Orphans of the Carnival

by Carol Birch

  “Not as far as we know.”

  “I’ve had interest from other quarters, you know, Beach,” Rates said. “Barnum’s after her. Did you know?” He glanced up. “And here—yes, here it is.” Rates slapped the paper. “And don’t forget this Mott’s at the very top of his—here, says he’s never seen anything like her—see, see, something absolutely new, he says, absolutely new, unknown to science.” He put the paper aside. “Science!” He turned his pale steady gaze onto Beach. “You see my dilemma.”

  “Not at all,” said Beach. “Mine’s the better offer, and it’s that simple.”

  Rates pursed his lips and tried to look thoughtful. “Yours may be the better offer, but Mott’s working in the interests of knowledge. Science,” he said reverently. “Of course I have to take that into account.”

  “No, you don’t.” Beach laughed and stood up. “Who cares about science? She doesn’t. The girl wants a good time.” He laughed again. “The girl bit does, who knows about that other thing? Ask her. What’s she want?”

  “She doesn’t know what she wants.” Rates drained his glass. “She wants to get around a bit and see the world.”

  “She’ll do that with me. Least she’ll see Milwaukee,” Beach said.

  Rates sighed. “She’s a good girl,” he said. “Does the very best she can, you know, nice nature. Open to suggestion, you know, very helpful. You say try this, she tries it. No nonsense about the girl. I want her treated right.”

  “No question about it. Shake then.” They stood and shook hands. Beach towered over Rates. “Time of her life’s coming,” he said. “This time next month she’ll be drinking champagne.”

  They went down to see her straightaway. She was alone. She knew what they’d been talking about. Twice Beach had visited her backstage after the show, filling the dressing room with his bulky self-made air.

  “My dear Julia,” Rates said, taking small steps toward her and clasping both her hands in his, “I can’t tell you how privileged I feel to have been a party to your great success.”

  Beach smiled over Rates’s shoulder, his eyes an eerie pale blue.

  “And now,” said Rates, “I feel a parting of the ways is nigh.”

  She looked Beach in the eye.

  “Mr. Beach has a proposition,” said Rates.

  “I thought so,” she said.

  Her eyes made Beach shiver, she could tell, but he showed no sign of disquiet. What to make of him? Caramel-colored coat. Gold cravat. Carrying his hat. Only thing she could do was trust instinct. He came forward. His cheekbones were shiny ridges, his grin made him look like Punch. “Cleveland,” he said. “Buffalo. Chicago. Lenox, Massachusetts. Milwaukee. Cincinnati. I have these lined up for you already.”

  She laughed nervously. “I don’t know where they are.”

  “Want me to show you a map?” He patted his pockets comically. “Don’t have one on me right now, but I sure will next time I see you.”

  “And the contract?” she said.

  The girls would have been proud of her.

  On the steps Beach lit a cigar, shaking his head in wonder. A light rain began falling on the steaming pavement, and a breeze blew up from the river. “The strangest thing,” he said, gazing down the street to the carriages waiting in line. “The face, the face…”

  “The face indeed,” Rates echoed, scratching his smooth bulby chin.

  “Impossible to comprehend.” Beach put his collar up and hunched his shoulders. “There’s a kind of—no, the word ‘wonder’ isn’t right—she is so—completely—” He shook his head again.

  Rates completed the sentence, “inhuman.” The rain was turning to sleet. “Went down a charm in New Orleans,” he said, “thought she was the loup-garou.”

  “As if the head of a wolf or a boar—” said Beach.

  “I know.”

  For a moment they stood in silence.

  “Beggars belief,” said Beach. “I tell you, gives you the shivers. Puts the fear in people. And then she opens her mouth—the mouth of Cerberus!—and this sweet little voice comes out!”

  Rates gave a short laugh. “And her English is perfect. She’s not at all bad, is she?”

  “She’s a sensation,” said Beach, “that’s what she is. She’s a good girl, I can work with her.”

  All gone on the night train. The good-byes said. Good luck, sweetheart, we’ll no doubt see you again, that’s the way of it.

