Orphans of the Carnival

by Carol Birch

  Adam hunched his shoulders and kicked the wall sulkily as if he were twenty years younger. “End of the month,” he said. “You know that.”

  “End of which month, Ad?” She smiled. “You know Laurie. He’s getting cranky.”

  “Ah, but you, Rose, you can always get ’round him.” He looked up, a sour twist to his mouth. “Use your influence.”

  “Ha.” She picked a fleck of tobacco from the tip of her tongue. “It only goes so far, my dear.”

  She’d been an artist’s model, sold pizzas, tried to get by making embroidered skirts, but now she was here, collecting rent for Laurie and passing on messages about leaky taps and blocked toilets, living a whole year now rent-free herself in return for that and her haphazard cleaning services. Fallen on my feet, she sometimes told herself, with a sense of having found a safe berth on a heaving sea.

  “Make a brew, Rosie,” Adam said, continuing to kick the wall.

  She got up, flicking ash into her hand. A shapeless garment the color of wet sand hung loosely down past her knees, and her legs were bare and brown. “Come on then,” she said.

  He followed her up and stood frowning on the rug in front of the fireplace watching her make tea. A door stood open to her bedroom, through which could be seen her unmade bed trailing a thin Indian coverlet, bare boards painted blue, long shelves jumbled with beads and glass and spools of colored threads. She made frames, ornate creations. Now and again she sold one or two through some craft shop or other.

  “What the hell is that?”

  Adam was staring at Tattoo with an affronted, almost angry intensity.

  “That’s Tattoo,” she said, pouring boiling water into the teapot and frowning at the steam billowing up in her face.

  Adam picked up the doll and turned it ’round in his hands. His top lip rose at one side like a nervous dog’s.

  “Don’t you like him?” she asked, stirring the pot. She put the tea cozy on it, turned and stood with folded arms looking over at Adam. God love him, she thought. Sweet. Not the type to get involved with though. Tough front, inside all mush. They smother you, those kind. Mind you, I suppose they all do in the end. Unless they’re married like Laurie, and even he—

  “That’s horrible,” he said.

  “It’s just an old burned doll,” she said, pushing her hair back, pushing it about with her hands. “I was coming home and there he was on top of a garbage bin. How could you resist that little face?”

  “It’s horrible,” he said again. “Looks like a hoodoo doll.”

  “No, no, no.” Closing her bedroom door on the mess within as she passed—too intimate a display for him—she came and plucked the doll from his hands. “You leave him alone,” she said, “I have to find him a home,” and bore the thing, like a great treasure, to the mantelpiece above the blocked-up fireplace. The mantelpiece was already crammed, but she moved things about with deft precision. Three-legged brown plastic horse with a hole in its back. Torn Chinese fan. Pink candle with teeth marks. Disgruntled Moomin, lacking an arm. “There!” she said, propping Tattoo against the wall in the middle and standing back. “He’s happy there. Don’t you think he looks good?”

  “Good?” Adam shoved his fists deep in his pockets and the skin between his eyebrows turned square. “It’s just a trunk,” he said. “It’s got no arms and legs.” But in a way, he thought, it did look good, hacked-out, primal. Kind of an artwork. “Why d’you call it Tattoo?” he asked.

  Rose shrugged. “You pour the tea,” she said, crossed the room and stretched out on the sofa, closing her eyes. She heard the rattle of cups, the clink of a spoon. She remembered the original Tattoo, could see him now with his smudgy gray eyes and thin smile of a mouth, his face young and friendly and shy, standing with his arms down by his sides on his scuffed blue shoe base, blue trousers, red coat, tall black hat. The paint was rubbing thin all over him, specially his hat. He was six inches high and lived in her pocket and she’d always had him.

  Adam plonked a mug of tea down next to her head.

  She opened her eyes. “I named him after a wooden soldier I had when I was little,” she said, sitting up. “My grandmother got him from a jumble sale. He was very old. Homemade.”

  “The way you remember these things,” said Adam, taking a seat at a respectful distance and blowing on his tea.

  “He was lovely,” she said. “Had the face of a holy fool. My mother threw him out when we moved house when I was nine. I called her a murdering bastard.”

  “Did you? When you were nine?”

  “Probably not,” said Rose, putting her mug down and lazily plaiting her hair. “Should have done though.”

