The Puppet Maker's Bones

by Alisa Tangredi

  Kevin had left his digital recorder at home, so no music would accompany this killing, but there is always merit in variety, thought Kevin.

  1883

  “Father, I have decided I wish to marry Pavel and move to America.”

  Pavel and Eduard Rychtar stared, open-mouthed, at Žophie, both men surprised and stunned. They sat at the dining table in the Rychtar home and had enjoyed a quiet evening meal when Žophie made her announcement. Rychtar’s eyes flashed.

  “Sir, I assure you I am as surprised by her as you are. Žophie, what mischief are you up to now?” Pavel asked.

  “None. I think it is time you and I were married, and I want to move to America.”

  “Žophie, this is highly inappropriate. You do know it is customary for the man to ask the woman for her hand. And that comes after the man has had the opportunity to discuss things with the woman’s father. That’s me, in case you have forgotten.”

  “I don’t care. If I wait to be asked, I’ll be a toothless old crone. Pavel, you weren’t going to ask me unless I asked you. Were you?”

  Pavel was silent.

  “And Táta, it was not as if you were approaching Pavel to see what his intentions were or when he planned on making those intentions known. You are both slow as turtles.”

  “I fail to see what the rush is. We have been spending a good amount of time getting to know one another,” Rychtar said.

  “Yes, and you and Pavel already have business that you conduct with one another. I know this.” Žophie was referring to a parcel of land that the two had invested in together and were in discussion with several architects regarding building plans. The past year had proved to be a positive year for Pavel and Eduard Rychtar as friends first, then colleagues.

  “Does Pavel have any say in this matter of yours, daughter? You are rather putting him in a corner, aren’t you? And at dinner?”

  “Pavel? Tell me you don’t want to marry me and go to America.”

  “Mr. Rychtar, it appears that things have gotten away from us somehow, and I have no choice in the matter but to try to attach some normalcy to the proceedings. I know this is irregular, and no, this has not been discussed prior to this moment, but if you would do me the honor of granting me your daughter’s hand, I would be most grateful.”

  “No! You don’t get to take this away from me,” said Žophie. “This is my proposal. My idea. Either you want to or not, but you don’t get to try to twist it around to being normal and boring and predictable. Father? I would like to marry Pavel and move to America. Apparently he wants to marry me. So?”

  “Žophie, why America? They just had a war—” Eduard said.

  “That was almost twenty years ago, and I don’t want to go to that part,” she said. Žophie got up from the table and ran out of the room. The two men exchanged a look, shook their heads and laughed. Pavel felt a host of emotions and was trying not to breathe for fear of blurting out—what, he wasn’t sure. A laugh, a cry, a wail of despair. Žophie reentered the room carrying a pile of papers and pamphlets and books.

  “The location is in a place called California—nowhere near where they had the war. The weather is beautiful all the time, and people are moving there from all the colder places in the country to be there. They are building such grand and unusual homes—look!”

  “How on earth did you come by these pamphlets? What would you possibly know about America?” asked Eduard.

  “Father, you did not raise me to be an idiot. Pavel is a self-educated man. Why can’t I follow his example and educate myself about things in the world other than our tiny little existence here? I want to go where it is new. It is in an area in the San Gabriel Valley near the mountains along a river they call the Arroyo Seco. Look at these illustrations! It is beautiful. They are calling it the Indiana Colony of California.”

  The men examined the pile of paper collected by Žophie and then at each other.

  “And I wish to marry Pavel and go there.”

  “Pavel? Do you wish to have any say in the matter? Do you have any desire to leave your work, your theatre?” asked Eduard.

  Pavel spoke with care. He was attempting to control his breathing and reduce his rapid heartbeat, but it was taking some effort. “Žophie, I would very much like to be your husband. But America?” He could not believe his fortune. This beautiful woman loved him.

  “All right! Fine, you two go talk about it or talk to your people or go look around your theatre and ask your puppets or do whatever it is that you do, but I expect an answer.”

  “Žophie, I don’t know what to do with you,” said her father.

  Pavel stood. “This evening has become very odd and has given me much to think about. If you don’t mind, I will excuse myself for the evening. I believe I have been assigned the task of making a decision. Žophie. Eduard. I will speak with you both on another day.”

  Žophie ran to him. “You are not upset? Tell me you are not upset, Pavel. You do want to marry me, yes?”

  ***

  Dear Mr. Trusnik:

  It is of the utmost urgency that we see you at our offices at Trope & Co. A matter has come to our attention that requires our immediate action. It is of the utmost urgency that we speak with you regarding your association with one Žophie Rychtar, daughter of Judge Eduard Rychtar. The matter, while urgent, is of a delicate nature and will be handled with all appropriate discretion.

  Sincerely,

  Leonard Trope

  Mr. Trope told Pavel that in his present state of denial he was becoming a danger to himself and to others. The letters stated that Pavel had no idea how dangerous he actually was. He had a drawer full of warning letters, all outlining why it was imperative that he cease his association with Žophie Rychtar, and he had read all of these letters and summarily dismissed them. Did they not tell him he could hope? Pavel meant to marry Žophie.

