The Puppet Maker's Bones

by Alisa Tangredi

  “Yes, dear. Now do you plan on walking it the whole way home?”

  “I do!” Žophie laughed.

  “Good day, young man,” said Rychtar. “We shall speak again, soon.”

  “I look forward to it,” Pavel said.

  “As do I!” Žophie ran over to Pavel, placed a light peck upon his cheek and ran back to her father, laughing. “Táta, I have a puppet!”

  Pavel stood there, stunned and a little bit frightened as he watched father and daughter walk out the door of the workshop and into the world beyond.

  In all of his one hundred seventy-one years, Pavel had never been kissed until that moment.

  A voice interrupted Pavel’s reflection.

  “Are you worried what might happen to her?” The voice came from the doorway. A tall man was silhouetted by the sun behind him.

  Pavel realized he still had his gloved hand against his face in the spot where Žophie had kissed him. He dropped his hand.

  “I beg your pardon?” asked Pavel. “May I help you?”

  “I do hope so,” said the man. His voice was rich, deep, like that of a highly trained actor, thought Pavel. When the man walked into the workshop, Pavel was taken aback. The man was African.

  “Don’t be alarmed. Yes, I am African,” said the man, as he walked into the workshop, taking over the space with what theatre people liked to refer to as “enormous presence.” He brushed his hand over the scarred tabletop and delicately traced the lace costume on one of the puppets that hung from a wall hook. He turned in a full circle, dancelike, taking in the entire workshop with his gaze, then walked with a confident stride toward Pavel. “My original family called me Cheidu, but for years my name has been Robert Lamb.”

  “You… are American?” Pavel asked.

  “I came from there, yes, but for obvious reasons it seemed best to move elsewhere. But yes, I was born to free parents in the north and educated there. New York, to be precise.”

  “You are an actor.”

  “Yes.”

  “You speak Czech perfectly.”

  “I also speak German, French, Italian, and of course, English.”

  “I have never met a—”

  “Actor of Colour—to paraphrase how I was referred to in one of my London reviews? I suppose they would call me something more vulgar in America.”

  “Yes.”

  “I hear that your program includes a production of Othello?”

  “It does. Have you played him?”

  “Many, many times. I am quite nimble with a scarf. My hands manage to never make contact with the delicate Desdemona while the cursed scarf does all the work.” Robert Lamb began Othello’s farewell speech: “‘Farewell the plum’d troops and the big wars that make ambition virtue! O, farewell, farewell the neighing steed and the shrill trump, the spirit-stirring drum, th’ear piercing fife, the royal banner, and all quality, pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war!’” A lone tear made its way down the face of the actor.

  Pavel was moved by the simple and specific emotion that the actor conveyed without effort. “What brings you to this theatre? Why aren’t you in London or Germany? There must be many opportunities—”

  “For a man of my appearance to play every Moor written for the stage, or to don white face for other great roles—Shylock the Jew, perhaps?” Robert Lamb laughed. Pavel noticed the man’s pupils which had a certain bluish glow that seemed to change from deep red to amber and back to blue. Pavel had seen eyes like that before. He knew those eyes well. Trope, McGovern, Pavel himself— all possessed the eyes of the man who stood before him. He felt a sudden anxiousness and wanted to know everything there was to know about this man.

  “The puppet theatre is a strange place for a man of your talents.”

  “There are stranger things. ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’”

  “You have performed Hamlet?” Pavel asked.

  “Oh, wouldn’t that be the most wonderful thing, to do that?”

  Pavel considered that a moment and realized how ridiculous he must sound to the African actor.

  “Oh. I’m sorry. Yes, of course. I suppose you would play the gravedigger in that play?”

  “And I have!” Robert Lamb chuckled.

  “I’m afraid I am without resources to bring a new actor into the theatre. We budget for one, two, sometimes three live actors. Puppets do the rest.”

  “Can you teach me to act with a puppet?”

  Pavel gaped at the celebrated actor. “Why would you want to do that?”

