Rosetta

by Alexandra Joel

  Though Zeno’s finely etched features have about them a European cast, he knows that his tilted eyes and cheekbones betray his past. Whether he calls himself William or Carl or Zeno makes no difference; he is familiar with remarks that sting, with exclusion, stares. Marriage to Rosetta has only caused this to intensify.

  Zeno turns over what Paterson has said … You must go away. You can’t imagine what you’ll do or see.

  Though in truth Zeno cannot see into the future, he divines then and there that Paterson is right. If he and Rosetta are to make their way in the world, one day they must leave Australia, venture far away. ‘London might be best,’ he thinks. ‘That sounds like a city with opportunities for a man like me.’

  For now, Zeno has other matters that occupy his mind. He checks the time, sees the late hour and makes a hurried goodbye.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ he says to Paterson. ‘I won’t forget your advice.’

  There is an unusual sense of urgency about Zeno as he turns away. For, each evening just as night begins to fall, he must leave the well-ordered terraces of Queen Street behind. His destination is a place of dreams and nightmares, shadow and illusion. It is called Wonderland City.

  EIGHTEEN

  Its Fame and Glory Extolled by Thousands …

  You Cannot Picture its Magnitude.

  IT HAS TO BE SEEN

  The Sydney Morning Herald, 22 December 1906

  A constant succession of novelties keeps interest in Wonderland fresh. The latest is a lady who used to be ‘The Human Firefly,’ but at Wonderland is ‘The Lady Comet.’ She nightly makes ineffectual and sensational efforts to get burnt to death.

  Chefalo, the reckless, will loop the death loop, and Signorina Chefalo will also do something hair-raising. Baker’s Circus will be on tap at the King’s Theatre. In addition Katzenjammer, Topsy-turvey, and all the rest of the side-shows are in full blast. But for the man who has found someone ideal there is nothing better than the shaded seats besides the cool fountains in the luminous darkness.

  The Bulletin, 10 January and 14 February 1907

  What was this strange and dangerous realm?

  Intrigued, I sit for hours under bright strip lighting in a modern municipal library, turning page after page of old newspapers that describe a lost world of marvels and imagination. Wonderland City was the brainchild of the flamboyant entrepreneur William Anderson. It was the culmination of all his theatrical ambitions, first sparked in Bendigo at the age of eight when he formed a plan to run away and join a visiting circus. Anderson’s lifelong attachment to greasepaint and the suspension of disbelief led him to produce all kinds of shows across Australia, but never anything on such a scale as this.

  The Indigenous tribes that lived beside the fierce currents of a small treacherous bay just a few kilometres south of what is now called Sydney Heads are said to have called it Gamma Gamma, or ‘storm’. Thousands of years before Europeans took it for themselves, these peoples lived along its coastline in natural shelters chiselled by the wind. They left behind mysterious rock carvings made from punching holes with stones and then joining them together by way of grooves made in the rock. It is hard to tell exactly what they represent: something marine, perhaps, a whale or possibly two fish.

  Today, the area is called Tamarama. The waves that claw the sand upon its beach are just as treacherous as ever, but now surf-board riders in wetsuits glide in among them like sleek black seals.

  It was here that in 1906 William Anderson decided to lease Tamarama Glen plus the land formerly occupied by The Royal Aquarium and Pleasure Grounds. The old amusement park had swings, a shooting gallery, water boats and Punch and Judy shows. The Aquarium was inhabited by stingrays, lobsters, turtles, porcupine-fish, a tiger shark and a wobbegong.

  These attractions, charming but limited, were insufficient to satisfy Anderson’s ambitions. He wanted to build something that would be sensational, extraordinary. The result, at least at first, fulfilled all his dreams. Twenty-thousand people flocked to the opening night; Wonderland caused transports of delight.

  ‘So, Mrs Norman, how do you think I should address your husband, then – is he to be William, Carl, Zeno or just The Magnificent?’ Anderson has a cigar clenched firmly between his teeth, a twirling ringmaster’s moustache and a yellow rose in his buttonhole, fresh and dewy despite the heat. He strides about energetically, proudly shows the Normans his domain.

