Property of / the Drowning Season / Fortune's Daughter / at Risk

by Alice Hoffman

  After two years, Mischa still hadn’t earned enough to get them out of France, Esther was still studying English by the small wooden window, the only window in their side of the stable. She wondered if she should, at last, sell the jade and emerald pendant, desert the brothers, and go off on her own. But she had an attachment to the pendant, she stared at it for hours when she was alone in the stable; and the one time she began to walk toward a jewelry store to have the gem appraised, two dockworkers followed her and pinched her arms and her breasts, until she turned and ran home to the stable.

  Esther wondered if she would ever get to America, if she would ever have a plan, if she would have to wait forever. Then she noticed a small circus unloading its cages on the dock next to the loading platform where Mischa worked. That day, Esther the White knew, she had truly made a discovery.

  The cages of the circus cried out each time Esther passed by them, as she carried Mischa his lunch. Slowly, Esther walked by the two silver greyhounds, the red-streaked monkeys, the lion with one eye, the Mongoloid idiot, the red-and-turquoise roosters, the turtle, the bear. On a Friday, when the circus had been in the city for nearly two weeks, Esther the White carried a bag containing Mischa’s lunch—a sardine sandwich and two pears—but she walked no farther than the cage of the two-headed calf because suddenly there was someone behind her. When she turned she was looking right into the eyes of the tattooed man.

  “Pardon,” said the tattooed man, who had begun to stare at Esther the White’s platinum hair.

  Esther did not answer. She breathed deeply. The monkeys’ eyes were dark brown; the silver greyhounds were silent.

  “Excuse me. Very sorry,” the tattooed man tried again.

  He spoke English; his perfume was the odor of the sea. “Sorry,” he said softly. “I might have tripped you. Clumsy.” He laughed at himself.

  Esther the White held the sardine sandwich tightly as she accepted the tattooed man’s offer to see the circus cages. From his dock, Mischa watched as Esther followed the tattooed man, as she peered between the iron bars. When she had looked into each and every cage, Esther the White accepted the black cigarette the tattooed man offered her, though she had never before smoked, and did not inhale.

  “Not bad for a little circus,” she said.

  “I am the manager,” the tattooed man said. “The owner is an idiot. I practically run the circus.”

  “Not bad,” Esther the White repeated. “But you could use more.”

  “Of course,” the tattooed man sighed, staring at Esther’s wide blue eyes. “Of course we could use more, who could not?”

  “What you could use,” Esther the White said, “is a dwarf.”

  “A dwarf?” the tattooed man said. “What for?”

  “Attracts business.” Esther the White eyed the monkeys, the fortuneteller who sat at the edge of the dock in flowing blue robes, the enormous fat lady who peered out at them from behind the sea turtle’s cage. “Everybody loves little people.”

  “And everyone has also seen a dwarf.”

  “Not this dwarf,” Esther insisted. “He is something special.”

  The tattooed man agreed to think about introducing Esther to the owner of the circus, a Pole named Jules. And Esther the White agreed to have dinner with the tattooed man, who bowed and introduced himself as Solo. Esther the White didn’t have much time; soon the circus would be leaving France. In the next few days Esther shopped, spending all of Mischa’s savings on Max. She bought him a silk shirt, a knitted cap, and dancing lessons from a Madame Laverne, who showed Esther her wiry blue varicose veins as if they were witness to the ballet career the Madame swore she had known. The three went without lunch and dinners, and ate only bread, cheese, and tea in the mornings. And no one dared to ask Esther the White why she now left her English grammar book in a messy heap of pages on the stable floor, or why she sang out snatches of English lullabies in the mornings, or why she had bothered to buy herself a pale violet dress when she had no place but the stable to wear it to.

  But in fact, Esther the White wore the violet dress to a café; there was sawdust clinging to her shoes, and her pale hair hung to her waist. After they had eaten dinner, and Esther the White had decided that the tattooed man had the strongest face and most delicate hands she had ever seen, he surprised her by suddenly opening his hand. Inside his fingers, resting in his palm, quick as magic, were two diamond earrings. When Esther the White smiled and held the earrings to her ears, the tattooed man asked to sleep with her.

