Last Friday night, I joined a crowd of about 50 people in a circle in front of the Express store in Brattle Square. In the center of the circle was an uncharacteristically modest street performer. Without saying a word, without throwing balls into the air or lighting anything on fire, this thin young man with scruffy facial hair had all of us enchanted.

As bright Russian music energized the night air, the performer's hands delicately controlled the movements of a vividly-colored, animated wooden puppets each less than a foot tall. Throughout the performance, spectators laughed, smiled, cheered and applauded.

I didn't stay for the end of the show, so I didn't get a chance to give the performer anything.

Four days later, I came across the Crimson headline "Popular Russian Puppeteer Dies." I was hit by disbelief. The puppeteer couldn't be dead; I had just seen his act. I immediately and cynically assumed there must be some sort of hoax. This puppet man had to be alive.

Later Tuesday evening, I walked back to the site of Fokin's performances where a makeshift monument had been constructed. I quickly gave up my suspicions. On the sidewalk lay laminated copies of a Boston Globe article on the puppeteer and photos of the man at work.

He had been only 36 and had died of heart failure. His funeral had been on Saturday. The first Fokin performance I saw was the last performance Fokin gave. I emptied my pockets into the basket of donations for Fokin's family and walked on.