Lucía Zárate: The odyssey of the world’s smallest woman

by Cecilia Velástegui

  “Now, look here, Lucía. You cain’t be no scaredy-cat about what happened in Cleveland. Pull yourself by your raggedy, boot straps, girl!”

  “I know you put those men up to harming me,” Lucía whispered. “How could you stoop so low and scare me like that?”

  “Anytime I deal with you, I gotta stoop real low,” he teased Lucía in an attempt to make her laugh, but she showed no emotion. “First of all, I wish I could’a thought of that stunt, but I didn’t. Second, I thought you and your father hatched the plan to demand a ransom for you from ME.”

  Señor Zárate’s ears pricked-up at the mention of “ransom,” and he forecasted that if Lucía were abducted again, Frank Uffner would be forced to pay her kidnappers— namely himself. Señor Zárate salivated as he calculated how he could orchestrate such a devious double-deal.

  The silence was deafening among the three. And Lucía knew why. By now, Lucía understood the men’s pathologically egotistical personalities, and she perceived they were both thinking that a fourth kidnapping attempt on her life might somehow be the final solution to her dimming spotlight in the moribund world of sideshows. They were focused on extracting the last bit of money out of her, while she panicked that the brujo had come too close to capturing her for his evil intentions. Neither one of her abductors had uttered a single word; they’d covered her body and thrown her in her basket, so she couldn’t see their faces. She thought she had screamed for help as they descended the fire escape stairs with the agility of a coquero climbing up and down a tall, coconut tree, but no one came to her rescue. As her abductors reached the street level, she heard one of them hum the repetitive refrain from the famous Veracruz song: bamba-bamba, bamba, bamba.

  On the journey back to New York for a long stay at the Grand Museum, Menagerie and Moral Theatre, Lucía comforted herself by inhaling the familiar scent of vanilla pods. After their dismissal of her attempted abduction, Lucía had stopped talking to the Uffners and to her father weeks ago. Now she concentrated on how she could ditch them both in New York, while also continuing to earn money to remit to her mother back in Mexico. Lucía had finally reached her breaking point in Cleveland. She was disgusted with the inane schemes Frank Uffner had put into action in the shows in Ohio. She’d particularly objected to his failure of a ploy to give away a diamond ring to anyone whose fingers could fit one of Lucía’s rings. Even the most gullible of yokels figured his chances were nil. Some brought their babies in an effort to win the faux-diamond ring, but as she’d heard a drunk shout out in Cincinnati: “Ain’t nobody gonna fit the diamond ring. Don’t you know Lucía is the smallest woman in the world?”

  Recalling that day, Lucía came up with a last-ditch effort to rid herself of the Uffners. She would still need her father’s assistance, but he had never been the alpha dog, and she knew that once she offered him his reward, he would follow her command.

  She approached Frank one afternoon as he sat silently reading his newspaper.

  “Frank, do you think you could read me the article about Mr. P.T. Barnum from last week?”

  “Now, why would I do that?”

  “I heard your wife read it aloud to you last week, and you yelled at her to stop reading because your ideas are far superior to Mr. Barnum.”

  “Damn right, they is.”

  Lucía knew she had to taunt him gently, to make him want to read the article. “Didn’t Mr. Barnum lead his Jumbo elephant across Brooklyn Bridge to prove the sturdiness of the bridge’s engineering?”

  “That was a few years back, girl. Why don’t you keep up with the news? That Barnum is saying that the dime museums is dead. Damn liar.”

  Lucía found an unlikely ally in her scheme in Mrs. Uffner, who knew how to inflict pain and craved to get even for the years of abuse at the hands of her husband. She hurried off to find the newspaper in question, the New York, Sun article dated March 21, 1886, then stood to read it, word for word and as loud as possible:

  Madison Square Garden is quite ready for the opening of P.T. and Co’s. circus. To-day most of the menagerie stock will arrive from the winter quarters at Bridgeport, Conn. The performers have been coming in from all direction during the past week, and there seems to be no reason why the first exhibition, March 29, should not be complete. As usual, the torch-light parade will occur on Saturday night preceding the—

  “So the hell what!” Frank Uffner shouted at his wife. “Whoopee, he’s gonna have a torch parade and some jackass beasts …”

  “Let me get to the good parts, Frank.” She continued reading:

  In the museum department much diversion is expected from an “international congress of giants and giantesses,” in other words, a grouping on platform of all countries, and including such majestic men as Chang, the Chinese giant; Shields, the Texan big fellow; Pat O’Brien, the Celtic; and—

  Frank jumped off his chair. “And he has no midgets. Do you hear me, woman?