  “But why would I sleep with you?” Esther the White asked. “I don’t even know you. And, anyway, I’ve slept with two brothers all of my life.”

  The tattooed man explained that sleep did not really mean sleep. She could close her eyes if she wanted to, but never sleep. It was just a turn of phrase. An English phrase. What he really wanted to do was kiss her, make love to her, perhaps in the room he had rented across the street? He had given her diamonds, he found her charming, he was about to introduce her to the circus owner, Jules, with whom he had boundless influence.

  “Do I look that desperate to you?” Esther the White asked.

  The tattooed man was hurt, offended. “What makes you think this is just for me?” he said. And he told her about the tattoos which covered him, tattoos which swept women off their feet, forced them to knock at his door at midnight and at one. Parrots and red roses. Not pictures, but art, beauty. Esther the White considered. She was desperate; she had to meet the circus owner. But also, she admitted to herself, she was curious.

  “Besides,” the tattooed man, Solo, said, “it’s such a friendly way to seal a bargain.”

  Esther shrugged. “Maybe,” she said, as she clipped the diamonds to her earlobes.

  He did speak wonderful English. The diamonds’ sparkle reached across the room. Solo whispered that Jules might offer three hundred francs for a dwarf. Esther said she would not take less than three fifty.

  “Follow me,” Solo said.

  Esther the White smiled. “Maybe,” she said.

  The diamonds held to her pale ears like glue as Esther the White followed the tattooed man up three flights of stairs in a rooming house. She watched the paintings on his skin appear as Solo removed his crimson shirt, his loose cotton slacks, the moccasins he wore. For a moment, standing in the draft which moved beneath the painted wooden door of the dark room, Esther wanted to disappear. To be back in bed, between the brothers, with the quilt pulled up high. But then she stared at the tattoos and she could not take her eyes off the colors. She forgot the brothers, she forgot her past, and she saw only the face of the man wearing a gold crown who stared out at her sadly from Solo’s forearm, only the parrot, whose red claws stretched across Solo’s chest, and the butterfly which flew up the calf of one leg.

  He made love to her quickly, soundlessly. He pushed the violet dress up, and slipped off her underwear. Esther the White touched her fingers to the tattoos which ran across Solo’s back.

  Solo sighed then. “It’s always this way,” he said sadly. “They’re always more interested in the tattoos than they are in me.”

  But, that was not true; Esther thought everything about Solo was wonderful. She did not even mind that the bed was metal and creaky, and that the sheets were torn and stained. Esther’s eyes were open, Solo’s were closed. He barely touched her at all, but Esther’s fingers flew over his skin as if the tattoos were braille. She did not notice when he was finished. She didn’t even realize that he had stopped moving inside her, until Solo said, politely, “I think we must go. I’ve only rented the room for an hour.” Esther nodded; and it was only for a moment, as the tattooed man was slipping one arm into his shirt, that she thought of asking if she, and not Max, could leave with the circus. Then, she would no longer need to make decisions; she would simply follow the troupe, she would ride trains without ever knowing their destination, she would have time to record every tattoo that covered Solo’s skin as they slept in the same bed each night. But she did not ask, she
did not even mention the blood which ran between her legs; instead, she smoothed her hands over her pale hair, and she followed the tattooed man out of the rooming house, and past the crates of vegetables which lined the docks. There, they kissed good night, made arrangements to meet the following evening, and went their separate ways.

  Each time Max took a dancing lesson with Madame Laverne, Esther the White met her lover, although she was careful never to wear her diamond earrings in front of the brothers. They rented the same room each night, and Esther the White would rub oil over Solo’s skin and gaze at the tattoos, as Solo smoked pipefuls of opium. The seventh time they met, as Esther the White sat on the soiled bed without clothes, with only the diamonds at her ears, Solo told her that he had made an appointment for Esther and the dwarf to meet with Jules the following evening.

