Rychtar picked up a piece of pastry and appeared to be studying it, then put it down.
“You believe this? Women hold true power? Some would find that a rather weak point of view, coming from a man.”
Pavel considered that for a moment and smiled.
“Perhaps I am ahead of my time. Or I have read too many plays.” He shrugged.
“Have you have never been married?”
“I have never been so blessed, sir, no. That does not mean that I have not made certain observations over time.”
The judge laughed. “I think I might see what has my daughter in such a state of chaos over you, Mr. Trusnik.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Eduard Rychtar did not respond to his question. “The theatre is yours? And the workshop?”
“And the adjoining living quarters on the other side. The theatre is a family business, started by the founder of the theatre.”
“Prochazka. You are a descendant of his?”
Pavel began his century-old explanation of the theatre, which included the fabrication where he included himself as a distant relative.
“Yes. Prochazka’s theatre has been a part of our national Czech culture for 150 years now.”
Mister Rychtar chuckled. “I believe you have started the tour.”
Pavel made a small smile. “I suppose it is habit, when someone new comes who is curious.”
“I hear Prochazka’s ghost still haunts the theatre.”
Pavel gave another small smile and got up from the table and moved over to a workbench where he picked up a small marionette, about the length of Pavel’s arm, made up to look like a skeleton. He held it up for Mr. Rychtar to see. He rattled it to make a sound as if small bones were clattering against each other. In actuality, they sounded more like wind chimes than bones, since the marionette was made of a soft pine wood.
“So the actors tell me on occasion. They say ‘His bones still rattle on stage whenever we perform a tragedy.’ Perhaps he decided to stay.”
“You believe in ghosts?”
Pavel put the marionette back down on the workbench. “I believe in strong memories. And Prochazka did so love the tragedies.”
“You talk as if you knew him.”
“No, he is long passed from us, but I have had the privilege of reading his many journals.”
“And your parents, are they in the family business as well?”
Pavel did not enjoy being interrogated. No one had been this direct with him in terms of asking pointed questions about his father Prochazka or the theatre. Theatre people or audience members tended to talk about Prochazka like a legendary figure, and few asked Pavel about him. Why would they? To anyone around, Pavel was far too young to have had a personal acquaintance with the man. Prochazka and Nina had been his parents and he had no other family, unless you counted his business association with Trope & Co., so he was unaccustomed to fielding questions about a non-existent set of parents who might have lived in the last decade or so.
“My parents are no longer living, sir. I run it myself.”
“Ah. Žophie’s mother is no longer with us.”
Pavel bowed his head in sympathy.
“I’m sorry.”
“You are unmarried?”
“You asked me that.”
“Yes, of course I did, forgive me.”
“As I said, yes, sir. I am unmarried.”
“Any siblings?”
Pavel made a decision to end the afternoon interrogation. He had to prepare for a performance. He inhaled the smell of the sawdust, leather, wool, and metal dust that surrounded him into his nostrils, using the scent to focus upon remaining calm, unruffled.
“You ask a great deal of questions, Mr. Rychtar, that have very little to do with puppets.”
“Not part of the tour?” the judge asked. “I suppose not. I was curious. Such an old theatre, such a part of the culture, as you say. An institution. If you have no family, who will take over when you are no longer in charge?”
Pavel suddenly understood of the purpose of the probing questions regarding his family, his business, and his property. Mr. Rychtar was being a father, interviewing a potential suitor for his daughter. The idea relaxed Pavel.
“Ah. I see. If you are asking about the ownership of property, yes, the theatre and land is now mine. I plan on being here for a long time, but I will make the appropriate plans when the time comes. It will, depending on how things turn out, become a theatre of the state.”
“A state theatre. How grand!”
“I do not know. Perhaps I will leave it to one of my actors.” Pavel smiled.
Mr. Rychtar smiled back. “I deserved that.” He looked around the shop and back at Pavel. “Well, it was nice to meet you, Mr. Trusnik. I should think I would like to stop by again with my daughter to take a look at how the puppet theatre works in more detail. Would tomorrow be all right? I believe you told my daughter that tomorrow was fine.”
“Yes, tomorrow it is. I will make another tea.”
“Until then.” Mister Rychtar left.
Pavel thought Rychtar was strange, and he was unsettled by the entire encounter, though he understood its purpose. He was not used to having to answer so many questions about himself. He was surrounded by actors and performers who were far more interested in themselves or their craft to probe into Pavel’s life or history. He squinted at the table clock and realized he had very little time to get to the theatre for the evening performance. He grabbed a pastry left over from the tea with Mr. Rychtar and stuffed it into his mouth as he ran out the door, down the alley and up the stairs to the theatre’s backstage area. That evening, the company would perform Faust, an audience favorite due to the scary puppets and high drama. Once backstage, he donned his blacks, the black clothing worn by the puppeteers, and picked up the first marionette he would be controlling and voicing. He had done his part of the performance hundreds of times, but for some reason he was having trouble remembering the order of scenes. That made him chuckle, something he had not done in years, not since he’d been with Prochazka. He wished the man was there now, so he could tell him about Žofie and her very strange father. Prochazka would have liked such a tale.