  “I do.”

  “P.T. Barnum has zero midgets. That’s my specialty, ain’t that right, Lucía?”

  Lucía nodded. “Only you know about little folks, Frank. But let your wife read the rest of the article. You deserve a good laugh.”

  “Damn right, I do.”

  Mrs. Uffner droned on and on. “It says here: A novelty for American audiences will be the thrilling flying trapeze exhibition by three people who have been startling European circus lovers …”

  “I’s been to Europe,” Frank Uffner growled, “and there ain’t nothing startling there, ain’t that right, Lucía?”

  Lucía nodded. “You’re so right, Frank, but let’s enjoy hearing the rest of the silly article?

  “As I was reading before I was rudely interrupted,” Mrs. Uffner said.

  Juan Caicedo, the Spaniard, in his strange promenades on the high wire; the Julians in a very elastic contortion exhibition; Tatalin, with the flying rings, and J.T. Carrier in a showing of dancing barrels. There will be no fewer than eleven clowns—

  “You should sign up and make it twelve,” Frank Uffner said to provoke his wife, who continued reading facts only she found fascinating.

  All winter long agents have been dispatched abroad to secure novelties and attractions for this year. When the circus train travels it will use 80 railroad cars, and have nearly 800 people on the pay-roll—

  “Boring, it’s putting me to sleep,” Frank Uffner groaned.

  “Says here it represents a capital of more than four million dollars,” his wife persisted. Frank waved her away and soon fell asleep, but Lucía stayed awake, plotting how she would approach P.T. Barnum and offer her services.

  On the opening day of the circus, Lucía Zárate’s name appeared on the day’s program as: The diminutive Lucía Zárate will be used to contrast the huge people.

  It was a triumphant day for Lucía. P.T. Barnum had taken a look at her contract with Frank Uffner and had torn it up.

  “This is trash, sweetie,” he told her. “It’s never been any good. Besides, my lawyers can break any contract. Trust me; you’re welcome to our circus family.”

  For a few days life was exciting at Madison Square Garden. Lucía felt a comradery that she’d never experienced with Frank Uffner’s antagonistic and jealous troupe, and she laughed and joked with the giants. She quickly made friends with Juan Caicedo, the Spanish high wire-artist. She found his Spanish lisp hilarious and he loved to dance with her. Together they entertained the entertainers during the lulls in their rehearsals. She confided in Juan about all her misadventures.

  “My godmother Zoila tried to protect me, but Mr. Uffner pushed me too hard for too long.”

  Juan kissed her forehead in a brotherly fashion.

  “You’ve suffered enough, my princess. I am here to keep an eye on you. I’ll fight for you, if necessary.” Juan jokingly sparred with one of the clowns walking by to his own rehearsal, and Lucía flashed him a grateful smile.

  Lucía even dared to introduce Juan to her father. Instead of shaking hands, Señor Zárate had
asked Juan how much he was earning and how much more he thought Lucía could earn. Unsurprisingly Juan had an immediate aversion to Señor Zárate, refusing to respond to such crass questions. On the day Lucía received an advance on her earnings, Juan told her to insist that her father bring her a receipt for the money he’d promised to remit to her mother. Lucía clutched the receipt to her chest, remembering how Zoila kept her valuables in her bosom: the vial of Felipe’s blood, her father’s gold watch, the dagger and the vanilla pods. For a fleeting few seconds, Lucía smelled the scent of Zoila’s aromatic vanilla presence and knew that Zoila must be back in Mexico and doing well. Zoila was a clever survivor who had taught Lucía that she could also tough it out. Under her breath Lucía repeated Zoila’s words, to convince herself that she was indeed tiny but mighty.

  This new life was wonderful for Lucía—until the day the dog trainer came to get her ready for her new act.

