing ridiculous clothing, and you are obviously intoxicated on something you have created here. All these things draw attention to you, which we cannot afford. You are going to clean yourself up.”
McGovern continued his rough scrubbing. Pavel was humiliated, and at the moment filled with loathing for McGovern, who scoured Pavel as if he were a flea-ridden dog. After McGovern finished washing Pavel, he made him get out of the clothing, wrapped a large cloth around him and walked him back to his room. He handed him one of the bundles of clothing Trope & Co. had delivered to him and motioned that he get dressed.
“I’m fixing you something to eat. Come to the table when you are dressed,” said McGovern.
When Pavel made his way to the table he was starting to feel a little shaky. He had no idea how long he had been taking the herbal concoctions that he had carefully developed in specific dosages and added to his tea, producing his desired effect of euphoria and wakefulness. He had not slept for days as he worked on a new puppet. The carving was intricate and he had no idea how long he had been at it before being distracted by the arrival of his book. That delivery had sent him flying out the door, straight to the offices of Trope & Co.
McGovern placed a sandwich and a cup of black tea in front of him.
“Where did you find the tea?” asked Pavel.
“I brought my own.”
Pavel picked at the sandwich, realizing it had been some time since he had eaten. He was famished. He stuffed the sandwich into his mouth and drank the tea, while McGovern sat without speaking, watching him from across the table.
“This is the way things are to be,” began McGovern, when Pavel finished and sat back from the table.
“The herbs, the potion, whatever you are taking, stops now. You are to dress yourself with care, in the clothes that we bring you, if you are incapable of selecting acceptable attire. You are going to honor the memory of those wonderful people that raised you and continue to be that son, or I will come back here, and I will humiliate you in front of your colleagues again. You have become a spoiled, petulant, insulting and horrid parasite of a man, and you draw attention to us all. Do you understand me?”
Pavel was shocked. He considered what McGovern had said, the first person other than his parents who spoke to him in such a blunt and honest manner. He hugged his arms to his body. His hands still had a slight tremor.
McGovern continued. “This concoction of yours. There is talk it is affecting your memory. We cannot afford to forget who and what we are. I repeat, do you understand?”
Pavel, agitated, stood and shifted back and forth on his feet. “I understand. I have one favor to ask of you.”
“What is that?” said McGovern.
“Will you come visit for tea?” Pavel pleaded. “It doesn’t have to be often. Every once in a while. It could be once a year, even.”
McGovern considered Pavel’s request and softened a bit.
“Trope was right. This is about being lonely?”
Pavel’s eyes teared, and he did not answer. He could only move his head up and down, while continuing his agitated movement. McGovern guided Pavel back into his chair.
“I will come for tea. On occasion. Though I will expect you to have bathed.” McGovern smiled at him, his rough exterior softening a small bit.
Pavel put out his hand to shake McGovern’s.
“But it will only be for a while. Peters and I are being transferred overseas.” McGovern was referring to the other man that Pavel had seen in Mr. Trope’s offices.
Pavel opened his mouth in surprise.
“Yes, we have other locations. We are needed in America. New York, for now.”
Pavel thought about what Mr. Trope had said to Pavel about traveling. He wondered what it must be like, but he was tied here. His family, his roots. He felt bound to the theatre as if it was a part of him. He envied Mr. McGovern, and a part of him would miss the large, red-headed man that dunked him in a tub. In the meantime, until McGovern left, he would look forward to his visits, visits with someone of his own kind. Almost like family, Pavel thought.
Present Day
Pavel stood in the kitchen at the counter, and wearing heavy gloves, he worked with a section of wire mesh. He concentrated on connecting the mesh to a strong piece of wire, using needle-nose pliers to do the final twist on the material. His concentration was interrupted by the ringing telephone. He was on ever
y “no-call” list imaginable, and he could not think who would be calling him now. He glanced at the readout on the modern phone on the vintage kitchen countertop. The area code was from the Valley and the prefix familiar, but he could not place it.
“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.”
The Puppet Maker's Bones Page 8