***
“Spirits, Witches, Gods, insanity, murder, oh! She goes mad—a poodle turning into Mephistopheles—how did you do that with the puppets? So fluid! So without effort, oh! So much life to the play! The man and the demon, wise man versus the fool—so much for the theatre to fill, to do…. It was breathtaking!” Žophie raved about Faust, which she had seen performed the previous evening.
“I must say, the imagination that went into everything was rather impressive,” said Eduard Rychtar, Žophie’s father. As promised, they had come to visit the workshop in between shows.
“I wish I had known you were going to attend. I would have made arrangements for your seating,” said Pavel. The young woman surprised him in her enthusiasm. He was a little worried about her father. He set out a tray for them at the table which was often used by the theatre people for meals taken throughout the workday, when the actors came in for their costume fittings or when seamstresses and other workers needed a repast. The table was built from a huge piece of alder wood, a much stronger and harder wood than the pine used for the puppets. The table was scarred from nearly two hundred years of use, but it had been constructed by Prochazka when he was alive and had been built to withstand anything. Pavel used this simple, yet sturdy table as an example to himself and to any other workman in the shop of the importance of attention to detail and quality of craftsmanship in anything constructed in the workshop. He had a plate of sliced apple, pastries and open-faced sandwiches which he set down while he moved about the space, collecting cups and things for tea from the cupboards over the stove. The kettle was heating.
“Our seats were wonderful. The play was wonderful!” said Žophie.
“I’m afraid my daughter is quite taken by the theatre. I have horrible fears of her running aw
ay to become an actress. I am hoping you might discourage her from this?” said her father. Pavel was unsure whether he was being serious or not.
“I would discourage anyone from choosing the theatre as a profession,” Pavel said with a smile. “The pay is horrible, the hours are quite long, and do not forget, if people do not like what they see, they throw rotting vegetables in your face. Not very subtle of them, would you agree?”
“Oh dear, has that happened to you?” asked Žophie.
“Not to me, no. Though we have had performances where it did happen. I am either standing behind the puppets or controlling them from the rafters above the stage. I believe it was a puppet named Vincent that was on the receiving end of an overripe tomato on one particular evening, while I was tucked behind him. Thanks to Vincent, I came to no harm.” Žophie laughed, eyes dancing. Pavel found he enjoyed making her laugh. He was unused to speaking much to people in such an intimate setting—intimate to Pavel, anyway. His infrequent visits with Mr. McGovern, where they sat at this very table for tea, had ended when McGovern had travelled to America. How many years was that now? Socializing with McGovern had helped, however, so Pavel was not completely awkward in the presence of others when the situation arose, like now. But it was a struggle. He was at relative ease when he voiced the puppets, draped in black, unseen behind or above them as he concentrated on their control and movement. He was confident when he had to instruct craftsman on the construction of a puppet or a theatre prop, on the best way to carve an eye socket or attach an arm on one of the puppets. He was confident when instructing a crew member how to tighten a hanging scrim, that finely woven cloth used for creating visual effects on stage with lighting, or how best to execute a particular effect the director might want, like fire or the illusion of water on stage. Actors tended to stick together and did not often speak with the people on the more technical side of things unless they had a specific question. Pavel was one of those people, though his puppetmaster abilities were unsurpassed, and he was considered to be more of a craftsman than a performer. Actors did not often speak to him. Further, he made it a rule to not accompany the actors when they socialized. Rather, he did not interact or socialize with anyone, other than to discuss theatre craft with other professionals. Pavel kept to himself. Prochazka and Nina had taught him that was the best way to avoid personal questions which could be difficult or awkward to answer.
For some reason, however, he found himself quite comfortable discussing the theatre and talking about his work with Žophie and her father.
“Are you a religious man, Pavel?” asked Rychtar.
Pavel was no longer comfortable. He most hated this type of question.
“Táta, don’t ask that.”
“If you’re asking because of the content of the play,” Pavel said, “I think the theatrics and drama of the psychology expressed in the play are what draws theatre people to perform it, not to mention audiences to see it, not necessarily the religious aspects, though those are there, without question. The fascination with the pull between good and evil is undeniable and something everyone can feel on a personal level. There is such a richness and complexity to everyone, don’t you think?”
“I would have to agree with that, yes,” said Rychtar.
“Oh, will you show me the puppets now?” said Žophie.
“My daughter is rather impulsive. Please forgive her interruption.”
“Not at all. If you have had enough to eat, I can show you the shop.”
“Yes, please!” Žophie said.
Pavel led the way as they got up from the table.
“I must ask you to be careful where you step. We keep a very tidy workshop, but things can still drop to the ground that could cause injury if stepped upon. I checked everything earlier and did a thorough sweeping, so all should be well, but I still wish to caution you, since we are walking around wood and glass and sharp tools. We’ll move around the outer edge of the room and work our way in, all right?”
Žophie moved to follow Pavel’s lead. Her father joined them. Pavel picked up a pair of work gloves from a bench and put them on. He moved to an odd little marionette, hanging from the wall, with bright red hair made of yarn and an off-center, clownish expression on its face.
