I saw my own reflection in the mirror on the opposite wall, the red feather against my cheek, and also a scarlet blush rising there. My expression was unforgivable: slack-lipped and misty-eyed.
“You!” I growled at the image. “Always watching, aren’t you? Is this what you want to see?” I lunged across the room and ripped the mirror from its hooks. I threw it as hard as I could and it exploded against the wall.
In the silence that followed, I knew Maud and everyone else was listening closely; they wondered if the mirror was the beginning of my rampage, or whether a single act of self-annihilation would suffice this time.
In front of me, cupped gently on the air, the red feather drifted sideways. I lunged for it, but the draft from my body whisked it away.
Twenty-four
The fifth floor was at its busiest at half past nine in the evening, with doors opening and closing, conversations audible from rooms away, and the heavy footfalls of the Wonderful going up and down the hall. I started with the Indians.
There had been some excitement when the Indians arrived because they refused to divide themselves into groups of two and move into the three apartments the museum had prepared for them. After mysterious negotiations, the Indians — they were Sioux we discovered — made themselves a sort of camp along one wall of the beluga’s gallery. The whale, whose tank was still not complete, and who received meals consisting of buckets of fish, did not seem to mind. The Indians had constructed some small shelters from blankets draped over clothesline, and as I approached, I saw that they’d made their camp into a rather cozy affair. Seven cots in two tidy rows, each made up with a woolen blanket and sheets. Men lay on two of the cots, apparently asleep. Two others sat on the floor just inside the blanket structure, and a white-haired man wearing a violet waistcoat and a top hat stood at the top of the ladder. He leaned over the side of the beluga tank, his sleeves rolled to the elbow and a fancy hardwood pipe jutting from the corner of his mouth. He held the handle of a horsehair push broom over the water. When I reached him, I peered over the lip of the creature’s tank; the whale was lolling on its side while the old Indian scrubbed its back vigorously. The whale emitted a long, continuous whistle and raised one fin lazily.
“Good evening,” I said.
The elderly man glanced at me. One of the younger men came out of the tent and walked to where we were. He wore black trousers and an indigo shirt. He watched the older man and said nothing. One of the others sat up on his cot.
“My name is Ana Swift,” I continued. The smell of wood smoke emanated from the Indians’ blankets in a spicy tang, confusing me with a memory of my mother’s house, my home, that place I’d never see again, a place of questionable existence.
“I’m hosting an English class. Wednesday evening. The night after tomorrow.” I held out one of the yellow flyers. “To learn English.”
The beluga croaked with pleasure, which made the old Indian smile. I gave the flyer to the younger man, who did not look at it. Another Indian appeared from somewhere on the far side of the whale’s tank. She was a woman whose age I could not immediately tell; perhaps it was close to my own. Her hair was shorn close around her ears, and the planes of her cheeks were softened by two creases running horizontally, not denoting exhaustion but giving her face an unusual, wizened quality. Her look was a challenge, and curious. As she came close, I saw that the creases across her cheekbones were scars, made by what must have been an extremely sharp blade. The younger man started to shoo her away, but the elder one gestured to her, and she smirked at the young man as she drew closer.
“She will be the only one,” the elder said. His English, muffled by the pipe, contained a faint British accent.
The other man gave her my flyer. She snatched it and scurried away.
I bypassed the apartment of the conjoined twins. The Martinettis took two flyers, nodding and clucking and waking their youngest son to translate. The Chinese giant, Tai Shan, answered his door wearing a brown silk tunic embroidered with turquoise peonies.
“I am teaching an English class, here in the museum,” I said. “I presume you are not in need of such a thing.”
“No,” the giant said softly. “My English is excellent, as is my German. My French, however, could stand improvement.”
“Well.” How irritating.
I had seen this Chinese giant only once before. He obviously found better things to do with his time than spend it with the rest of us, so I did not go out of my way to befriend him.