  “Žophie, you must allow me some time to think, yes?” Pavel stumbled out the door, and halfway between the Rychtar home and his workshop lodgings he collapsed on the side of the road. Anxiety had caused a stitch in his side that was making it difficult for Pavel to walk or breathe. He doubled over and threw up at the side of the road. America? Married? He had never left here. His family was here. Well, the theatre was here, which was a monument to his family. How could he leave that? She was asking him for the impossible. Yet a part of him wanted, for her, to make it possible.

  Pavel thought of a million ways to break his association with her. He had begun the conversation countless times in his head, how he was not meant to be with anyone, how she had greater prospects than he, how he had no plans to travel the globe. His rehearsed speeches fell flat. He had no resolve when it came to Žophie, for he had fallen hopelessly in love. Pavel meant to marry Žophie, and he hoped with every fiber of his being that Mr. Trope and all the worrying souls who sent him letters of warning, were simply that. Worrying souls. Nothing bad could come of this. This was love. There was nothing greater and more hopeful than love.

  ***

  “Behold. Unloved vegetables,” Žophie said. Only yesterday had Žophie announced that she intended to marry Pavel, and he was still wrestling with the host of emotions at war with his reason. They sat under a tree surrounded by boulders which provided a makeshift table and chairs for an outdoor luncheon. Žophie had brought a stew of lamb and potato, with the addition of several root vegetables which Pavel quite liked: rutabaga, turnip, parsnip, carrot and beet. Pavel stared at them, overjoyed.

  “You cooked them yourself!” he said.

  “With a great degree of reluctance!” Žophie countered.

  “I happen to love all root vegetables. It does them a great injustice to call them ‘unloved,’” he said, smiling.

  “I would call it an injustice to make us eat them!” she said, returning his smile. Pavel loved her smile. And her laugh made every place sound better, by changing whatever outside noise his ear might register to something musical and happy.

  One year ago, Žophie
had walked through the door of his workshop. She made him happy. Hopeful.

  He ate his turnips and rutabagas and parsnips and was content with the beautiful day. One thing marred the otherwise perfect afternoon, and that was the fifth letter of warning from Trope & Co. regarding his association with Žophie which resided as a crumpled ball in the pocket of Pavel’s trousers. He knew, without reading, what they wished to speak with him about, and it did not involve making the room a better place or laughter or happiness. Or hope.

  “What is making you look so serious, Pavel?” asked Žophie.

  “Do I look serious? How rude of me. That was not my intention. I was thinking about a new design for one of my puppets, but it involves a very special element.”

  “What kind of element?”

  “Your face.”

  “What? My face?”

  Pavel decided if there was a possibility he would never see her again, there was one thing he could do to keep a bit of her with him.

  “I would like to make a puppet in the likeness of the most beautiful woman I know.”

  “Oh, Pavel! How wonderful! What can I do? Wait. Did you say the most beautiful woman you know?”

  “I suppose I did. I might have been lying. You can never be sure when people are talking about puppets. They all lie.”

  Žophie pushed him into the clover that grew at the base of the boulders. He rolled and landed upon his knees. He laughed and stood, and noticed the green clover stain on his knee. He laughed and shrugged.

  “It will require a certain amount of patience on your part. And no squirming whatsoever, or the results will be quite awful,” said Pavel.

  “Sounds so mysterious!” she said.

  “Not so much. I take a plaster cast of your face, leaving you room to breathe, of course, and once the plaster dries, I have a perfect outline of your face.”

  Žophie studied him for a moment, looking a little unsure. If she had misgivings, she dismissed them, for she threw her hands in the air and laughed.

  “You are so very creative!”

  “Oh, I am not the first to try this, I can assure you. Would you want to? I’m afraid it will leave a small bit of a mess, but you can wash up with little or no evidence of our silliness.”

  “Can we do it right now?” Žophie asked and put away the lunch plates and utensils.

  “But I haven’t finished my ‘unloved vegetables,’” Pavel said.

  “They’ll have to wait. This is too exciting!”

  With that, the couple walked back to the workshop. Pavel tried not to think about the letter from Trope that was crumpled in his pocket.

  ***

  Robert Lamb entered the workshop, hearing laughter from his friend. Pavel stood over the workbench, his hands in heavy gloves which were covered with some sort of gooey white substance. Below him, a woman with a large glob of plaster completely covering her face leaned back in a chair, and straws protruded from her nose and mouth. She appeared to be shaking with laughter.

  Robert approached, keeping his face neutral. He had been watching Pavel’s friendship grow with Žophie. He had been spoken to by Mr. Trope and was quite concerned.

  “No, you can’t move, you’ll crack it!” Pavel said. He noticed Robert and waved him into the room. “Okay, Robert has entered the room. Don’t be startled when he starts to talk. I don’t want you to go and do something silly like jump up and start running around the room, screaming.”