  Down past the Katzenjammer Castle they go, with its weird noises and shrieks, past screaming people flying around the Helter Skelter, and on to the Topsy-turvy where excited fans are thrown upside down. Pleasure seekers rush and swirl about them, uncertain where to turn next. That they wear their customary attire, long skirts and large hats on the women, high-buttoned suits for men, does not deter them from the experience. Whether it is at the Imperial Menagerie of Wild Beasts, the Hall of Laughter, the Box Ball Alley, the Maze, the Haunted House or Ice-skating Rink, inhibitions disappear. They embrace abandonment.

  ‘Call him what you will’ is Rosetta’s laughing reply as the astonishing scenes unfold.

  Anderson turns towards his new magician. ‘I think I’ll call you William. But in public it will of course be Zeno the Magnificent.’

  The febrile atmosphere of bewitchment is further enhanced by countless coloured lamps glowing ruby, gold, azure blue and emerald green among the rides and on the cliffs. People cluster on the embankment just to marvel at the display. Anderson has ensured that, while city streets are still lit by subdued gas light, his world is ablaze, illuminated by electricity, that marvel of the age. He has his own steam plant.

  The three arrive at their destination, the Palace of Illusions. Though painted ebony, its name is picked out in yet more dazzling light. This is the place where Zeno is to see the future, tell fortunes and mesmerise.

  ‘Well, here it is,’ says Anderson with a flamboyant gesture. ‘You start tonight.’

  Zeno understands the world of artifice. He discards his customary suit and tie in favour of a black silk robe with a scarlet dragon embroidered down one side. This is not the time to shrink from an oriental heritage. He assumes an air of impenetrable mystery, even elongates his eyes with a little charcoal from the fire. He knows what his audience wants and plays to type.

  ‘Beware,’ he says, if a customer who is visiting his stall looks anxious. ‘I see great riches,’ if his coat is new and of good cloth. ‘You have an admirer,’ this for a woman of a certain age, not quite sure about her looks. All are amazed.

  ‘How does he know,’ they ask their friends, ‘the secrets of my heart?’

  Zeno is elegant. Always courteous, he delivers his pronouncements in his beautiful, low voice in a way that leaves no room for doubt. He is particularly popular with ladies, a cause of great satisfaction for Anderson who watches greedily as the queues outside the sparkling black building grow. Rosetta notices them too. She remembers how she and Zeno met and feels, just for a moment, a faint disquiet. But Zeno is attentive. All is well. She brushes it aside.

  So delighted is Anderson with the way his latest employee has turned out that he soon invites him to perform in the splendid King’s Theatre of Varieties.

  ‘You’re made for bigger things, my friend,’ he says, ashing his cigar.

  Zeno thinks so, too. He is more than ready for this step. That night, when the theatre’s deep blue curtains part, he appears spotlit, alone on stage. The Acrobatic Marvels, Morris and Wilson, have already thrilled by flying through the air. The extraordinary contortions executed by the Eight Sunbeams are complete. After so much excitement it takes a moment for the crowd to become settled and quiet.

  Zeno is still and silent. He waits. There is the sound of low drumming and soft clouds of smoke steal across the stage. Cymbals clash, the smoke clears, Zeno holds his arms out wide and in a thrilling voice he says: ‘Who among you has lost a precious object? What is it that you seek? Your wallet, perhaps? Your spectacles, a necklace?

  ‘No, ladies and gentlemen, do not tell
me. Let Zeno the Magnificent guess. With the powers I have at my command I will divine your need. Not only that, I will reveal where the object that you seek can be retrieved.’

  One by one, as if by magic, Zeno correctly identifies a man with a tall hat who has mysteriously lost his pen, a plump woman sick with worry over her missing golden bracelet and a young, ungainly fellow who blushes over a letter from his sweetheart that has unexpectedly gone astray. The crowd murmurs its approval, but Zeno hasn’t finished yet. He invites a young lady up on stage, a small boy and a large, well-built man. Approval turns to wild applause when the pen, the bracelet and the letter are all found inside, respectively, the astonished young lady’s reticule, the small boy’s pocket and the large man’s coat.

  Next Zeno asks the crowd, ‘Who wants to be transported, to become a bird or beast? Unbelievers are welcome. Only step up and join me on stage.’