  New place, new people. They were going to Cleveland on the train, and after that a long tour. They’d ride in wagons. She’d have one of her own, Beach said. He paid better than Rates. The contract ran till Christmas when they would return to New York, and after that, well…

  “I plan on making you a famous lady,” Beach said, “yes, I do. I will get the best deal going for you every single time, nothing more, nothing less.”

  And all in writing.

  “Before we leave New York,” she told Beach, “I want to ride the streetcar. And I want to go to church.”

  “I don’t think there’s time, Julia,” he said. He was dashing off somewhere.

  “Why not? I’m not doing anything.”

  “Yes, you are,” he said. “You’re guarding your mystery.” He’d picked the phrase up from Rates. “If you go out just any old time people get used to seeing you. They stop paying. Simple as that. Think about it. It’s your livelihood, Julia. You’ll never want for anything as long as you live, but there’s this one overriding rule. Keep ’em hungry.”

  “I’ll wear my veil and gloves,” she said.

  “You can’t go out on your own, Julia.” His big red face was worried. “You’ll get lost.”

  “I know where the streetcar stops,” she said. “Why would I get lost?”

  His face was pained. “It’s not that simple. Anything could happen. This is a dangerous city, Julia.”

  Pointless to talk. That’s how it was. Delia and Jonsy had never gone out. Some people just couldn’t do as other people did. Even in Culiacán she couldn’t.

  Only one day more in New York. She sat behind the curtain looking out of the window, thinking of home, wondering if she should send a letter. Who would she send it to? Solana was dead. She couldn’t have read it anyway. And the others? What could she say? Perhaps write to Don Pedro. Doing fine. Hope all well. But then after all—after all, she thought, what am I? A servant who moved on. Dear Don Pedro, you were wrong. You said I’d fall flat. My dresses are prettier than Marta’s. When she’d told him she was leaving he’d frowned, steepling his fingers and looking at her steadily over the top of them as if deeply disappointed in her, and she’d gabbled about being grateful for all he’d done for her. Then he’d gotten up and walked about the room, staring at the floor. “What do you think it will be like,” he’d said, “out there in the world? I am your guardian, you are my responsibility. I mean to continue in that role. Tell me, have you any idea quite how your Mr. Rates intends to present you? Hm?”

  “Señor,” she’d said, “you know that I can sing and dance, you yourself made sure of it.”

  “Indeed! That does not answer my question. You’re not a fool. Have we kept you prisoner here? There are no bars on the doors or the windows. Why don’t you go out then, freely, brazenly? Why?”

  She said nothing, because her eyes were filling up and she was realizing that Don Pedro was the one she’d miss the most, even though he hardly ever spoke to her.

  “You know why.”

  Nothing.

  “Do you think you’ll see any more of the world out there than in this safe home we gave you? Here, where you’re known? However far you go, do you think you’ll ever be able to walk down the street like any other young woman?”

  “Señor,” she said, “I can’t tell you how grateful I will always be to you.”

  “You’ll sing and you’ll dance and you’ll play your guitar, and they’ll applaud, of course they will. Do you think they care about your talent? Such as it is.”

  Such as it is, she repeated in
her mind. Such as it is. Something about the phrase and the way he said it, as if he were throwing it away, hardened her resolve.

  “They don’t care about your talent, Julia,” he’d said, stopping in front of her and speaking gently, “they only want to see the freak.”

  “Señor,” she said, “I know. I want to be independent. Mr. Rates has sent me my fare.”

  And then of course he’d become sentimental, as was his way, sat down in his chair and gazed at her with moist aching eyes and told her once more how he’d first seen her in the orphanage. “In you came with that old lump of wood in a dress, a little ape but not quite an ape, and it was the most curious thing.” Shaking his head. Impossible. “You were so hideous but you were just like a puppy. You were sucking your fingers. So unaware of what you were. And I tickled you under the chin and scratched behind your ears. I asked you what you liked to eat and you said, ‘Porridge, señor,’ in the most ordinary little voice. I was surprised you could talk.

