The Labyrinth of Dreaming Books (39 page)

To quote one example based on personal experience: A puppet so wrinkled that it resembled a centenarian Root Gnome confessed to another puppet that it had committed a murder, allegedly quite against its will. For nearly half an hour it described its motives and the unfortunate circumstances that had fatefully and inexorably led to the crime. And all the while one could see every possible emotion reflected in its face: grief, fear, rage, joy, disappointment, ecstasy, resignation. Until, in the end, while it was describing the murder, a single tear trickled down its cheek. At that moment, every member of the audience sobbed aloud – me included!

* * *

Aerial Puppetism isn’t the only form of entertainment that doesn’t hurt one’s pocket. The so-called NOCTURNAL MARKET is a sort of public advertising show for Puppetism held almost nightly in the square where the GRAVEYARD OF FORGOTTEN WRITERS used to be. In good weather one can not only buy little snacks from stalls and enjoy them by the dramatic light of torches, but watch talented young puppeteers, puppet-makers, musicians, poets, singers, etc. trying out their first attempts on the public free of charge (though modest donations are always welcome). Standing on little wooden stages or simply in the street, they show off home-made puppets, read dialogues or monologues and debate with the public. The NOCTURNAL MARKET is also frequented by numerous agents, talent scouts and theatre people in search of new staff or fresh ideas. A lot of artistic experimentation goes on there. At its best, therefore, the market has some exciting and trailblazing experiences to offer; at its worst, a load of half-baked nonsense. For all that, a stroll around the NOCTURNAL MARKET can often be more entertaining than a visit to a regular
theatre
, and because of the late hour the subjects and humour cultivated there are often daringly satirical and aimed at an adult audience. Anyone with an open mind can admire true innovations in the field of Puppetism at first hand and take part in heated discussions, or at least listen to them with amusement. I spend many a sleepless night at the market and linger there until dawn, tirelessly filling my notebook.

Here is a poem. It was recited by a young poet and puppeteer named Alcolis von Frin, who smelt faintly of cheap liquor but could have a great future ahead of him if he gets a grip on his high-proof problem. Delivered by his puppet, which resembled him down to his poetically long and dishevelled hair, his ‘Critic’s Tongue’ poem certainly chimed with my innermost thoughts on the subject:

‘In unslaked lime and molten lead,

in sewage from a river bed,

in urine from a mare in heat,

in sour milk from a witch’s teat,

in snake venom and old wives’ spit,

in bathwater and mongrels’ shit,

all authors say, in that foul brew

a critic’s tongue deserves to stew.

In slime that oozes from a frog,

in slaver from a rabid dog,

in rancid oil and, worse than this,

in bucketfuls of monkeys’ piss,

in horses’ snot and camel dung,

in fluid from a dead toad wrung,

all authors say, in that foul brew

a critic’s tongue deserves to stew.’

* * *

Dwarfs are very big in Bookholmian Puppetism – I simply couldn’t resist that laboured joke, but it’s a statement of fact. At least two-thirds of all the city’s puppeteers and puppet-makers are of small stature, a circumstance they seek to disguise by wearing tall caps and high heels. Because of their build, dwarfs are excellently suited to concealing themselves behind a minimum of scenery and slipping into little one-piece bodysuits. Their tiny hands and fingers are a great advantage when
it
comes to making puppets and their high-pitched, piping voices often go well with puppet characters – which are quite often dwarfs in any case, ha ha!

Dwarfs are also well-represented among authors, probably because of their above-average intelligence and creativity, which are, however, of a very special kind. As a general rule, it’s easy to laugh AT dwarfs but difficult to laugh WITH them. There are several purely dwarf theatres in Bookholm, but I can only (after a few personal experiments) advise non-dwarfs against going to them. Anyone of normal build will find it hard to make a dignified entrance through a dwarf theatre’s door and sit on its tiny seats. Moreover, the scripts and content of the plays presented can serve to intensify one’s sense of being wholly out of place and unwelcome. Like Ugglies, dwarfs have a very peculiar sense of humour and artistic ideals of their very own. To them, for example, everything big is funny on principle. In a dwarf theatre, the mere mention of a giant or a skyscraper, a tower or a barn door, can evoke prolonged laughter.