  It began to rain unexpectedly, hot rain from a heavy summer sky, wildly drumming on the windowpane.

  “Names are important,” she said. “When a thing has a name, that’s when it really counts.”

  Madame Soulie was in the parlor with three ugly dresses laid out on one of the divans. “Oh, Julia,” she said, “I thought some of these might suit you. Much too big, of course, but we can make adjustments.”

  She was sick of castoffs. “Mr. Rates is taking me shopping,” she said.

  “Julia,” said Madame Soulie, coming briskly toward her with something lilac and old-fashioned held out in front of her as if she were dancing with it, “never look a gift horse in the mouth. Of course he will still take you shopping. But these are gifts from me.”

  “Of course. Thank you so much, Madame Soulie.”

  Always the dull ones. Old, unworn, unwanted. Never again. This time she’d get a dress better than the blue dress, just for her.

  “You’re very kind, Madame Soulie.”

  “See,” she said, “it fits you very well about the shoulders. Why don’t you try it on?”

  “Now?”

  “Why not? In there, see, you can put it on in there and I’ll pin it for you.”

  “Oh no, really…”

  Madame Soulie was not the sort to argue. Julia went into a dark musky room almost filled by a vast bed. It had a vague redness about it and a slightly moldy smell, and the curtains were closed. The lilac dress fell around her like a sack, smelling of stale perfume. She remembered the way the blue dress had felt on the day of the wedding, settling onto her as she shook herself into it. Madness to try it on. Those wicked boys. Oh, play up, Julia. Say we made you do it. We did, didn’t we, Clem? We did, we made you. Look, we’ll go out and you put the nice dress on and the shawl over your arms, and we’ll find you a veil. The veiled lady! Lady of mystery! Dress up as Marta, go stand on the balcony, fool the guests, whip off the veil at the last second, revealing all. Of course she’d had no intention of showing herself out there. She just wanted a chance to wear the dress for five minutes. It was much too long, of course—she was child-sized—and tight across the bosom, but so perfect, peacock blue with lighter blue flowers ’round the low neckline, short puffed sleeves and three layers of skirt. But then Marta had come running in and screamed that her wedding day was ruined and she hated everyone, everyone, and you’ve used my tortoiseshell comb too, oh, that’s just too much, bursting into tears and hitting Elisio hard on the side of his head. Get out! Get out, all of you! Get out, get out, get out! You’ll have to wash it. The comb too.

  Nothing would ever change.

  Julia drew back the curtain in Madame Soulie’s room and observed her face in a large oval mirror. There’d been a day, it must have been before her fifth birthday, when she looked into the cradle at a chubby brown baby with lips like a flower and a cheek as ripe as a peach. She saw her own dark hand moving toward the round bald head, startling against the white cloths. Elisio. Doña Inés somewhere high above her and smelling faintly of flowers drew in her breath with a high sharp sound, the air changed, and some knowledge of profound difference was finally born. Solana, then still strong and quick, had grabbed her arm quite roughly and said, No!—as if she’d done something wrong. She’d cried. Later Solana gave her a pear. Don’t touch baby.

  If
I could just— Would it be possible, she wondered habitually, if I could just shave— But no, she’d tried and it was not possible, she’d have to shave fifty times a day for it to work. And there’d still be everything else. She remembered a moment, looking into her own eyes in another mirror, razor in hand. The horrible pale flap of skin suddenly nude above her upper lip showed all the more clearly the jut and thrust of it. She’d burst into tears. She never bothered now. Best just keep her hair nice, comb it gracefully toward the temples, down into her beard, keep it as nice as she could. You couldn’t hold back the sea. Her face in the mirror was calm, the hair a bit of a mess. A pain burned in her chest. Am I human? Am I actually human? And if I’m not, what does it mean? Ape woman, bear woman, human. Thing. Still me, still the Julia creature. Hush, silly girl, said Solana’s voice. The good Lord made you, that’s all that matters. And she followed the thought till it billowed and swooped into a mighty chasm where she was afraid to go.

  Madame Soulie opened the door and caught her crying, looking at herself in the mirror. Julia dropped the curtain.

  “What’s this?” said Madame Soulie, striding into the room. “Crying? Oh, no, no, we mustn’t cry.”

  “If it’s the mothers that have done wrong,” said Julia, pulling herself together, “why does the curse fall on the children?”

