Guillaudeu pushed handfuls of excelsior into the varnished rib cage and bound it tightly with strips of linen. He replaced the owl’s spinal column with a stout iron wire and strung on the bird’s bleached vertebrae. Below this manufactured spine, a ball of bound excelsior became the new pelvic girdle, and he cut and sharpened the ends of two wires before slipping them through the incisions in the soles of the feet and upward inside the feathered legs. He used even heavier wire for the wings, since he wanted the specimen’s ultimate pose to reflect the last moments before flight, wings uplifted.
He worked slowly, with precision and confidence. The rushing flood of visitors outside his office no longer bothered him. He recast each curve of musculature into shape and coaxed the emptied skin into what he believed was an essential new form. To Guillaudeu the scraping and stretching of leather, the briny, bloody, and alchemical tasks, each and every resinous and oily step in this metamorphosis was work that came with thrilling repercussions: What other process allowed people to come this close, so intimately close, to nature’s meticulous designs?
His palette of chopped tow, powders, poisonous liquors, knives, brushes, and wires was spread out around him, each restoring ingredient within his reach and endowed, to his mind, with a numinous quality. There was no problem of anatomy, decomposition, or tanning that he could not solve. He worked single-mindedly, with a sense of duty that approached faith. Although he would never describe his joy as religious (he had never been a believer), his exultation burned like a glowing iron wire running all through him.
As he threaded a sturdy needle with catgut, Guillaudeu was interrupted by a violent knock on his door. The sound made two tiny golden monkeys, who had appeared at his doorstep the day before and who were extremely difficult to catch, leap from the bookshelf, where they’d been sleeping, and run back into their burlap-lined crate.
A large man wearing a dark blue suit, with slicked hair and one eyebrow slightly raised, stood at the door holding an ebony cane. His impatient, slightly theatrical posture made Guillaudeu instantly uncomfortable.
“Good morning?” Guillaudeu ventured, his mind still entirely with the owl and the delicate operation of securing its skin to its new architecture. With his broad face and tiny, close-set black eyes, Guillaudeu observed, the man resembled the American badger, Taxidea taxus.
“I’m looking for Mr. Barnum.”
“Oh.”
“Is he here?”
“Certainly not. Barnum has never set foot in my office.”
The man looked past Guillaudeu into the room, as if Barnum were hiding among the crates inside.
“I am Mr. Archer,” the man declared.
“I see.” The name meant nothing to Guillaudeu.
“I am in need of an office. Barnum assured me I would be accommodated.”
“You’re an employee?”
The man seemed perturbed. “I am Mr. Ar-cher,” he repeated, tapping his cane on the ground to match the two syllables of his name. “Formerly of the Herald and The New York Sun?”
“Ah! Mr. Archer. Yes, I’d forgotten you were to arrive today.” Guillaudeu had never heard of Mr. Archer, but it would do no good to say so.
“I had expected to be met at the door. I have my things.” Mr. Archer pointed with his cane. “They’re unloading it all now.”
“I see. Well, come in.”
Guillaudeu settled Mr. Archer into a chair and hovered near him. “Mr. Barnum is actually not in the building at the moment.”
“Then who is running the museum, at the moment?”
“Well.” Guillaudeu leaned against his desk. “I’m not sure how to answer that question.”
“What do you mean, Mr. —”
“Guillaudeu.”
“Mr. Guillaudeu. In what way is that question a challenge to you? Who is running this museum?”
“Well, the theater staff runs the performances; certainly the custodians and ticket-takers manage themselves …”
Mr. Archer stared at Guillaudeu as if the taxidermist had just told him there were pelicans on the moon. Guillaudeu continued: “The managing chef runs the restaurant and sees to the concession stands. And the exhibits themselves need no supervision. With exceptions, of course. But I tend to those. We’re expecting some kind of naturalist, someone other than myself to look after the new … menagerie.”
