The Marionette Workshop – Part 2: Cut the Strings

"I agree," said Katharina. "Both parts."

Supper was dumplings in broth, roast pork and cold apple wine at a little inn with candles on every table. They talked until the staff were stacking chairs. Felix told her about his grandfather, who had built puppets for fifty winters. Katharina told him about the endless blank stages of her working life. The snow had stopped when they stepped outside, and the old town gleamed under the lamps.

They walked back to the workshop in the clean cold air, her arm through his. At the door he stopped and fumbled with the key.

"I'm nervous," he admitted.

"I'm glad. So am I."

"Katharina, may I kiss you?"

"Please."

The kiss was gentle, with a hint of wine and woodsmoke. His fingers, those delicate maker's fingers, rose to her cheek and traced the line of her jaw. She laughed softly and held on to his coat. They stood on the doorstep in the snow, and the puppets in the window watched with painted eyes.

"There is a flat upstairs," he said. "It is small. It is warm. It has a very good view of the roofs."

"Show me."

The flat was snug and cluttered with books, with a tiled stove and a bed under a sloping ceiling. They undressed slowly by the glow of the stove, laughing at scarves and tangled buttons. Felix was careful, as with all fragile things, and then not careful at all, bold and warm and surprising. Under the heavy duvet, with snow whispering on the skylight, their love-making was gentle and unhurried, like a puppet learning to walk by itself.

In the morning, Katharina came down to the workshop in his shirt. On the bench, in the cold sunlight, stood a new marionette: a slim woman in a green coat, with dark hair and a stage designer's clipboard painted on her hip.

"Is that me?" she asked.

"I made her in the night."

"She's beautiful."

"She is not finished." Felix smiled, and slipped the control bar into her hands. "She needs someone to make her walk."

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