I passed Olrick’s closed door, and the albino twins and their parents, who came from New Orleans. At the end of the hall was a door I’d never noticed before. It was probably empty, but I knocked anyway. No sound from within. I slipped a flyer under the door and as I turned away I heard something move inside. I tapped the door again. “Hello?” I thought I heard a voice, and then I definitely heard the thump of something hitting the floor. As I turned the doorknob it occurred to me that whoever it was might not want to be disturbed.
A tribal man, an old African, probably, lay curled on his side on the floor of the empty room. He clutched a satchel of some kind to his shirtless chest. His face was ashen, his eyes closed. The window was wide open and dead leaves had blown in; a few of their tatters were caught in his hair and on his trousers. He was whispering something I could not understand. He seemed to be ill.
“Are you all right?” I went to him, ambushed by the pungent odor of his sweat and unwashed clothes. His eyes snapped open, revealing yellow whites and black irises. He continued to whisper and raised one of his hands in a gesture that appeared to beckon me. He must want food. He looked as if he hadn’t eaten in days.
“Where is your manager?” The man didn’t answer. He looked terrible, so I hurried to the restaurant and returned with two plates and a pitcher of water. He had moved to an upright position, sitting cross-legged. His satchel had disappeared. He did not move but accepted the first plate when I pushed it to him. He ate slowly, carefully, the pieces of boiled carrot. He dipped his finger into the mashed potatoes and ate those. He did not touch the sliced beef, but drank all the water.
“Where is your manager?” I asked him. “Who is your guardian?”
Most of the savages with whom I’d shared the stage were not authentic, or if they actually were from Borneo, or South America, or wherever they claimed, they were long accustomed to the entertainment business. There had been a “Batu Pigmy” in Jones’ show who had worked as a barkeep on the nights he wasn’t performing. He was just a dwarf born to slaves in Georgia. Most performers of this type traveled with managers, but from the look of this one, he did not have the benefit of such a relationship. Someone would have to be notified.
By Wednesday evening I had brought four chairs from the restaurant, a small stack of paper, and four pens and inkpots. I set the chairs in a tidy row. I waited in my room, but no one came. I opened the door and looked up and down the hall. I waited ten minutes and then I went to collect them.
When the Indians saw me coming, one called out, and the woman with the scars appeared. She followed me to the Martinetti apartment, which was unusually quiet. Mrs. Martinetti the elder was the only one there, and she bustled around, collecting her shawl and her sewing bag, appearing quite excited by the prospect of the class. I delivered them to my apartment and went for the tribesman. He was sitting in the same cross-legged way in the middle of the floor, but there were now cot, desk, chair, and even curtains on the windows of his room. The tribesman wore a new pair of trousers and a shirt and woolen vest and appeared more alert, thankfully, than when I had initially found him.
It was only when I had them sitting in a row in front of me, as I stared down at their three very different heads, that I realized I did not know how I would actually teach them anything.
I would begin with the broadest perspective possible, I decided.
“This,” I began, gesturing to the walls, the floor, “is the museum. We are in the museum.” But they will think wall, and floo
r, is museum.
I took up pen and paper and drew the building as best I could. I wrote the word underneath the picture and held it up for them.
“Museum,” I repeated. The Indian laughed. Mrs. Martinetti looked over the tops of her spectacles, scrutinizing my face. She reached for her sewing. The tribesman did not move or look at the drawing.
“Museum?” This was ridiculous. I was ridiculous. The Indian was transfixed by the pieces of bright orange fabric that Mrs. Martinetti sewed.
“Sewing,” I declared, pointing at Mrs. Martinetti’s work. I pantomimed the rise and fall of a needle and thread. The Indian woman smiled. This wasn’t working.
The class unraveled. I drew pictures of chairs, of beds. I announced, pointed, and proclaimed everything from shoes and stockings to the sun, moon, and stars. Mrs. Martinetti good-naturedly repeated my phrases and words but seemed entirely more interested in her needlework than the lesson. At first the Indian just laughed at the things I said, whether out of shyness or arrogance I could not say. But soon she just stared at the tribesman.