By contrast, things that are very small are taken fanatically seriously. Objects which we sometimes find amusing, like tall top hats, pointed caps or high-heeled shoes, are regarded by dwarfs with quasi-religious reverence, and laughing in the wrong place at a dwarf theatre can result in your being immediately barred from the premises – as I myself discovered. We creatures of normal stature like to reach for the stars in our imagination and dream of other planets, whereas many dwarf plays deal with journeys into the Microcosmos, a world where everything is far smaller even than dwarfs themselves. I discovered only later that MICROPIA, the ABSENT TEENIES’ miniature city, was created and run by dwarfs. I could have figured that out for myself!

* * *

On mature consideration, I must also advise against patronising Bookholm’s BLOOD THEATRES, even though these are extremely popular and can sometimes be well worth a visit. Only sometimes, mark you, because in hindsight
their
disadvantages definitely predominate and I believe that Puppetism would be no whit the poorer without these corpse-strewn aberrations. I must at once absolve Inazia from having had anything to do with my visiting a BLOOD THEATRE, because I more and more often roamed the city on my own and had strayed into one of those dubious establishments on my own initiative. Indeed, the Uggly had urgently advised me not to enter one. They were idiot fodder, she told me, but I was eager to find out for myself, so I yielded to the allure of a long queue of theatregoers and the bombastic posters outside (‘Countless brave knights slaughter each other without mercy! Historic armour! Genuine explosions! A hundred gallons of artificial blood per performance! Free peanuts!’). I had no idea what to expect. Well, if you’ve a fancy for glittering gold and silver armour, and dying knights warbling about a hero’s death, you certainly get your money’s worth. BLOOD THEATRES devote themselves to historical themes based on actual conflicts such as the BATTLE OF NURN FOREST or the Florinthian dynasty’s FIFTY-YEAR DESERT WAR. This does, admittedly, involve
a
considerable technical and artistic outlay, and call for specially constructed puppets, skilful pyrotechnical effects and impressive scenery. Heads must roll and limbs be hacked off. Intestines and other innards spill out. Characters scream as they burn to death onstage, are skewered by spears or blown to bits – all in the most shockingly realistic manner possible. And, these being BLOOD THEATRES, blood must naturally flow – whole torrents of it. They use a special kind of artificial blood, which is also sprayed liberally over the audience, but after the performance it miraculously disappears from their clothes of its own accord. The plot, as may well be imagined, plays a subordinate role. A play normally begins with some potentate or dictator declaring war on some other potentate or dictator in thoroughly insensitive language, and then they go at each other hammer and tongs, usually to the accompaniment of martial music. Spurting blood, clashing blades, screams of mortal agony, thunderous cannonades – no demand for dialogue. The latter occurs only in the numerous monologues by characters at death’s door, which are usually sung. Why
anyone
should break into song when he’s dying, even in a theatre, is something that escapes me and always arouses my amusement or annoyance. Mind you, this can be quite entertaining the first time, because the martial effects are truly amazing. After all, where else can you see a puppet being decapitated by a cannon ball and staggering around the stage for minutes afterwards with a fountain of blood spurting from its neck? Once the first act ended the next time I went, however, I started to pay far more attention to the audience than to what was happening onstage – and with growing distaste, because their enthusiasm soon gave me the creeps. Those people seemed to have come to the theatre filled with a desire to refight the BATTLE OF NURN FOREST or burn down some villages and cut off as many of their inhabitants’ heads as possible. After the performance they drowned their disappointment at the sad impossibility of fulfilling that ambition in one of the neighbouring inns, all of which bore names like ‘The Armageddon Arms’ or ‘The Home for Heroes’. Combined with the soul-destroying blaring and
drumming
of the march music, the uproar and yelling onstage soon gave me a headache.

Around the exits of these theatres, I was perturbed to note, lurked recruiting agents and tricksters enlisting personnel for mercenary armies. I saw some knuckleheaded individuals who, after attending a BLOOD THEATRE play, willingly signed cut-throat contracts sentencing them to employment as cannon fodder! I couldn’t help fearing that I might be hit over the head in some alleyway near one of these theatres, destined to wake up the next day as an oarsman in a war galley bound for a sea battle! In future I shall give such establishments a wide berth.