“I see.” Mr. Archer peered again at the office. Bookcases lined one side of the windowless den, and a small reading desk was pushed up against the wall. Chips of petrified wood fallen from the larger museum pieces had found their way to the bookshelves, along with various specimens: a few mice, a robin, a tattered hare. These were duplicates of the specimens in the galleries, too damaged or old for public display. All along the opposite wall, tools hung from hooks in an assortment of sizes, from the tiny silver brain spoon to rib clamps the size and shape of a wolf trap. The worktable was the center of this panorama, displaying its array of tools and the owl spread out, half clothed in its skin. Underneath the table were shelves of jars, metal canisters, and clay pots. There were bottles of alcohol, ether, cornmeal for absorbing a specimen’s natural oils, bags of excelsior, hide-curing salt, glass eyes in brown, yellow, and even blue (for certain New World nocturnal species). As Mr. Archer swiveled in the chair to take it all in, Guillaudeu saw it as this stranger might: as if a great tide had left surf-blown piles of flotsam.
“Your wife?” Mr. Archer pointed to the framed likeness on the wall. Guillaudeu’s throat filled with an awful bile that he quickly swallowed.
“Celia,” he said weakly, not permitting his eyes to meet his, or hers.
“Well then,” Archer tapped his cane on the floor. “About my office?”
Guillaudeu cleared his throat. “Given the museum’s rate of growth in recent months, organization is sometimes difficult. Regrettably.”
Mr. Archer gave a short nod. “I wouldn’t have guessed organization to be the underlying principle here.”
“I suppose not,” Guillaudeu replied. He did not like the man’s tone, and he still had no idea how Mr. Archer fit into the scheme of the museum.
“Sir,” Mr. Archer said as he brushed a few golden hairs from his trouser leg. “Where is my office? I’d like to get settled.”
“If you will excuse me, sir, I will research that detail.” Guillaudeu ran across the hall to the ticket window. “William. Have you heard of a Mr. Archer?”
“Archer?” William was an elderly Irishman with tufted eyebrows and a wandering eye. He had worked for John Scudder for many years and remained a reliable nexus of information of all kinds. He continued to take coins from the hands of incoming visitors. “Isn’t that the ad man? The fellow from the papers?”
“Is it? What’s he doing here?”
“Barnum hired him.”
“Do you know where his office might be?”
William laughed, half looking at Guillaudeu for the first time. “Who knows? Not much room down here. I haven’t heard anything about it. But since you’re here, I had a complaint from a patron yesterday that you’ll want to know about.”
William paused to take admission from an elderly woman wearing a coat made from the pelt of Pagophilus groenlandicus.
“Apparently some kind of bull on the fourth floor has some worms. In the eye area.”
“What!”
William chuckled.
“The fourth floor? That must be the wildebeest. But that seems highly unlikely, since I’ve fumigated —”
“I’m just the messenger, Emile. If I hear anything about this Archer, I’ll make sure you’re the first to know.”
Guillaudeu reluctantly returned to the office. He’d have to go up there straightaway. Worms! Maggots, surely. Guillaudeu’s embarrassment flared.
Mr. Archer had retreated to a corner and held his cane out as if he were about to engage in swordplay. The burlap sack moved. A monkey peeked out.
“They’re harmless. They’re much like you” — immediately he realized that it was an
unsuccessful analogy — “because they’re waiting for their permanent habitat, you see. See? Leontopithecus rosalia —”
Mr. Archer was unmoved by the monkeys’ Latin name, but as if in response the tiny creatures darted out of the sheltering bag and disappeared between the crates littering the floor.
“As you can see, Mr. Archer, the museum functions rather on its own terms. Information doesn’t always make it to every corner of the building. Your office” — Guillaudeu could think of no better way to put it — “does not exist. Yet. The museum has undergone so much transformation in recent months that the other offices are still full of ladders, equipment, building apparatuses. Apparati, rather. You get my meaning.”
“This is ridiculous! I left the Sun for this?” He waved his cane.
Guillaudeu shrugged weakly.
“What do you propose as to my accommodations?”
Guillaudeu’s instinct was to escort Mr. Archer straight out the door and proceed with his day as if they’d never met. Out of discomfort and an irrational and ill-fated desire to end their conversation at all costs, he offered a second choice.
“We could clear out these crates and set you up in here on a purely temporary basis.”