  Madame Soulie took her by the arm and led her back to the parlor. “I’ve often wondered about that,” she said, “and I’m afraid to say I have no idea. The dress is wonderful on you. Stand here in the light and let me pin the hem. And”—she darted away, rummaged behind a pile of clothes that completely obliterated one of the armchairs—“I’ve got some lovely little boots that might fit. Where are they? Much too small for me.”

  Julia wiped her nose and gazed at the pomegranate leaves hanging down outside the window. Wouldn’t make any difference what she wore.

  “Now!” said Madame Soulie in a tone dripping promise.

  “Should I stand here?” asked Julia. A bird landed among the leaves and stared at her with tiny black bead eyes.

  “Julia.”

  She turned. The boots were dark red with black trim and pointed toes, old but well cared for, the leather soft and clean.

  “They’re beautiful,” Julia said. “Whose were they?”

  “A child.” Madame Soulie held them at arm’s length. “Grew out of them. Her mother was in a show at the Charles. Try them on.”

  Julia sat down and put them on. Her feet slipped into them as if they’d always belonged to her.

  “Walk up and down,” said Madame Soulie. “Oh, look at your tiny foot! It’s like a child’s foot.”

  “They’re perfect. Thank you!”

  “And they fit?”

  “Perfectly. Can I keep them on?”

  “Of course you can. Now stand still.” Madame Soulie knelt to gather up the hem of the lilac dress. “Sometimes,” she said, “a curse can be lifted.”

  “Someone tried once,” Julia said sadly. Remembering Solana burning something smelly, bathing her in salt.

  Madame Soulie stuck three or four pins into her mouth. “It has to be someone with the power,” she said through narrowed lips, “not just anyone.” She shook the material. “There’s a man I know.”

  Julia looked down on the crown of Madame Soulie’s head. She’d put something on it for the color but the gray was coming through. “He couldn’t help me,” Julia said.

  “Probably not, chéri.” Madame Soulie looked up, drawing a pin out of her mouth.

  “This man,” said Julia a little later. “What else can he do?”

  “Gris-gris, fortunes. You know.”

  “He tells fortunes?”

  “He does.” Madame Soulie rose heavily to her feet. “Would you like to go and see him? I can take you.”

  “Really?”

  Madame Soulie smiled. “Leave it to me.”

  Rates took her to the French market, then to a big store on the Rue des Grands Hommes. They went next morning early, she in her new red boots, walking with her gloved hand resting on his arm, watching the streets through the mesh of her veil. Women with baskets on their heads walked ahead of them. They passed an oyster stand and she wanted to stop, a man was playing a harp, another an accordion. Rates hurried her on nervously to the market on the levee, but when they got there her nerve faltered. It was the noise, a clicking of bones, a plucking of strings, the yelling of wares and cackling of hens, the grumbling of wheels on stone. A massive press of people jostled in the aisles, slaves and sailors, rough men and ladies of quality. Someone knocked into her and she tightened her grip on Rates’s arm. “The colors!” she said, sticking close. “The flowers!”

  “Yes, of course.” He hurried her on. “We’ll buy some flowers later if there’s time.”

  But it was all such a rush so of course they didn’t. In the clothes market she chose ribbons, then it was on to the Rue des Grands Hommes without a break, where Rates told the woman in the shop she was his granddaughter who’d been ill and was sensitive to light. She picked out a yellow and white corset and some rose pink fabric and they were back in no time. It was as if someone had opened a door and she’d got just one glimpse of something wild and exotic before it closed again. Sitting at the table in the yard, she drew a plan of how she would have her costume. Pearl buttons. Six tucks on the skirt. For her hair, feathers and a single white gardenia. She wrote it all down, listing every measurement.

  It wasn’t ready in time for the portrait. For that she borrowed a plain cream-colored gown from Myrtle. Delia helped her pin it into place. “Lord Almighty,” she said, doing up the buttons down the back, “look at you. Never seen nothing like this in my life. You could be at the American Museum. Do you mind?” She stroked her hands across Julia’s shoulders, then down her back, following the hairy downward-pointing arrow.

  “I don’t mind,” said Julia. Solana used to stroke her when she was small, but stopped when she got bigger.

  “It’s like stroking a bear,” said Delia.

