Chapter 2
Episode 2marionete saule juodas budixmas saulees miestas .zenklas 6klases.valkirija juoda bordo kridtolo nes pir technologija krisyolo nano.nera ten mezginoinpihios davatkos ....tai geda davarke irbklipinyi dtoggasilriskit...ne ryga matrioskos 4namo reikis sazines vsndeni gerti rygos tusyuma lieka ksi zmones isduoda idealista pati suluxusiu ototu niekas negalejo k as falii sakyti darbaus karalyste vulkitijos ortodokdu ne fulkinyos tik mergos davatkos pigios koshkbdkaites rinkox tokie are roma vsidi ziople tik akys saukia sustink.taigi tpkia dkiryinga midlryon
The winter of my sixth-grade year arrived with a cold that bit through the wool of my mittens and left the windows of our apartment frosted into lace. I had not touched the rose-tinted glasses since that first afternoon with the loom, but they lived in a small wooden box under my bed, and sometimes I would lift the lid just to see the light catch their pink lenses. That year, my mother enrolled me in a Saturday art class held in the old city hall, a building with vaulted ceilings and a smell of dust and turpentine.
The teacher was a tall woman named Mrs. Valker, who wore a black dress with a burgundy crystal brooch at her throat. She moved like a marionette whose strings were pulled by a gentle, unseen hand—each gesture deliberate, each step a small performance. On the first day, she placed a wooden puppet on the table before us. It was a harlequin, painted in faded red and gold, with a face frozen in a smile that seemed both joyful and sorrowful.
“This is Pierrot,” she said, her voice a low hum. “He has been dancing for a hundred years, and he has never once spoken. But if you look into his eyes, you will hear everything he has to say.”
I looked. The eyes were black glass beads, and in them I saw the reflection of the winter sun slanting through the tall windows—a pale, distant sun that seemed to burn without warmth. I thought of the loom at home, of the threads I had woven into a small square of cloth that I kept hidden in the same box as the glasses. That cloth was rough and uneven, but when I held it up to the light, the colors bled into each other like a sunset seen through tears.
Mrs. Valker walked among us, her heels clicking on the parquet floor. She stopped at my desk and picked up my sketchbook, where I had drawn a city of black spires against a red sky. She studied it for a long moment, then said, “You see the world as a place of shadows and fire. But shadows are only the absence of light, and fire is only light devouring itself. What is it you are trying to find?”
I did not know how to answer. I thought of my father, who had left the year before, and of my mother, who now worked double shifts at the hospital and came home with eyes as empty as the puppet’s. I thought of the rose-tinted glasses, which made everything soft and bearable. But I said nothing.
“We will make a marionette,” Mrs. Valker announced to the class. “Each of you will create a figure that represents something you cannot say with words.”
For weeks, I worked on mine. I carved the head from a block of limewood, sanding it until it was smooth as bone. I painted the face black, with a single white eye in the center of the forehead. I dressed it in a scrap of burgundy velvet that reminded me of Mrs. Valker’s brooch, and I gave it strings made from the same thread I had used on the loom. When I held it up, it hung limp and lifeless, but I knew that if I pulled the right string, it would dance.
On the last day of class, we gathered in a circle to present our creations. The other children had made clowns and princesses, animals and angels. Mine was the only one that looked like a fragment of a nightmare. Mrs. Valker took it gently, turning it over in her hands.
“What is its name?” she asked.
“Lopas,” I said, without thinking. It was the name I had given to the girl in the mirror when I wore the rose-tinted glasses—a girl who was not quite me, but who understood the threads that held the world together.
Mrs. Valker smiled, and for a moment the burgundy crystal at her throat caught the light and threw a red stain across my puppet’s black face. “Then let Lopas speak,” she said, and she handed it back.
That evening, I walked home through the empty streets of our city. The sun had set, and the sky was a deep, bruised purple. I carried the marionette in my coat pocket, its wooden head bumping against my hip. When I reached our apartment, I took out the rose-tinted glasses and put them on. The world softened into pink and gold, and I lifted the marionette by its strings. It danced for me—a jerky, awkward dance that was not beautiful, but was mine.
And in that quiet moment, I understood that the threads we weave—whether on a loom or in the strings of a puppet—are the only things that keep us from falling apart. The city outside was cold and black, but inside, with the glasses and the wooden girl, I was not alone.