* * *

Far more entertaining, though in an entirely different way, are the little theatres devoted to ANTI-MARTIAL PUPPETISM, all of which are situated in the vicinity of the BLOOD THEATRES so as to oppose them with the idea of non-violent puppetry. One can’t really claim that their productions even approximate to the technical standards attained by the BLOOD THEATRES’
battle
scenes, far from it. On the other hand, admission is free, the music played is considerably more relaxing and the audiences are far more congenial. Nor do their plays display any real dramatic structure. All that usually appears onstage are two or three simple, hinged-jaw puppets in the form of harmless creatures like hares, tortoises, deer, or doves. These volubly expatiate on non-violence or belt out anti-war songs to guitar accompaniment. You don’t go there to follow what’s happening onstage so much as to look for people to talk to, play chess, or take part in the platform debates. Deserving of special mention are the cups of tea on offer and the biscuits that are handed around. Despite their rather strong, resinous taste, both possess qualities that take some time to develop. However, you should limit your consumption to ONE cup of tea and ONE biscuit unless you want to spend the whole night rolling around on your hotel bed in paroxysms of laughter over some stupid joke you’ll have forgotten by the next morning.

* * *

CULINARY PUPPETISM. Although this sounds quite delicious at first hearing, closer acquaintanceship reveals it to be among the most unappetising aberrations of the new art form I’ve ever come across. It involves staging puppet plays in big marquees at the same time as the audience is served a meal comprising many courses. At the same time, be it noted, not during the intervals. I found that just as tasteless as the unspeakable BLOOD THEATRES. Those who fill their stomachs simultaneously empty their brains. I felt sleepy after one course, nor was my concentration aided by the clatter and tinkle of cutlery and crockery, the audience’s lip-smacking and belching (and worse!), and the constant comings and goings of the waiters and wine waiters. The puppetry was uninspired and mechanical because the players secretly knew that the audience was more interested in its broccoli-on-the-side than in their art. In my opinion, it’s as tactless and disrespectful to eat a meal during a cultural function as to perform a play during a meal.

* * *

UGGSISTENTIALIST PUPPETISM. One ought to go to one or two plays of this genre in order to be able to pronounce on it. More would be unnecessary or even injurious to one’s mental health, so be warned!

Needless to say, the Ugglies had also discovered puppetry in Bookholm and developed an offshoot of it. Being under Inazia’s strict supervision, I was occasionally – and regrettably – obliged to sample its curious efflorescences. Although the shrewd antiquarian bookseller had excellent taste in other respects, when it came to applied Puppetism, I fear I must in this instance charge her with a form of professional blindness specific to Ugglies. This compelled me to spend many an excruciating hour sighing and groaning in cramped little underground theatres; more precisely, root-infested holes in the ground teeming with the millipedes and earthworms that Ugglies favour for their theatrical performances. It should be said that, although they certainly have a sense of humour, the latter is so peculiar, it’s fully comprehensible to Ugglies alone. They possess what I would term an ‘elliptical view of the
world
’. This begins by leaving the viewer far behind and then, like a boomerang, returns to its source in a wide arc. It’s connected with the Ugglies’ talent for prophecy and has ideological consequences, which will be examined more closely at a later stage.

The most popular puppet play in the Uggsistentialist canon is entitled ‘Waiting for Yogibeard’ and was written by a talented Ugglian playwright named Beula Smeckett, who enjoys the highest esteem in Ugglian circles. It tells how two Ugglies sit beneath a leafless tree and do nothing but wait for a third Uggly who never shows up. The theme of the play may be despair at the futility of existence, but wouldn’t it be possible to handle the subject in a somewhat more entertaining and less redundant way? And to be honest, hasn’t this outlook on the world become a bit long in the tooth these days – if a world outlook can be said to have teeth? Do I really have to spend a whole evening sitting on an infuriatingly hard root-wood seat in order to arrive at that conclusion? It’s possible that at the time of its premiere (around a century ago, as Inazia informed me with a touch of pride) the play
possessed
a certain philosophical potency, but isn’t it also possible that this has dissipated over the years? However, the other theatregoers seemed to have quite a different opinion of ‘Waiting for Yogibeard’. They were royally entertained and clapped and laughed at every third line of the dialogue, some of which they could repeat by heart in unison with the speaker. I should, however, add that the audience (twelve in number) consisted entirely of Ugglies.