Page 73 - What Is Not Yours Is Not Yours

spun like weather vanes. They were learning histories of Punchinello, a beak-

nosed figure who stands for nothing. The place and century of his birth is the
sort of thing learned people in tweed jackets argue about, but for a couple of
centuries he’s been present in Austria, where he is Kasperle, setting his cunning
aside to concentrate on brutality without pause, until every other puppet in his
world is dead and then his master must see to it that he doesn’t go after his
audience too. In Hungary he’s the terse and sardonic Vitéz László, in France the
twinkle returns to his eyes and he becomes Polichinelle, a demon from the

merriest of hells. In England Punch is a sensitive chap; any passerby who so
much as looks at him the wrong way is promptly strangled with a string of
sausages. When he takes up his Turkish residence Karagöz is too lazy to attempt
very much murder, though he has a reservoir of verbal abuse to shower upon
anyone who comes between him and his meals. Wherever you find him, he is

careful not to discuss the past. Whatever it is you’re asking about, he didn’t do it
and hasn’t the faintest idea who might be responsible, in fact he doesn’t know
anything at all, he wasn’t “there,” see, he’s been “here” the whole time . . .
which begs the question, where were you?
—

WHEN RADHA and I walked into the History of Puppetry classroom the first thing

we noticed was the ocean of space that surrounded Rowan Wayland, and for
caution’s sake we chose seats that maintained his solitude. We watched him but
had difficulty finding out whether keeping our distance was weak or wise;
nobody would talk about him. Wayland himself behaved as if his pariah status
was perfectly natural, walking around the building looking straight ahead with
his collar popped up around his ears. Radha remarked that he gave her the

strange feeling of being an extra on a film set. It took two weeks for curiosity to
change our seating vote. “Maybe he’s just misunderstood,” I said. Radha agreed
to risk it.
He had a pair of red needles and a heap of wool on top of his books and was
knitting while he waited for the teacher to arrive. There’s a gentle assurance
many knitters have as they fix their patterns in place. Rowan’s knitting wasn’t
like that. He stared at his sock-in-progress with an insistence that brooked no

compromise, as if he’d learned that this was the only way to ensure that each
stitch stayed where he’d put it. We took the seats alongside him, Radha said
hello, and kept saying it until he acknowledged her with a sidelong glance.
“I’m Radha,” Radha said, before he could look away again.