  P.T.’s agents had secured a gigantic St. Bernard dog, a gentle giant whose temperament was true to the breed. Every newspaper in the country reported his impressive pedigree. The Big Sandy News of Louisa, Kentucky wrote:

  The massive St. Bernard dog Plinlimmon, or Plin, as he is more familiarly known, was a deck passenger on the steamer Brittanic, which arrived today from Liverpool. He is the purest of St. Bernard breed, and traces his ancestry back to the most noble of the four-footed saviors of the Alps. He is, in all probability, one of the most perfectly proportioned dogs of the St. Bernard breed ever brought to this country.

  Despite Plin’s good nature, there was a big problem with the proposed double act with Lucía. Plin towered over Lucía, his goofy, slobbery face overwhelming her when he tried to sniff his new partner. When Lucía screeched, the giant dog barked back: his innate reaction was to warn his trainer that she might be hurt and crying out for help. Had Plin been in the Swiss Alps and heard a person of any size scream, he would have rushed to help them. To him, Lucía looked like a helpless baby.

  The dog trainer was impatient with Lucía’s behavior. He lost his temper when Lucía refused to walk under the dog, and when she screamed at being made to do the thing she feared. Again, Plin was a victim of his breed’s attributes. The innocent dog was soundly confused and he opened his wide jaw, lifted Lucía and delicately attempted to move her to a safe location. Had there been an avalanche in Madison Square Garden, Lucía would have survived under the care of the dog. Unfortunately, Señor Zárate walked in during the canine confusion and kicked the poor dog in his privates.

  P.T. Barnum’s kindness only extended to unique, healthy, hard-working performers, and Lucía’s hysterical reactions to her benign canine partner disappointed him. He couldn’t work with reluctant performers who weren’t entirely professional, so he gave her the boot. No amount of pleading from Juan or the clowns changed his mind. He was businessman first, a showman second. When Señor Zárate threatened a lawsuit, Barnum laughed in his face.

  “What contract?” he shouted. “You were in such a hurry to get Lucía into my show that you didn’t sign any contracts. Let me give you free advice, amigo. Lucía is a has-been. Nobody wants to see some miniature thing who does nothing but flounce about. The public want to see huge elephants, growling tigers, and fearless high-wire artists. Your day is gone. This is the era of the big top circus!”

  Barnum’s stellar prophesy of an extravagant future for his big-top circus came true. By 1887, P.T. Barnum and James Bailey had become equal partners in the new Barnum and Bailey Circus, and together they formed a fiery circus comet that streaked across America, leaving behind the dust of insignificant promoters like Frank Uffner. Their vision was to expand the “Greatest Show on Earth” under a big top that would hypnotize audiences looking up at the man-made skies bursting with sparkling trapeze stars and glowing high-wire acts.

  Barnum and Bailey showcased more and more ferocious animals, beasts whose roars would bring audiences to the brink of hysteria at the prospect of a life-or-death experience. While their agents searched the globe for the colossal entertainment Barnum envisioned, he continued to display the massive skeleton of Jumbo, the elephant, who had met his demise when he was struck by a train in Canada in 1885.

  Unfortunately for P.T. Barnum, the sure-fire hand of fate trumped his prophecy. Before long the curse of train wrecks and train accidents that seemed to follow American circuses throughout the United States caught up to his own circus. Folks had barely recovered from the Barnum and London accident that injured a dozen people, followed by the Frank A. Robbins Circus train accident in 1886 that killed one man and seventeen circus horses, when on November 4 and 5, 1888, the John Robinson Circus was involved in two serious wrecks on successive days. The circus community nationwide could not believe its grave malediction, but their motto of the “show must go on” prevailed, and the circus trains crisscrossed America despite the fear that the trains’ flaming engines and whip-like tails would turn them all into dust just around the next bend.

  On January 06, 1890 a miniscule Lucía sat squished between her father and mother as they left Salt Lake City on a train bound for San Francisco. They were cold and uncomfortable, but they were also looking forward to the conclusion of the San Francisco shows, when they would finally return to Mexico. Lucía’s presence on the train didn’t cause any commotion. Long gone was Lucía’s heyday of adoring fans, not to mention her spark and vigor, and her puppy-love infatuation with General Mite. Instead, she’d resigned herself to travel to and fro, wherever Mr. Holmes, her new manager, sent her.