  “Why, more opportunities, I suppose. Not fettered by my physical appearance, I could become one with the puppet, powered by my voice, my emotion.”

  “But payment?”

  “Is something we can discuss and not something I am concerned about. But I am afraid I have travelled quite a way and am a bit dusty. Do you have a place where I could wash up a bit?”

  “Yes, yes, of course. I’ll show you.”

  Pavel led the strange man to the lavatory and showed him the basin, cloths and soap. The lavatory was not much changed from when Pavel was a child, though the basin had been replaced by a cast iron trough set into the counter, which allowed more room for washing rags and brushes from the workshop.

  “I think you’ll find everything you need here.”

  “You are very kind.”

  “I’ll make us some tea.”

  “You are even kinder,” said Robert.

  The two men were alone in the workshop, and the actor Robert Lamb did not close the door all the way to the lavatory as he washed. He removed his upper garments to wash his face, neck and torso, and Pavel saw a vast network of crisscrossing scars over the entirety of his back that Pavel surmised to be the result of multiple whippings over an extended period.

  Two scars in that map of abuse stood out to Pavel, two scars that had not been made from the wounds inflicted by a whip. Robert Lamb had two bumpy scars that had been stitched by an amateurish hand, one over each shoulder blade, in the exact location as the scars on Pavel’s own shoulders.

  Pavel gasped.

  “I’m sorry. Would you prefer I shut the door?” asked Robert.

  “Your scars.”

  “Yes, over time there have been many people who thought to make an example of me, I’m afraid. Having parents who are free and being educated does not protect one from the slings and arrows of small-minded cowards.”

  “No. Not those. I am very sorry about those.”

  “Then?”

  “The scars on your shoulders.”

  “They are as old as I am, and have been a part of me as long as I can remember. I do not remember what made the scars, though I might have an idea or two.”

  Pavel was shaken by this.

  “Yes. You possess the same scars, Pavel Trusnik. I have travelled quite a way to meet you.”

  Pavel did not know what to make of this. How would this man know anything about Pavel?

  “An escaped puppet, finding its way home?” Pavel asked. He realized what he said sounded awkward and weird. The actor studied Pavel.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “My father, Prochazka, said that the scars were where they cut off my strings. That I was an escaped puppet that finally found my way home to the theatre.”

  “Ah! What a wonderful story your father made for you. He must have loved you very much. How old were you?

  “Seven.”

  “He used this story to take away the hurt, the curiosity—”

  “The story came to be true. Our whole family became a type of escaped puppet, I suppose.” said Pavel.

  “You do know the truth, however?” Robert asked with concern.

  Pavel stared at Mr. Lamb and shook his head, as if confused. The years of madness and the use of mind-altering herbs were not so long ago for Pavel that he did not still suffer a certain amount of periodic memory loss. McGovern’s visits had been a comfort and companionship, but in the dec
ades of grief following the death of his parents, Pavel’s herbal experiments had done a certain amount of damage. McGovern had the frustrating task of reminding Pavel of his reality, though Pavel would turn around and forget much of their conversation by the time their next visit occurred. McGovern told Pavel his mind would heal in time, but Pavel needed constant and vigilant reminders. Together they developed a few tools for Pavel to use to shake himself into reality. Pavel rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, and took a deep breath in an attempt to ground himself.

  “My dear man, are you quite mad?” asked Lamb.

  “Perhaps. A little. So people tell me. Some also say I’m quite immature.” Pavel seemed to feel quite comfortable talking to his new acquaintance. “Don’t you find yourself a little mad at times? Aren’t you very old? Like I am?”

  “My good Mr. Trusnik, I would not be the actor I am without being a raving lunatic. And as to the subject of my age—an actor never reveals his age. Otherwise he may never get to play Hamlet. Or Romeo.” His laugh was rich, and Pavel laughed with him.

  ***

  Several hours had passed since Robert Lamb crossed the threshold of the puppet theatre workshop. Robert and Pavel sat together at the table, two empty wine bottles between them. The two men were well into their third shared bottle. The actor Andrej Cerny entered and appeared genuinely surprised when he saw the two men. He regarded Robert with a strange expression, as if he did not trust his eyes.