“This is Sammy the Redheaded Weird Boy. My first puppet, given to me as a child. He taught me everything I know.”
“He seems quite old,” said Rychtar.
“What kind of name is that?” said Žophie.
“Well, look at him. I should think that would explain it. He is a horrible actor and never ended up in any of the shows, but he was a good teacher. And yes, he is quite old, but he can still walk.” Pavel took Sammy down from the wall and used the control to manipulate Sammy into walking around the workshop with the others. The top of Sammy’s head reached just under Pavel’s knee, so Pavel stooped over a little to work the control. Žophie laughed and clapped her hands.
“Oh, that’s wonderful! Can you show me?”
Pavel became uncomfortable and was not sure how to respond. He had not anticipated this part of the tour.
“As I said, my daughter is impulsive,” said Rychtar.
“Hmmm. I had not planned on a lesson today. Let’s see. All right, follow me.” Pavel led them by walking Sammy to the other side of the shop where a small marionette of a donkey lay upon a workbench. The white donkey was covered with black spots, and its huge, red-lipped grin revealed large teeth. The puppet’s silly expression was due to eyes carved wide, with off-center pupils.
“This is Lucky,” said Pavel, picking up the marionette.
“Lucky, the donkey?” Žophie asked.
“What? Donkeys cannot be lucky, they must only be stubborn?” said Pavel. He manipulated the donkey to sit abruptly upon its haunches and to shake its head back and forth, as if it was refusing to move.
Žophie laughed. “All right. Show me what to do.”
Rather than guide her hands with his own, the way some puppeteers might teach others, Pavel stuck with Sammy as example. He put Lucky back down on the table.
“Go ahead, pick him up. Use the control, like this.” Žophie picked up Lucky and held him, copying Pavel’s movements with Sammy. Lucky was small but so was Žophie, and the puppet body reached about mid-thigh level. She had to raise her arms up a bit higher to stretch out the strings that controlled the puppet, but she watched, fascinated, as Pavel showed her in slow motion how to manipulate the strings attached to the control.
“Can you move my hands with yours and show me that way?” she asked, and Pavel glanced at her father, who stood by, observing.
“Žophie, I think you are being a bit familiar. Watch how he holds his own. You can figure it out,” said her father.
“I am showing you the way that I was shown. I was taught that it is best to learn it by studying, watching, then doing it yourself from the beginning. Slowly.”
“I find that to be true with many things,” said Žophie’s father.
“Here, watch.” Pavel held the control and moved his fingers over the strings as Žophie watched with intense concentration. “This is how we manipulate them.”
“Oh! Look! I’m doing it!” Žophie walked the donkey and laughed. Pavel and Eduard both smiled as she proceeded to walk the donkey marionette through the warehouse, improving as she went. She seemed to have forgotten the two men in the workshop and was focused solely on the puppet under her control. Pavel had never seen anyone so filled with happiness, and he remembered the first time he made Sammy walk around the workshop. He and Prochazka had laughed until they thought the very walls of the workshop would come down around them. Pavel smiled at the memory.
“Tell me something, Pavel,” said Rychtar, when Žophie was out of earshot, lost in her new activity.
“Yes?”
“Why do you hide that you are, in fact, a very wealthy man who does not have to work and who does not have to live in the back of a puppet theatre workshop?”
Pavel said nothing, and avoid
ed making eye contact with Rychtar.
“I have done a little research on you, since my daughter seems quite suddenly smitten with everything about you and your world. She is like that. She grabs hold of something and never lets go. She is not fickle and does not move from one excitement to another. So I have to look at you with a certain seriousness that other fathers might avoid while their daughters flit from one fancy to the next. It is quite exhausting being this vigilant, because her choices are so permanent. Do we understand each other?”
Pavel did not know how to answer.
“You have done very well for yourself. You own more properties in this town than I do. How did I not know that before my research?”
“I’m not one who likes to stand out in a crowd. Money tends to make that happen to a person if people know about it, don’t you think?”
“Ah, yes. There is that aspect to it, yes. I can see a point to desiring anonymity.”
“I like my work. I prefer the workshop. I am comfortable here.”
“But what if you started a family? What about their comfort?”
“Well, I do not have one, so that has not been a hurdle I have had to jump. I suppose if that were to occur, I would make the changes necessary. Live in a house, perhaps. Get a dog.” Pavel smiled at Rychtar.
“For someone who appears to be so young, I think you are quite wise, Pavel Trusnik. Quite wise.” Rychtar patted Pavel on the back, and Pavel flinched.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Are you injured?” said Rychtar.
“No, I… no, you surprised me.”
Rychtar laughed. “Well, I wasn’t going to strike you, young man. Far from that. I must say this has been a very interesting and enjoyable afternoon.” Both men turned toward Žophie, who was engrossed in walking the puppet.
“Žophie! We must be going!”
“Oh, dear, must we? I am having such a marvelous time!”
“You may have the puppet. My gift to you for being such an enthusiastic audience and quick student,” Pavel said.
“Really?! Oh, Táta, isn’t that wonderful? I have a marionette!”
The Puppet Maker's Bones Page 10