  Two young men oblige, obviously friends. They wear three-piece suits and a superior air. Zeno gestures to the first young man to take a chair at the right of where he stands. His subject can see only Zeno’s wizard eyes in the stage lights’ glare. Zeno mutters a string of foreign-sounding words. He encourages the young man to focus on a curious golden medallion he holds before him, spinning on a chain.

  Zeno is practised in this art. It doesn’t take long for the young man to fall under his spell. All roar with amusement as he is directed to bray like a donkey and roar like a bull. Next it is the other fellow’s turn. He has laughed as hard as anyone and announces, ‘You won’t have the same luck with me.’ Zeno only smiles. He is really very good at what he does. Within moments the audience is entertained by an impersonation of a rooster, a duck and finally a hen.

  During the thunderous applause that follows, Zeno slips away to settle up with the light-fingered boy he has earlier engaged to redistribute certain objects from unsuspecting people waiting to come in. So much for magic. But Zeno’s hypnotic skills are real: to resist his will is as unlikely as turning back the sea.

  Hurrying, Zeno joins Rosetta in the wings. ‘My wicked, clever darling, you really are quite dazzling – or should I say, magnificent,’ she says, and kisses him on the lips. The two then turn towards the stage. They watch the debonair master of ceremonies in his white tie, top hat and tails as, standing in the spotlight, he announces, ‘Professor Godfrey’s sensational Dog and Monkey Circus!’ to the crowd.

  Terriers in red jackets and curly-tailed marmosets with green fez hats begin to waltz. Next, a Professor West inches his way down a narrow plank placed at an alarming angle. ‘Think of it, ladies and gentlemen,’ the ringmaster cries, ‘it is at least one hundred feet in length!’ Finally, the last member of this professorial trio, a man by the name of Cormack who is ‘capable of extraordinary feats’, dives from an enormous height into a small tank that Anderson vows is filled with sharks. But Zeno is no longer watching. ‘Professor,’ he reflects. ‘What a good idea that title is.’

  Other readers come and go but I remain in the library. I am trans-fixed by one tale after another, each more astonishing than the last.

  It seems that Wonderland City is filled with perilous things to see and do.

  A man called Jack Lewis rollerskates down a ramp and through a loop of fire. Another daredevil, an American with the unlikely name of Alphonse Stewart, sets off in an enormous balloon called the President Roosevelt and flies to the dizzying altitude of three thousand feet before stepping out into thin air. At the last moment a blue parachute opens. Now a tiny, flailing figure suspended above the sea, he soars past and is lost to view. Miraculously, Alphonse lands without injury on a cliff-top grave in nearby Waverley Cemetery. ‘I would have preferred to come down on a more cheerful spot,’ he remarks to a reporter from The Daily Telegraph and grins insouciantly.

  Next, eager patrons climb aboard a blimp-like airship. It travels in a precarious fashion just above the waves on a cable strung between the cliffs. Inevitably, it breaks down, and with rough seas sweeping the beach below, disgruntled lifesavers have to rescue the stranded thrill-seekers, lest they be lost at sea.

  No one knows what to expect next.

  NINETEEN

  Despite Wonderland’s extraordinary diversions, among fickle Sydney-siders a certain ennui begins creeping in. Anderson rises to the occasion. He stages fireworks displays, then mock battles between the army and the navy on the beach. There are flame throwers and explosions and cannons going off. At night he re-creates Ned Kelly’s last stand at Glenrowan. Still, it is not enough. The stakes rise.

  One evening Rosetta strolls along the cliffs. There is a wind, and a long strand of russet hair blows free as she holds her straw hat. A shout goes up. She turns, together with a thousand others, towards the roaring surf. ‘Someone, help!’ a desperate voice cries out. All eyes are fixed on a small ship heading towards the rocks. But nothing can be done. An awful silence falls. Waves whipping jagged rocks is the single sound. Rosetta is terrified. Didn’t Zeno say this morning he was going out to sea? She begins to shake as, horror-stricken, she watches helplessly.

  But what is this? With a tremendous jolt the small ship hits a hidden, sandy reef. It is safe. The crew emerge on deck and take their bows; Zeno waves, another man grins at the crowd, then blows a kiss. The spectators’ gasps of horror turn into wild applause. It has been an illusion, after all. Annoyed that Zeno has allowed her to think the worst, still Rosetta is exhilarated. She is a risk-taker, and jeopardy has its appeal.