Mr. Archer paced back toward Guillaudeu, who fought an urge to dive under his desk. The man was clearly accustomed to having his way. Mr. Archer seemed to be fuming, or so Guillaudeu supposed from the fish-like opening and closing of his mouth.
“Will these louse-infested creatures stay?” He gestured toward the burlap sack.
“We’ll see what we can do. There are many such … specimens in need of a cage.”
Mr. Archer stomped out to direct the unloading of his carriage.
Guillaudeu broke up empty crates and carried the piles of wood and papers to the curb. He moved the unopened packages that he could lift to his side of the room, all the while silently enraged that he had made such a careless offer of hospitality. Mr. Archer’s valet and Guillaudeu then carried a large oak desk into the office while Mr. Archer stood by to make sure the desk was not scratched in the process.
“This will have to do,” Mr. Archer muttered. “The rest can wait until I have my own office.”
After the two men eyed each other for a moment, Guillaudeu retreated. He watched Mr. Archer pull a sheaf of white paper from a box and set it in front of him on his table. He primped the papers, squaring the stack so each leaf lay aligned with the next. He pulled a pencil from his waistcoat pocket and put it on the table.
Guillaudeu picked up one of the crates that had been sitting in the office for days. He’d been receiving everything from African artifacts to monkeys, and he pried the lid off the package warily. He dug through the packing material and finally pulled out a wrapped bundle.
“Mr. Guillaudeu, I’m curious about something.” Mr. Archer held up a sheet of paper. “I have a letter from Mr. Barnum here, describing my duties.”
“I see.” Guillaudeu began to unwrap the bundle.
“Of course I fully understand the advertising bit. I’ve worked in the papers for years, as you know.”
“Quite right.”
“But there’s a whole other element, you see. To my job here.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. ‘Illuminating the exhibits,’ Mr. Barnum says. ‘With Historical, Scientific, and Astonishing Facts.’ ”
“Yes, it seems like more descriptions and explanation would help visitors,” Guillaudeu said.
The final layers of wrapping fell away from the bundle and Guillaudeu put a small mounted specimen on the desk. He then jumped back as if the creature had spoken.
“I see,” Archer continued. “But then he mentions something I can’t understand: The Representatives of the Wonderful. What or who are they? What does he mean by this?”
But Guillaudeu neither comprehended nor even heard Mr. Archer’s query. He tugged his mustache and then grabbed the crate, searching for a return address. He tore through the packing material.
“What on earth is happening over there? Did you hear my question?”
“This is unthinkable … definitely impossible!”
“Good gracious, sir.” Mr. Archer rose from his seat. “I don’t see that there is cause for such a loss of composure, no matter what it is.”
Guillaudeu looked at him. “Have you ever seen anything like this?”
The stuffed animal specimen was only a foot long. The creature had a dense coat of smooth brown fur fading to brassy blond at its belly. Its head was round, with no discernible ears and tiny black eyes.
“Look. Its tail is like a beaver’s,” Guillaudeu whispered, picking up the specimen. “But rounded, and short! And its feet. They are fully webbed, but these long claws … look at them!”
Mr. Archer by this time was standing next to him, arms folded across his chest. “Obviously someone’s a humbug, Mr. Guillaudeu. Look at its beak. There’s nothing natural about its beak. What would you call that, anyway?”
“It seems to be cartilaginous. It has nostrils just here.” Guillaudeu brushed the top of the animal’s broad fleshy muzzle. “It appears to have part of a spoonbill’s beak attached to it. Perhaps with an epoxy of some kind?” Guillaudeu searched the creature’s face. “If it’s manufactured it was done by a master.”
“You mean you think it may be real?” Mr. Archer scoffed, his chin jutting.
“That’s difficult to say. Even the mermaid was so well made it was hard to say for sure.”
“You must be joking, monsieur. China has been manufacturing mermaids for centuries! Men are born into the mermaid business over there.” Mr. Archer took the creature in his hands. “Its tail does seem quite real, though, doesn’t it?”
“See.” Guillaudeu pointed. “It has a coat like a seal, with longer hair on the outside and a sort of downy layer near the skin. This animal lives in the water. At least part of the time.”