  “Andrej Cerny! Meet Robert Lamb, our visiting guest actor from America, by way of London and most recently, Germany,” said Pavel.

  Mr. Cerny approached the two men with a flabbergasted look on his face.

  “I know who you are, Mr. Lamb. I had the great pleasure of seeing you in a performance of Titus Andronicus while traveling in Germany with my parents as a boy. I found you to be…”

  “Breathtaking?” asked Robert, bursting into laughter. “Not a very happy play for a child, I must say.”

  “Indeed, but it is one of the reasons I stand before you today,” said Cerny.

  “Ah, caught the proverbial disease, did you?”

  Cerny made a sweeping gesture with his hand up into the air as he bowed to Robert.

  “Indeed. And I was going to say that I thought your performance to be chilling. It is a great honor to meet you.” Andrej Cerny sat at the table. He appeared to be studying Robert’s face.

  “You look confused,” said Pavel.

  “Well, I must say I am, a bit. Why would a celebrated actor come to our little theatre in the middle of nowhere? And how do you know each other? Pavel you are keeping great secrets from us.”

  Robert poured Cerny a glass of wine.

  “Don’t worry,” said Robert. “I am not here to steal your roles — though I must say I will put up quite a decent fight over the role of Othello when you mount that play next.”

  “I would not dream of playing that role in your stead. There is always the great villain Iago to play, whom I would throw myself into with complete abandon.”

  “Ah, Iago. One of our greatest villains,” mused Robert.

  The three men raised their glasses.

  “How do you know each other?” asked Cerny.

  Pavel took a drink from his glass and responded, “We don’t. We only met today!” Robert Lamb snorted.

  “I don’t understand,” said Cerny.

  Pavel waved his hand in dismissal.

  “Mr. Robert Lamb is to be our guest artist for a bit. As long as he will have us, I think. He’ll be staying in the main house,” Pavel explained, as Robert protested and rose from the table.

  “No, I insist,” said Pavel. Robert returned to his seat.

  “Well, it is indeed an honor. I must say, Mr. Lamb, you are much younger in appearance than I assumed you would be,” said Cerny. The actor had the same odd expression on his face that he had upon seeing Robert Lamb for the first time, part disbelief, part fear.

  “Yes, well, the art of theatre makeup is a kind of magic, is it not? I do believe I could still play the ingénue!” He laughed again.

  “I was but a child when I first saw you. That must have been over twenty years ago.”

  “Shush, young man, you are on the very precipice of revealing your own age, which an actor never does,” warned Robert.

  Cerny continued to stare at Robert Lamb as if he was seeing a ghost. Pavel was aware of Cerny’s scrutiny of his new guest.

  Pavel stood. “I think I better show our new friend to his lodgings. He has travelled a long way, and I’m sure is quite tired.”

  “Yes, I admit between the travel and the wine, I am quite ready to sleep,” said Robert. “Andrej, I am looking forward to our first rehearsal together!”

  Andrej bowed again, still looking confused.

  “Don’t worry, Andrej,” Pavel said. “You are still our lead resident actor.”

  The information did not serve to change the look of confusion on the young actor’s face.

  “Is something wrong, Andrej?”

  “No. It is that… I truly thought he would be much, much older. It can’t be possible.”

  Pavel reassured him. “Well, you were mistaken. Not hard—you know the biographies they give the actors are filled with nonsense. You should know that. You wrote your own!” Pavel laughed.

  “Yes, of course. You are right about that. Good night to you, gentlemen!” Andrej drained his glass of wine and left the workshop. The two men exchanged glances as he exited.

  “It is unfortunate to be one of us and to be recognizable,” said Robert. “But an actor must find his stage.”

  “You look sad,” said Pavel.

  “I am. But no matter. Your young Andrej Cerny will forget about me in no time.”

  “How will he do that?”

  Robert got up from the table and began a stately walk around the room.