  “And then the old nun said, ‘Oh, she has a voice, señor. Would you like to hear her sing?’ And you sang that silly little song, ‘Sana Sana, Colita de Rana.’ ”

  Your talent. Such as it is.

  It all flooded in, Don Pedro, Solana and her room and the young men coming and going with their friends, calling her out to sing on the patio, and the fig tree and the stone seat and the steps going up to the gallery. Don Pedro the last time she saw him, his sad farewell to the family dog.

  The future was as far away as the past. She was frightened, as if time dispersed in all directions, but there was something intoxicating about the moment too. Where was everyone? Beach had gone out. It was half past three in the afternoon. She was on the third floor and could see below a young man holding his head beneath the pump, people walking up and down, flashy long-haired boys in wide trousers, girls strolling about on their own as if it were the most natural thing in the world to do. The window was open and she heard the sound of traffic from the wharves. She went to the mirror, a mottled ailing thing in a tarnished gilt frame, looked at her face and wished that at least her neck could have been a bit longer. Just that. “I’m not a prisoner,” she said aloud. He couldn’t tell her what to do. “He’s a manager,” she said, “not a jailer.”

  She still had some of the money she’d left home with, as well as a fair bit from her earnings.

  She put on her cloak and bonnet, her veil and gloves, picked up her purse and went out onto the landing. The house was quiet. She ran lightly down to the front door and out. It was cold, but her cloak was a good one and she huddled down in it. The brownstones all looked the same. Wouldn’t do to forget the number. She knew where to go, she’d watched from the carriage window on the way to the theater and seen it all, people clambering on and off the streetcars, carriages in a line waiting for passengers. She kept to the edge of the sidewalk, walking quickly past the row houses and stores to the corner. Down side streets, high tenements went on forever. Kids were everywhere, oblivious to the cold, gangs of them on the roam.

  At the corner she stopped and looked about. Nobody took any notice of her. People rushed up and down the street. Two flashy young men were waiting for the streetcar, so she went and stood a little way from them, observing through her veil.

  “So I says to him,” said one in a high-pitched whine that reminded her of Ezra Porter’s voice, “I says, what you wanna do dat for, huh? Looks like you wanna get mowed, dat what you mean, huh?”

  At least she thought that’s what he said. His hair was brilliant with oil and swept up high on his head.

  “Lillian says so,” the other replied in a darker voice, “she says he do it all the time, no matter what.”

  She couldn’t take her eyes off them. The cigars wagged up and down on their lips as they spoke, and they wore gold chains across their waistcoats. She felt like a ghost. When the streetcar came she followed them on and offered the driver a handful of money. She had no idea what it cost.

  “Broadway,” she said. The driver looked at her hand and laughed.

  “Lady,” he said, “for that you can ride around all day, if you want to.”

  “Oh,” she said, “that’s very nice.”

  He looked at her strangely, then scooped up the cash and gave her some change. The streetcar was crowded but she found a seat halfway down. No one else wore a veil. A fat man in wide trousers stared at her. She sat very still. A squash of girls in black shawls and brightly colored bonnets babbled and laughed as if no one could hear or see them. The streetcar was too close-packed and getting more so, and the noise was crazy. A woman with a kind, worn face stooped to smile at her. She thinks I’m a little girl, thought Julia. A little girl in a veil alone on the streetcar. She coughed genteelly into her gloved hand and nodded, and the woman passed on. Her heart thumped. There were other glances. When the girls swirled down the aisle to get off, she followed.

