The Marionettist

People don’t take marionettes seriously. They laugh at them, they fear them. Or they have no opinion of them whatsoever. People don’t know how much skill is required to manipulate marionettes, that it takes years of study and practice. People don’t know the word marionette stems from the Virgin Mary, a popular character in Medieval puppet plays that enacted biblical scenes. Marionette means little Mary in French. And that means something to me, for among my passions, veneration of the Virgin Mary ranks highest next to my vocation, a marionettist.

People balk when I tell them what I do. They ask if I make enough to pay the bills, if I need a second job for that. When I tell them I get along fine as a marionettist, that my rent and bills are always paid, they sometimes scoff and walk off laughing. Or they take me at my word, perhaps impressed. Some ask to see my show. I tell them I perform infrequently. That the performances take so much out of me, I must ration my energies.

“So that’s supposed to be the Virgin Mary?” asked one spectator last week.

“I detect a note of sarcasm in your voice,” I replied, vigilant to falsity.

“You’re fucking crazy.”

So many of my exchanges with the public go this way. My little Mary should provoke empathetic vibrations, not enmity. In her sky-blue and white robes, ceramic blue eyes full of yearning, big red heart exposed to the world, what is there to hate? It took hours to get the heart right. I tried four or five different shades of red and finally settled on radical vermillion. My show, Mary and the Donkey, is too often misconstrued. The pregnant Virgin Mary rode to Bethlehem on a donkey, a common mode of transport back then. I almost said back in Jesus times, but Jesus wasn’t born yet.

The donkey construction was easy-peasy. I hammered together a plain wooden frame, adding hinges for articulation of the head, limbs and tail, and pierced holes for the strings. Then I covered it with papier-mâché, used a gray chenille for the fur and black marbles for the eyes. The ears came out long, but that’s okay. Children like the ears. When adults let them watch my show, they like the ears. Most adults prohibit viewing of my show by children. I don’t understand why. My message edifies.

I spend all morning fixing the donkey. I dropped it yesterday and the muzzle bent.

“You’re woking hard,” Mary says.

“There’s always something. Do you need anything?”

“No, I’m good. I think I’ll have a nap.”

“You do that. You need your rest.”

Mother is calling me. “What, Ma?”

She asks who’s up here with me.

“I’m rehearsing, Ma. I’m rehearsing, okay!”

Mother rails that I should get a real job. What does that mean? Does it mean my job as a marionettist is not real? Does that mean I’m not real? The government gives me a small amount each month that I hand over to Mother after I take what I need for my marionettes. I don’t need much else besides that. I live simply. So if I earn anything for a show, I consider it a bonus. When I performed for seniors at a public library branch in the suburbs last autumn, the head librarian handed me an envelope with forty dollars and my own library card. The seniors complimented me up and down for that show. Mother shouts that dinner is ready.

“You need to get out of that room,” she tells me over gnocchi with tomato sauce.

“I have a gig this weekend, Ma. I need the practice.”

“Lucky your father’s not alive, or he’d put an end to this nonsense. How much are they paying you this time?”

Embarrassed by the truth, I make up a figure. Of course she doesn’t believe me. She thinks a grown man shouldn’t be playing with dolls. She calls my marionettes dolls. I can’t overstate how much this infuriates and demeans me. When people call my marionettes dolls, I think black thoughts. I see hair on the walls.

“You should relax,” Mary says later. “Does no good to ruminate on things you cannot control. Anger poisons the soul.”

Mary is so wise. Just the sound of her voice makes everything seem okay. I walk over and stroke her little face. So beautiful. I think I nailed the lips. That red pops. Mary said she likes it, but I’m not sure. Modest and humble, she goes out of her way not to hurt my feelings.

I see a poster for the upcoming annual Arts Prix weekend. Artists and performers of all stripes are invited to the civic auditorium to share their talents. Hard to pass up an opportunity to test drive my new show. I polish the marionettes on the Saturday morning, pack my gear, and drive to the auditorium. Lots of makeshift stages, cardboard pavilions, and collapsable kiosks. One of the program directors tells me I can perform at noon on an auxiliary stage.

“Now you be calm out there,” Mary tells me.

“I’ll be calm. Just remember your lines.”

Mary laughs. She has a sweet laugh.

I perform to about five people. It doesn’t go well. An angry man in a furry hat keeps pointing to me, mumbling strange things, and holding up a wooden crucifix.

Mary tells me he’s dangerous.

“Do you know him?”

“Be prepared,” Mary says.

When the angry man rushes the stage, Mary intervenes. She knocks him to the ground, grabs his crucifix, and stabs him in the throat with it. She stabs him over and over again. So much blood. So much blood. I try to thank Mary for saving my life, but she won’t look at me. When I am arrested, Mary is silent. I call out to her. “Don’t forsake me, Mary!” But she looks at me with her dead blue eyes and says nothing.