  “Will he, nill he?” Robert quoted Hamlet.

  “Cheidu, you are uncannily on time. How would you like to have yourself immortalized?” The two men shared a look. Robert raised his eyebrow at his friend and smirked.

  “You mean keep this young and handsome face forever?” he said. Pavel punched him in the arm.

  “I need to make a plaster cast of your face. To make your puppet!”

  “Ah! A doppelganger! How thrilling. Pavel, you are a constant source of amazement to me. Where would you like me to drape myself?” Pavel led his friend over to a chair and positioned him.

  “Are you comfortable?” asked Pavel.

  “Oh, without question. Out of curiosity, how long will this remain on my face? I have a tea engagement later.”

  “Not too long. I don’t want you to start itching.”

  Before long, Pavel had both Žophie and Robert leaning back in their respective chairs in the workshop, plaster over their faces, straws out of their noses and mouths, both able only to groan in protest at anything Pavel had to say.

  “I believe this is the one and only time I will find either one of you absolutely speechless,” Pavel said. “In fact, I believe this is the one and only time I will ever find myself in complete control of anything that has anything to do with anything where either one of you are concerned.”

  His friends groaned.

  “Oh, I assure you, when this is all over, you’ll thank me. I plan on making beautiful carvings of you both. Young and beautiful forever, my escaped puppets, yes?”

  Žophie’s groan was lilting and sounded more like a question.

  “Ah yes, Žophie, you aren’t familiar with the story my ancestor used to tell about his family members. He called them all his escaped puppets. I am but a mere descendant of a long line of them, leading back to Prochazka, founder of the theatre.”

  After the plaster was dry on both of them, Pavel removed it, first from Žophie and then from Robert. He turned the masks to show the inside that had been against their faces and watched their reactions as they saw the contours of their own faces.

  “Fascinating,” said Robert.

  “That is a little unnerving,” said Žophie. “It is almost like a death mask.”

  “Oh don’t say that! It will be beautiful. You have to trust me,” said Pavel.

  “Thank you, Pavel,” said Robert. “I look forward to seeing my double. We can do all the plays where twins are featured. Comedy of Errors, anyone? Can we put white face on a puppet?”

  Pavel laughed and gave Robert another playful punch in the arm. “I love you all, madly, but must dash off to tea! I expect those puppets to be gorgeous!” Robert swept out of the theatre as Pavel and Žophie laughed.

  ***

  When Robert returned to the workshop, several hours later, he found Pavel still busy at the workbench, creating a template for the wood carving he would do of the face masks. He created their faces out of clay as a first step in the process, molding and sculpting and making a three dimensional image which would serve as a template when later making his wood carving.

  “My good man, you do work late,” said Robert.

  “It is not very late. Is it? Have you come from dinner? Would you like to have something to eat?”

  “I was supposed to have tea, but I’m afraid there was more whiskey than tea and very little food, so yes. Yes, I’m starved. Back to the house?”

  “Yes. Tell me. What do you think of you?” Pavel held up the clay bust of Robert that he had been working on. Robert walked over, a little unsteady after his tea that was more whiskey. He scrutinized the bust, turning the base so that he could review all sides of the creation.

  “You are a very gifted artist, Pavel. It looks wonderful. But I do have magnificent bone structure for this sort of thing to make it easy for you. Thank you. It is quite moving to have an artist capture one’s image in a form like that.”

  “You’re welcome. In finished form, it will be a marionette. About your size, I think. Rod and wire.”

  “Even more impressive. Be sure to make me a good-looking puppet. Some of them can be so hideous and frightening.”

  “That is because they are supposed to be,” said Pavel. “Can’t have crones or devils or dwarfs or monsters that are painted in pastels and have pretty smiles on their faces.”

  “No, I think not. Shall we to dinner?”

  The two men walked to Robert Lamb’s house and worked together to create a dinner. They were silent while each did their part, but the two did not need conversation. Since Robert’s br
ief residency, the men had grown to be quite close, and a brotherly bond existed between them. Not until the dinner was set upon the table, the wine poured and the two men seated did conversation begin.

  “Žophie has informed both me and her father that she means for us to marry and move to America,” said Pavel. He was nervous and concentrated on his breathing. He searched his friend’s face for his reaction to the news.

  Robert choked a bit on his wine. “Are you serious?”

  “Yes.”

  “Married? America?”

  “Yes. Some place in the south of California in a settlement called the Indiana Colony. She already has the plans for the house she wants there.”

  “You. Marrying Žophie.” Robert put down his fork and sat back.

  “She is very persuasive when she wants something. I believe she will have that house.”

  Robert took a sip of his wine and weighed his words. “Have you received any correspondence from Mr. Trope about this?”

  Pavel did not mention the numerous letters of warning. Trope did not know about the plans to marry, so it was not a complete lie.

  “Trope doesn’t know.”