  She stood in the street and trembled, feeling too small. Which way? Which way? This way, that way, nothing she remembered. A fine white sleet began and she pulled her cloak tight. If I didn’t have to wear this, she thought, they’d see my figure and know I wasn’t a child. She’d never seen so many people up close. A bell chimed from the tower of a church and she looked up. The spire soared above the buildings. A carriage clipped past with a footman in blue livery on the back. Here I am, Julia Pastrana on Broadway, alone. All the swells, she never saw anything like it, strolling along in their shiny shoes. Swaggery men and girls with done-up hair, the women’s dresses taking up half the sidewalk. She got a sudden urge to pull off her veil and just walk along and see what happened. Shame. Shame, but so it was and so it always had been. The air was full of a hot peanut smell. Julia felt light-headed and stood still for a moment with the people sweeping past in both directions. The buildings were grand and high, and a few had flags flying on the tops. There was nowhere to sit down, just some wide steps in front of a bank, already taken up by half a dozen or so raggedy little kids holding out their caps for money. Poor little faces. The sleet turned to fine rain, and she walked on and on and after a while the dizziness passed. No one was looking. She must stay hidden, not just for safety, not just to guard the mystery and make them pay, but so as not to frighten the children. You couldn’t go around frightening children in the street, it would be too cruel.

  She had to keep moving, it was too cold to stop. All the stores were open. A great crush of carriages had tangled up at the crossroads and everyone was shouting and swearing. So this is it, she thought. Here we are, the big life. People playing music on the sidewalk, selling you soda water, hot corn and roasted peanuts. She bought a comb from a booth, one that would build her hair up beautifully at the front, with a clasp made like a treble clef. The woman said it was made of shell. Farther on she came to a long stretch of pavement where men in tights were calling people in to see the freaks: the giants, the midgets, the mermaids and savages and pinheads. Not one of them was like her. One of a kind, Mr. Beach had said. Bearded ladies by the score, he said—oh, yes—but no one like you. Madame Clofullia has a fine beard, but you—

  A drunk reeled from a saloon and nearly knocked her over.

  “Molly dear!” he boomed, big red beaming face in hers, “I beg your pardon.”

  She flinched and hurried on.

  “Wait a while,” he called after her, “I meant nothing…”

  But she didn’t look back. She walked on and on. The stores were bright and the streetcars rattled along, the poor scrawny horses clip-clopping in time. There seemed always to be music coming from somewhere, from windows and doors, and the sounds of singing and glass against glass, the plinking of a pianola. A crowd was surging over the next crossing so she went with them, turned and started walking back down the other side. A child selling papers, a boy no more than nine, bawled loud enough to deafen her. Such a fright he’d get if she drew back the veil. Go on, Julia. Just because you can. But she didn’t. Sleet again, small specks falling against a dark gray light.

  She
must start back. She knew the name of her stop, the name of her street. When she reached the jammed-up crossing again, she slowed down and walked carefully, studying the carriages intently. Why not? She had enough. A well-heeled lady and gent were getting down from one just in front of her, and she ran a few steps in her eagerness. Her boot heel skidded in the wet and she nearly fell, her heart thumping up into her mouth, and for a terrible moment she thought she was going to burst into tears, so strange and dangerous everything seemed. Supposing she knocked her head, and they picked her up and lifted the veil and—it didn’t bear thinking about. She righted herself. Ignoring his slightly wary look, she gave the man her address and climbed up into the welcome sanctuary of the musty carriage, still bearing a trace of the musky perfume the well-heeled woman had worn.

  “For Christ’s sake, Rose, you’re gonna have to chuck some of this stuff away.”

  “Says who?”

  “Says me. And I’m the landlord.”

  She laughed.

  At either end of the top shelf, she’d piled books of the same size on top of each other. She laid a plank on top. The stuff underneath was getting kind of squashed, so she’d been moving things up, carefully selecting.

  “Seriously though,” said Laurie, “it’s getting ridiculous. You’re turning weird. It’s not attractive.”

  She looked sharply at him. “So I’m not attractive,” she said.

  “You are,” he said, “you’re lovely.” He was by the door, tying his hair back into a black ponytail that resembled an old frazzled mop. “But you must be able to see that this isn’t normal.”

  “What’s normal?”

  “Not this.”

  She sat down on the sofa, saying nothing.

  “Now, don’t get all funny about it. I’m only trying to help you. I’m beginning to think you’ve got a problem.”

  “Not my problem,” she said.

  Laurie shrugged on a leather jacket that looked a hundred years old. “You know you can get treatment for this sort of thing,” he said.