Guillaudeu pawed around in the crate, finally discovering a crumpled sheet of stationery. “Thank goodness. A letter.” He held it up.
Mr. Archer cradled the creature in the crook of his arm. “Well?”
“Dear Mr. Barnum: here is Ornithorhynchus anatinus. A-ha! Let’s see … bird … snout. Duck-like snout.”
“Not terribly helpful.”
“I can scarcely believe I’m parting with it, but your price was too generous to pass up. So here she is, all the way from Botany Bay. I know she will draw a crowd, even in New York. Yours, V.”
“Who is ‘V’?” Mr. Archer handed the specimen back to Guillaudeu.
“I don’t know.”
“Is it real?”
“I don’t know.”
Guillaudeu examined the junction between the specimen’s bill and its skull. He could see no stray stitches or gloss of adhesive. It seemed to have an entirely natural transition from fur to flesh. “I don’t know.” He turned the animal over. “I see no mammaries. If it is a she, as ‘V’ suggests, there should be mammaries. If it’s a mammal.”
“How could it be anything else? Look at her fur.” Mr. Archer brushed a finger along the animal’s back. “It certainly is soft.”
“It’s not a reptile. And it certainly is not a bird.”
“The tail seems to be a bit scaly. What an extraordinary tail.”
“How could it be?” Guillaudeu looked at the ad man.
Mr. Archer raised his eyebrows. “You’re the naturalist, Mr. Guillaudeu, not me.”
“Taxidermist.” Guillaudeu sat down in his chair.
Mr. Archer picked up Ornithorhynchus anatinus. “People will pay to see it, I’m quite sure.” He walked back to his desk, petting the specimen. “I would pay to see it, wouldn’t you?”
“But we don’t know what it really is.”
“That is true, but is that a relevant question, Mr. Guillaudeu? Is that truly the correct question to ask here, of all places? I’m not sure Mr. Barnum gave me that impression.”
“Well —”
“I don’t think so.” And Mr. Archer, n
ow sitting at his desk with the creature in front of him, licked the tip of his right forefinger and swept a leaf of paper off the stack. After rubbing his hands together and glancing at Guillaudeu, he tapped the tip of his pencil seven times against the page and began to write.
Guillaudeu pulled down the third volume of Cuvier’s Illustrated Natural History. This book provided Guillaudeu with not only an encyclopedic survey of the planet’s creatures but also what he considered the necessary philosophical context for his studies. In one essay Cuvier stated: It is only really in one’s study that one can roam freely throughout the universe, and for that, a different sort of courage is needed, courage which comes from unlimited devotion to the truth, courage which does not allow its possessor to leave a subject until, by observation and connected thought, he has illuminated it with every ray of light possible.
Guillaudeu had been following the debates between field naturalists and sedentary scholars of nature. The field naturalists embodied, in his opinion, a sort of base recklessness in their travels, haphazardly bringing home natural objects from all over the globe without knowing anything about them or taking the time to place them in a proper taxonomic context. The sedentary naturalists like Cuvier, though less traveled than the field-goers, were repositories of knowledge and applied that knowledge to each specimen in the solitude of their offices. Being an anatomist, Cuvier shared, Guillaudeu felt certain, his own love of close, meticulous study of the internal structures of animals. Knowing that an important man of natural philosophy agreed with Guillaudeu’s own ideas strengthened his resolve. It was an added benefit that both he and Cuvier were French by birth. He flipped through pages of engravings. No duck-tike bird snout. He pulled the index off the shelf. Nothing.
He paced the length of the office. He stared at the brown creature on Mr. Archer’s desk, which stared right back at him, defying the implausibility of its own existence. He stroked the animal’s back. He looked again at the small curved claws, the webs of leather in between. No artist, however masterful, could have created this from bird and beaver parts. But where was the proof? He returned to his desk and again flipped through the book, passing pages of beetles and pages of birds. His desire to find the little creature safely documented by Cuvier was more urgent than he would have liked to admit. An ominous sense grew in the back of his mind that the boundaries of Cuvier’s world were not as fixed as his elevated language and four-color lithographs implied.
Among the Wonderful Page 2