Even though he sat like the others in his restaurant chair, holding the small stack of paper, the pen, and the inkpot on his lap, and even though he looked in my general direction with his eyes open, the tribesman appeared to have disassociated himself from the present reality. He did not appear to be deranged; he seemed quite lucid in his movements, when he made them. His impassivity was not apathetic, somehow, and I believe that’s what made him interesting to look at. It was as if he was so entirely occupied with other things, my laughable attempt at teaching was simply a collection of noises and images that had nothing to do with him. It was true, I realized. He was right. And he was humming.
After half an hour I had run out of things to say. I stood there, with the two women staring at me. I was sure the half smiles on their faces expressed contempt in addition to the effect of the comedy I had just performed.
“That’s all, then. That’s the end.” They did not move. They did not understand English. “I’ve done the best I can, and it is obviously not good enough.”
Mrs. Martinetti reached over and tapped the Indian on the arm. “Violetta,” she said, pointing to herself. “Violetta.”
“Kokipapi,” replied the Indian.
Mrs. Martinetti made a hilarious attempt to pronounce the Indian’s name. We all laughed, except the tribesman.
The Indian pointed at me. “Ana.”
“Ana, sí,” Mrs. Martinetti agreed.
The Indian rose from her chair and motioned for us to wait. She left the room, and we heard her running down the corridor. I remained at the front of the room while Mrs. Martinetti murmured the Indian’s name until the syllables blended to nonsense.
When she came back, the Indian dragged a boy into the room with her. I had seen him among the others; he was the youngest among them and the only one, besides this woman, with his hair cut above his shoulders. The woman tugged him by the arm, speaking to him rapidly and pointing to us. Looking steadily at her, the boy jerked his arm out of her grasp.
“She is Mary,” he finally said. “She would like you to know this.” The woman looked sharply at the boy and grabbed his arm. She spoke to him in a harsh whisper. The boy extricated himself and turned to go, but the woman’s voice stopped him. He did not turn. She spoke to him in a crooning whisper until he gave up and nodded.
“She says she will tell you her real name. In your language she is called They Are Afraid of Her.”
She smiled at Mrs. Martinetti, pointed to herself, and repeated her name. The scars across her cheekbones folded to creases, transforming her for a moment into an old woman. Even though Mrs. Martinetti could not understand, she clapped her hands gleefully and repeated, “Theyarfraiover.”
The boy moved toward the door, shaking his head.
“Wait!” I couldn’t bear to see him, our only bridge, leave us to our fumbling silence again. “Could you tell us something more?” I blurted. “Her scars. What about those? Where did she get them?”
His expression did not change, but when he spoke to They Are Afraid of Her, he was obviously angry. He moved again for the door and made it halfway into the corridor before she caught him again. When he turned back, the boy’s face had transformed from anger to sorrow. He spoke softly to her. She coaxed him back into the room, her voice almost a whisper.
“She would like me to tell you that her face was cut a very long way away from this place. As punishment for leaving her tribe.”
“Isn’t she part of your tribe?” I asked.
“We took her in. We are all Sioux, but she is from another place.”
Looking shyly at us, They Are Afraid of Her whispered more to the boy.
“She says now this place is her home.”
“Why did you come to this city?”
“She says the past doesn’t matter.”
The boy turned on her then, hissing in her ear and leaving the room without so much as a nod to the rest of us. When he left the room she did not pursue him, and something dark flickered in her eyes as she smoothed her skirt and waited for what would happen next.
The tribesman retrieves a small bundle from where he has hidden it. He hums the song, beginning with the note after where he’d left off. The sound wrings out the sea’s stinging residue. It brings back what had been drowned. He holds the bundle close to his chest, still frightened that it has come to him. He should not be holding it. He is not even a carrier, does not possess even that much knowledge, and now, against his will and too far away from the home place, he is a keeper, a guardian. He pulls back the stained canvas to touch the hollow mulga root, running his fingers along the grooves and beveled ridges of the designs burned into the wooden surface.