  Lucía accepted her fate as the only breadwinner in her family and she resolved to persevere, to smile at her meager audiences, to lace up her shredded boots and put on a show. She saw no other alternative. She loved and accepted her mother and father for who they were. Zoila had taught her that she was tiny but mighty, and a mighty person did what was best for her family, whatever their personal shortcomings, self-interests, and acts of sabotage. Lucía even forgave her father for settling for a total of four thousand dollars and allowing Frank Uffner to keep the remaining twenty thousand dollars of her earnings. In the land of signed and unsigned contracts and the almighty power of the dollar, Lucía realized she didn’t stand a chance of recuperating her money. She would focus on doing what was best for her family, and she would keep going while the going was still somewhat good.

  After her abrupt dismissal by P.T. Barnum, Lucía had stayed in New York holding levées at Holmes’s Museum in Brooklyn, where she became the darling of elderly ladies who came in day in and day out to chat with her and commiserate about their sad lives. One afternoon, in late December of 1889, Lucía wasn’t sure she understood what a couple of elderly ladies were saying.

  “Dear lady,” she asked, “do repeat what you just said?”

  The elderly fan cupped her gloved hand to her ear. “What did you say?”

  “Please tell me why you are so sad?”

  “Oh, yes. I was saying that I read the Evening World last week.” The elderly lady pulled the news clipping from her pocket and read:

  Miss Zárate, whose weight is but four and three-quarter pounds, and who unblushingly admits that she is twenty-six years of age is an intelligent little woman who converses fluently in three languages. She is Mexican by birth and much attached to her Southern home. Her visitors have been for the most part ladies with whom she is a universal favorite. Manager Holmes has decided to keep her for just another week. At that time, he will present a new melodrama, “Monte.”

  Lucía groaned at the news, reluctant to face life on the road yet again. Her mother, now her chaperone, did not have Zoila’s stamina for the burdens of long-distance train travel, and Lucía worried for her health.

  Lucía’s elderly fan started to cry. “Why does Mr. Holmes want to send you away, honey? Seeing your sweet face is the only joy I have these days.”

  “I suppose that audiences prefer melodramas on stage,” Lucía said, trying not to cry herself. “Although my life has certainly had its unbelievable ups and downs.”


  “Oh, don’t we know. Why, weren’t you kidnapped three times? And didn’t you survive a run-away horse carriage in London?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “And weren’t you left at the altar … twice?”

  “More or less.” Lucía didn’t want to get into all the details of that now. It all seemed so long ago.

  “But how did you survive?” The elderly lady was sobbing. “Your heart must be in pieces!”

  Lucía chuckled. “Yes, but they are very small pieces and they’ve managed to put themselves together again.”

  “Darling, how can you laugh at your misfortune?”

  “I don’t see it as misfortune, Madam. On the contrary, I’ve lived a full life thus far. My godmother Zoila took care of me and taught me so much. I traveled the world, shook hands with royalty and presidents—and I fell in love. And look at me!” Lucía stood to her full miniature height. “I’m still the one and only, the smallest woman in the world.”

  W.J Burgess, the manager of the Grand Opera House in Salt Lake City, welcomed Lucía to the theatre. Her father and mother were waiting at the entrance, huddled against the strong wind-chill, but Mr. Burgess only invited Lucía inside. He picked her up like one of his toddler daughters, giggling at Lucía’s proportions.

  “I can’t believe what I’m seeing. You’re beyond tiny! Do you mind talking to the reporter from the Salt Lake Herald? He’s real eager to meet you and he wants to talk to you before you leave.”

  “But I just arrived in the city. Why would I leave?”

  “Hmm, that’s what they told me.”

  “Who’s they, sir?”

  “Dunno,” he said, and he handed her over to the reporter.

  Within a couple days, Lucía was boarding a train headed to San Francisco. Her parents were eager to leave the howling winds and falling snow of Salt Lake City behind.

  Her mother rubbed her hands together. “Do you think that San Francisco will be warm?”