  The next day Rosetta finds Mr Anderson on the beach. He is dealing with problems caused by the eight-foot wire fence he has had erected across his land. The fence stops anyone trying to gain entry to Wonderland without a ticket, but it keeps out swimmers, too. This has infuriated the swimmers who, once again, have cut the wire despite threats to call the police.

  Rosetta, in a filmy long white dress, waits patiently, half closing her eyes against the sun. She watches Alice, Wonderland’s famous elephant, as the great beast makes her way along the beach. The children in the crimson and gold howdah on top of her are screaming with delight but Alice is unbothered. It has become her life.

  ‘Mr Anderson,’ Rosetta says, smiling.

  ‘Why, Mrs Norman. You are looking particularly charming today. How can I help?’

  ‘I am most intrigued by your entertaining spectacles,’ she says. ‘Might I make a suggestion of my own?’

  Rosetta’s plans are enthusiastically received. ‘My dear, what a perfectly splendid idea!’ he says. ‘We’ll do it on Saturday; it’s our biggest night of the week.’

  Rosetta has felt just a little unsure of late. Everything is so uncertain, so different from the way it used to be. It is good to be occupied with this new project. It stops her thinking of all she has left behind as well as what may lie ahead.

  She moves away from the beach and onto the adjoining grass. It is quiet now. Most rides will not operate until after sunset. The Palace of Illusions is also closed, but she knows Zeno is somewhere inside. He has told her he is needed to help another performer rehearse an act. That is all.

  It is very dark within the black walls of the Palace. The sparkling lights are not turned on. The space is cavernous and none of the stalls seem to be in the right place anymore. Rosetta stumbles ahead blindly. She hits her shin on something sharp and hidden. Wincing, she stops. Then she hears a voice she knows. There is only one person who has that low and thrilling tone.

  Limping a little, Rosetta walks towards the sound. She wants to tell Zeno about her conversation with Mr Anderson, anticipates the way her ingenuity will delight her husband. A heavy curtain blocks her way, ash coloured in the gloom. Impatient now, she pulls it aside, and as she does so sees by candlelight the figure of a showgirl wearing a small silver-spangled slip and little else. The girl has her back towards her. She is entwined with a man against a wall. He looks over the girl’s shoulder. Abruptly, he lets his arms fall.

  It is too late. Rosetta has turned and gone.

  Reeling into the sunshine, Rosett
a is distraught. She has given up everything; security, her reputation, a life spent with her child, for this?

  ‘I should have known!’ she tells herself. ‘With Zeno, nothing is ever as it seems.’

  Rosetta rushes away, furious and wounded. By the time she reaches her Queen Street home her eyes are filled with angry, stinging tears. ‘It is intolerable,’ she thinks, as she pushes open the front door. ‘I would like nothing better than to, to … hurt him as horribly as he’s hurt me.’

  Burning with rage she tears off her clothes, throws herself onto the bed. A feverish pulse beats in her naked limbs and breasts; there is a hot, splintering feeling inside her head. Yet, even as her mind replays the shocking intimacy she’s seen, she becomes aware of other passions being stirred. Zeno in the arms of another woman. Vivid images arise. Does he do the same things to that woman as he does to her? Against her will, she is aroused.

  Later, when he comes to her, when he slides silently into her bed, it is she who takes him, demands that she be satisfied. She has never been so fierce, so uninhibited. Only afterwards, when she is still and her passion sated, does Zeno conjure up the words he knows must now be said in order to placate. ‘My darling, I am sorry,’ he murmurs. ‘I have caused you pain and there is no excuse for that. I took what was offered. It is the life that I have always led. But you know that I adore you. Believe me when I say that you won’t have to worry again.’

  By now, Rosetta has learnt to interpret the spaces between Zeno’s caressing words, the things he doesn’t say. ‘You won’t have to worry again.’ What kind of assurance is that? Perhaps it means only that he now knows he must be discreet. The part of her that detaches from her strong emotions coolly assesses the way she feels. He adores her. She believes him. But might he stray from her again? She can’t be sure.