  The portrait was to be done in the front parlor of the house. The artist was no more than a boy, frail and smooth-faced. “Oh, my saints,” he whispered, gazing, “oh, my saints and angels,” as Julia settled herself in the overstuffed button-back armchair. After this, the boy remained silent, working diligently away with his pencils and pens and inks. The clock ticked loudly. She went into a trance, gazing straight ahead. From here she could see the sideboard, with its bowl of jasmine and the framed daguerreotype of a dignified militiaman with sad eyes. That must be Monsieur Soulie, she thought. I wonder what happened to him. She wondered what the precise state of things was between Mr. Rates and Madame Soulie. Rates was too smug and bloated, and he had no lips. I wouldn’t have him, she thought, and couldn’t help smiling. Poor man, rejected by the bear woman. The bear woman’s choosy.

  “Don’t smile, please,” the boy said softly.

  “Sorry.” For the rest of the sitting she contemplated the darting eyes of the young artist, whose gaze was now fierce but remote. She scared him and it couldn’t be helped. Some never got through it, some did. And more to meet. Soon, rehearsal at the New St. Charles, onstage, with a band. People at the theater. You chose this, girl, she told herself. You could have stayed home. She worked herself up for the rest of that sitting, and the one after, with so much time to do nothing but sit still and think. She’d fail, she’d fall over, be sick. But the time came closer and she didn’t run, and suddenly she was there in the peculiar backstage land of stairs and doors and voices, and soon there was the stage, and the band below her, all staring up. And it was all right. These musicians had seen everything and adjusted quickly. Even so, they were quietly shocked in those first moments. No escape. They struck up a polka. She danced, forgetting all about them and pretending she was alone. She was dancing on the patio after everyone else had gone to bed. Like before, they cheered when she finished. Relief flooded her, and she smiled and ran to the front of the stage. I’ll give them a good look, she thoug
ht, leaning down, saying, “Thank you! I’ve never sung with a band before.”

  The musicians beamed and gawked, knowing they were getting a treat.

  Then the violin played the sighing first notes of “I Dreamt I Dwelt in Marble Halls,” and she sang. It poured like cream, perfect.

  “Take a bow,” said the leader.

  Madame Soulie, big bust heaving contentedly, played on the air with her fingers. “He’s got power. You look in that man’s eyes and he sees you.”

  “But to turn me,” said Julia, “would be a miracle.”

  “Well, of course, one mustn’t expect too much.” The carriage rumbled onto Bayou Road. “But I don’t see the harm in trying. We only live once.”

  “I agree.” Julia looked out of the window.

  “He knows about you anyway,” Madame Soulie said. “I’ve told him some. Oh, here we are!” She was jolly, as if they were on a jaunt.

  There were some fine big houses on Bayou Road. Dr. John Montanee’s was low and set back a little. A muted red glow came from the windows. There was a lantern on the porch and red dust on the threshold.

  “We’re lucky he could fit us in at such short notice,” Madame Soulie whispered, rapping on the door and adjusting Julia’s collar as if she were a child, “he’s so busy. They all go to him, everybody. I’ve seen it when they’re standing in line a mile away.”

  A woman with tired eyes and a long oval face opened the door and motioned them in, placing one hand on Madame Soulie’s sleeve in a familiar way as she did so. “Bonsoir, chérie,” she said, her eyes sliding toward Julia. “Bonsoir, madame.”

  “Here we are.” Madame Soulie swept grandly into the room, “and here is she. Julia dear, come in, come in. Marie, how are you?”

  “Seen many a better day,” said the woman wearily, “and a few worse.”

  The room was warm and dim and cluttered with furniture. Lizards sat about on the backs of sofas and arms of chairs, and the walls were hung with desiccated things, toads, scorpions, chickens’ feet. Skulls grinned from the top of a high cupboard. A fire burned low. Two girls lounged almost vertically in easy chairs, drinking wine and looking at Julia with no apparent interest. Deep in the room, standing in front of a red curtain was the Doctor himself, a tall gray-bearded African man in an expensive black suit with a frilly white shirt front. She’d never seen a rich black man before. His cheeks were slashed, three big gashes on each side. A python coiled around his waist and neck, its face hovering peacefully in front of his chest. “Miss Julia,” he said, his voice deep and heavily accented, “come on in,” indicating that she should follow him behind the curtain.