  “Oh, I believe he will be made an offer by another theatre that will be impossible to refuse. You will need to find yourself another actor like him.”

  “That should not be hard as there are always more actors than theatres. But how—?”

  Robert interrupted Pavel and waved his arm theatrically to indicate the room. “You know what puzzles me, Mr. Trusnik. How on earth have you managed to remain in the same place for such a long time, without drawing attention to yourself? And in a theatre, no less?”

  Pavel considered his answer. “I keep to myself, I suppose. I work behind the puppets, not in front of them. People in the theatre are transient. No one remains for any length of time. And in the town? I am not much to look at. I guess I blend in with everyone else.”

  Robert raised his hand and made a flourishing motion to indicate his approval. “A trait I think you have rehearsed to perfection.”

  “A little perhaps. I have had no desire to leave.”

  Robert, a little tipsy, raised his glass again. “You give me a bit of hope, Pavel. Well, that is sort of our job, isn’t it?” Robert winked at him.

  Pavel raised his own glass. “Hope? In what?”

  “That settling down is possible. I am getting so very tired,” said Robert.

  “Mr. Cerny has recognized you and will have more questions.”

  “I believe you and I do business with the same firm. Mr. Trope, yes? They do very good work at protecting the interests of people like you and me. I believe they will be able to address the matter of the confused Andrej Cerny.”

  “I often wonder. Are there so very many of us?”

  Robert paused before answering. “I don’t know. Wouldn’t that be dreadful?”

  The two drunk men walked arm and arm out the door, down the alley and around the backside of the building to the entrance of the main house where Robert Lamb, Cheidu to his family and close friends, would be setting up residence.

  Robert Lamb, the man who Pavel would also come to refer to as “Cheidu” was about to become Pavel’s very first friend, in one hundred seventy years.

  “You can sleep here.” Pavel showed Robert
to his new room, stumbling a little from the effects of the wine.

  “Are you sure I’m not putting you out of hearth and home?”

  “Not at all. You’ll see me in here plenty. We eat here, though sometimes I eat in the workshop if I’m very busy. I sleep in the workshop. I always have.”

  “I do hope you have refilled the mattress a few times over the past, what, one hundred fifty years?”

  The only person who knew Pavel’s actual age, was Leonard Trope. He chose to confide in his new friend.

  “One hundred seventy. And you?”

  “As I said, my dear, an actor never reveals his age.” Robert made a show with a flamboyant bow to Pavel, who felt a little betrayed that Robert had not shared the same confidence with him.

  Pavel put more wood in the stove to heat the stew that had been simmering in a pot since morning. He arranged the table while Robert was in the other room putting away his few belongings. Robert returned and surveyed the table.

  “A gorgeous meal for two!” said Robert. Pavel raised an eyebrow. “Oh, don’t look like that. You are far too old for me, nor do you match in any way the physical ideal that I adore.”

  Pavel invited Robert to sit. “I was not worried about that,” said Pavel “But thank you for your honesty.”

  “Well, we already share one terrible, deep dark secret, I feel we should be honest. Though I suppose you could tell. About me.”

  “I would not accuse you of being subtle,” said Pavel, smiling. “Or maybe being in a theatre for over one hundred fifty years gives someone like me a certain insight.”

  “You obviously are not uncomfortable in the company of a homosexual actor, then?”

  “Is there a reason that I should? Some new information? You are as you are.” Pavel shrugged. “I have watched so many people come through the theatre over the past decades. Everyone has a stripe of their own—some unique tick or idiosyncrasy or proclivity or addiction or something.” Pavel liked to sit and have a simple conversation with another man. He had not had a conversation like this since he was much younger, and had long talks with his father, Prochazka. He felt comfortable, content. Pavel’s visits from McGovern had been brief, civil, but nothing of much substance was discussed, despite all effort on Pavel’s part to have more in-depth discourse. He always felt that McGovern was fulfilling an obligation to Trope & Co., rather than visiting Pavel out of any affection that he might have for him.