Whenever the men would gather, the keeper came to them with the mulga root and its contents, placing it in the center of the circle. The keeper advised the men when to move camp to the stone country and how to prepare for the coming floods. When the old women gathered, they drew these same shapes in the dirt and spoke with the keeper. He advised them in the safekeeping of water, where to gather goose eggs, and where to light the cleansing fires when the season called for it. The keeper’s knowledge guided the group, always, and now the keeper, who had been the tribesman’s only brother, was gone.
The tribesman continued the song and eventually found the floodplain dry and cracked near the home place. Crocodiles swam tight circles, water caking to mud around them, water holes evaporating away. Gurrung it was, then, at the home place now: the season when the land lies dormant. He tried to stay there, using the song, and his heart nearly burst when he encountered the scent of paperbark blossoms, which melted into twilight and the shapes of feeding bats gliding like spirits above his head. His face grew damp from the heat or tears, but he did not move to wipe the moisture away. In the distance the people carried their things into the darkness at the base of the escarpment, making their way up into the stones, to the high place, to hunt goanna and wait out the floods. He tried to stay there, feeling the cool rock caves over his head and hearing the gentle sounds of the people making camp. But the keeper appeared, turning to him suddenly from a particular tone in the song. The keeper beckoned to him and pointed north.
He opens his eyes to the empty room at the top of the museum. He hears the multitude of museum visitors below him and feels the vibrations of their footsteps above. It is terribly cold. He has not been warm since they thrust him into the hull. He observes his surroundings as if from the innermost chamber of a woodworm’s mindless tunnel. As the vision of the home place evaporates from his mind, he is left alone, no longer connected to a relevant world. There is no way forward for him, and since the keeper is dead, and the mulga root is here with him in this terrible place, there is no way forward for the people.
Twenty-five
Only a full moon gave this much glow. Blue shadows striped the floor and the whole room appeared to be dipped in silver. I did not even need a candle to write by, that’s how bright i
t was.
I had been awake for hours with my mother-made quilt high at my chin, the squares of all my girlhood dresses turning me into a patchwork behemoth. Had I even slept at all? The night was all-encompassing and inside its long tunnel I was both comforted and disturbed, because it reminded me of the long months I was trapped in bed while my body grew. My published True Life History pamphlet lay on the counter of my booth, but I sat up and found my pencil and the stack of papers anyway. How could I characterize eleven months of chaos ravaging an exquisitely still body?
In the beginning I was a nocturnal creature. When night fell, my mind became more lucid. Not that I was churning out magnificent poetry or insight, not at all. Most nights I read, but in the darkness I could always feel some ethereal charge that alerted me to the silken threads that bound reality together. It was comforting because I was simply part of this graceful web, just one filament of many. Sometimes I’d lie in my bed, staring at the wooden ceiling, and listen to the breath of my parents above. The sound was so beautiful to me, and yet it seemed offensive that they slept through the limpid medium of night. The discovery of my new nocturnal nature was the first revelation of my convalescence. The second was that Evangeline, my beloved cat, knew something strange was happening; for the first time in her life she would not come near me, no matter how I called to her.
Even as greater and greater swaths of time were lost to pain, night was still my favorite time. It is the memories of day that are blurred and smeared together, almost entirely lost except for glimpses.
Once a week, before the morning’s chores began, my mother brewed the laudanum. Through the doorway of my room I watched her pass, first with the pot of well water, then with the wood for the fire. After a while she ground the cinnamon and then the clove, and added sherry wine and opium. As the weeks wore on, the fragrance of that brewing tea became dearer to me than anything else. She hated how I reached for it, but there was no other way, was there? The bones of my wrists grated against each other as they grew, stretching the skin so I thought I would burst. Sometimes I itched so badly I scratched myself bloody. She began brewing laudanum every three days, and watched as I drank it and drowsed, unburdened but drooling, all afternoon. Eventually I took such large quantities that old Garvey, Pictou’s only doctor, didn’t know what to do. I would scream myself awake, certain that my bones had torn through the skin, sweating, unable to focus my eyes, and she would rush in with another cupful, a blurred, warm figure with spidery hands working my clenched jaws open.
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