Issue #93

Pucci's Puppetworks

by Salvatore Difalco

The sign wasn't big enough. Drove by it three times. Finally I saw it hanging over the entrance of a nondescript and poorly lit storefront: blocky black letters on pale green vinyl. In the wan dusk light, I could barely decipher it. Business must have been slow. Adjacent storefronts looked abandoned, bombed out. The neighborhood had not yet recovered from the last catastrophe, or the one before that. Sadly, this had become a commonplace.

Two of the paladins from my Opera dei pupi cast—Ruggero and Ferragut—needed upgrades after a record number of performances that past year. They were looking a little ragged. Despite the problematic and trying times—or perhaps because of them—my puppet operas had been in demand for events like children's birthday parties, first communions, anniversaries, and even a funeral for a Sicilian senior whose last wish was the staging at his wake of a violent episode of the Carolingian cycle. As I recall, except for the histrionic remonstrations of the man's morbidly obese son—who had a horror of puppets—it went over quite well.

My colleague Glinski, who collected and sold Yoke thé and Hun krabok puppets and possessed an encyclopedic knowledge of puppetry in general—he could prattle on ad infinitum about Vietnamese water puppetry for instance, or Afghani buz baz—had strongly recommended the place. "Pucci knows Opera dei pupi better than anyone in these parts," he said. "He's Sicilian, right from Palermo. But just be forewarned, he's a bit strange."

Glinski, a serious man who treated his puppets with a respect and tenderness he rarely afforded to humans, would not have recommended Pucci unless he was the genuine article. And frankly, I'd be suspicious of a man repairing or trafficking in puppets who was not a bit strange.

I entered the shop, which except for some wood notes smelled like a cobbler's workroom, and scanned the space, crammed from roof to floor with marionettes, dolls, and puppets of every conceivable variety. In various states of completion or repair, they rested like spent soldiers in shelves or dangled like mangled criminals from wires nailed to ceiling beams, some gently oscillating. A few, rarely collected, giant papier-mâché puppets of the Filipino Higantes tradition, huddled conspiratorially in a corner like a monstrous street gang. I had the uncanny feeling they were conscious of my presence.

"You like my hacienderos, I see," said a voice from the back. A man with a shock of white hair and wire spectacles perched mid-nose, emerged from the shadows and stood there with his hands on his aproned hips. A blood-stained bandage covered his left ear. "They cost me a patrimony, they did, and I've been offered double that for them, but in my dotage I am a lonely man, sir, and to be frank, they keep me company. I am not as clever as Signor Geppetto haha, and can't make puppets come to life, but I swear at times I can hear those chaps having a good laugh or talking about me behind my back, the bastards. Because, make no mistake, they can be bastards. I can tell you stories, oh yes I can." He paused and smiled bitterly. "Things always have a way of going wrong, don't you find? Look at the world today. Just look at it. Uh, forgive my babbling, sir, I am somewhat out of sorts this evening. Anyway, what can I do for you?"

"Ari Glinski recommended you," I said, producing the twin, red tin boxes which housed Ruggero and Ferragut.

"Glinski knows from puppets."

I removed the marionettes from the boxes and Pucci took one in each hand and gave them a light heft as though testing their weight or solidity. He laid them gently on a worktable with their dulled faces turned up and bent over to examine them.

"These fellows look like they've been through the wars," Pucci said. "The faces need a complete makeover. And the armor on both needs replacement. It has corroded beyond repair. And the raiments in general—"

"Two things," I said. "How much time, and how much money?"

Pucci looked up at me, eyes peering above his lenses, and allowed his lower lip to droop and his head to lean forward. "Are you impatient, sir?"

"Well, Signor Pucci," I said, "I have a business, you see. I'm booked for a number of engagements in the following weeks and I don't want to cancel."

Voices erupted in the back—furious, staccato, verging on violence—but quickly fell silent. I glanced at Pucci, but he averted his face. I turned my ear to the source of the commotion and listened but heard nothing further.

"I think you should go," Pucci said, darting glances over his shoulder. "I really don't have time to work on these. As you can see, I have my hands full here. And furthermore, I've developed a disdain for Opera dei pupi. It's become a little tired, a little boring in my estimation."

I was stunned. I didn't know what to say. He handed back the marionettes and I slid them into their boxes. The voices erupted again. This time they went on for a few seconds. I had difficulty locating them. I turned to the corner where the Higantes were assembled, and they seemed to be trembling, shifting slightly, but I wasn't sure. Pucci grew agitated, almost bouncing on his toes.

"You must leave now, sir!" he cried.

The panic in his voice alarmed me. "Is everything okay?"

"Nothing is okay, sir. Nothing in this world is okay. Do you know why Pinocchio hanged himself?"

"I'm not sure," I said.

"Because of his mendacity and disobedience, that's why." Pucci picked up what looked like an Irish hurling stick and clapped the wooden bas in his palm. The voices erupted again and he glanced over his shoulder. "Now you'd best be on your way, sir," he said. "This puppet business is no easy business."