  Esther the White did not know if she would laugh or cry as she walked down to the docks with the brothers. It was twilight; and Esther the White held the Baby’s hand, as if he were a child or a pet.

  “Where are we going?” Max said, and he had to yell so that his voice could be heard above the crying gulls that circled overhead.

  “The circus,” Esther told him. She wanted money and she wanted to go to America, she wanted never again to be someone’s daughter or servant; but she also wanted Solo.

  “There isn’t a show today,” Mischa said, repeating information he had heard just that morning on the docks. “They’ve given their last show here, and anyway, the bear has died.”

  Esther clapped her hands. “Oh good,” she said. “Now that the bear’s died, they will definitely need something new.”

  When she saw Solo, Esther left the brothers at the cages. There they waited, as the eyes of the animals, the monkeys and the silver greyhounds, grew yellow in the night. Mischa sat on the steps of the sea turtle’s cage; his shadow fell through the bars, but the turtle did not move, she kept her gray eyes closed against the odor of the sea which rose around the dock. Solo was waiting for Esther with Jules, the circus owner, on the dock. Jules was interested in the idea of a dwarf, and Esther described Max’s talents in flowing terms—but all the while she stared at Solo, who was leaning on a metal lamppost, cleaning his fingernails with a wooden match. When Jules had agreed to Esther’s bargain, when he had handed her three hundred and fifty francs, the three walked to where the brothers waited. Esther walked slowly; each time she imagined the circus leaving, a thin line of pain wound itself around her forehead, like a ribbon, like a coil. When they reached the sea turtle’s cage, Esther said to Max, “The owner would like to hire you.”

  “No,” Mischa said.

  “What would the salary be?” Esther asked Jules.

  “Same as everyone else,” Jules shrugged.

  Esther noticed that one of Solo’s shirt buttons was undone; she could see the outline of one red talon.

  “And what does that mean?” Esther said. “Old bones, fish? Do you think my brother is a seal? A bear? He is a dancing dwarf. You must pay him a salary,” she said. “Money,” she demanded.

  Esther and Jules argued over wages; Max cheered up when he heard how much Esther believed him to be worth, he puffed up his new knitted cap. “I don’t come cheap,” Max laughed, and then he asked the tattooed man to show him a tattoo. Solo lifted a hand lazily and pulled up his sleeve. A bluebird’s wing covered his wrist, and Esther was afraid that if she turned to look she might faint.

  Max was impressed with Solo’s markings, but when the matter of a salary was finally settled, the Baby did not really want to go. He was afraid, even though Esther promised him that crowds all over Europe would pay to see him, they would applaud him, some might even bring him bittersweet chocolate-covered cherries—his favorite candy. Soon Max began to cry; Mischa stared morosely into the turtle’s cage, afraid to contradict Esther, who continued to coax the Baby in her deep, chanting voice. That night, Esther the White spoke to Max more than she had in a lifetime, she was not about to have the dwarf wreck her plans, especially when Solo did not even look at her, did not even smile; so Esther held Max’s hands, and she whispered, soothingly, for hours.

  Finally, they retired to Jules’s wagon, where they sat on velveteen pillows and drank glasses of sherry to seal the bargain.

  “Come on,” Jules said to the Baby, “cheer up. You’ll be like my own son.”

  Max was too tired to argue or cry; Esther patted him on the head, and nodded to the circus owner.

  “Though to tell you the truth,” Jules confided, “I could use a watchdog more than a son. I’ve got a thief around here. I can’t rest in peace. Even my dead wife’s jewelry isn’t safe. All I had were earrings to remember her by, and now,” he clapped his wrinkled hands together, “they’re gone.”

  Esther the White touched her naked ears, and looked over at the tattooed man.

  Solo had drunk five small glasses of sherry, and now he smoked a pipeful of opium. As Esther the White watched, he rested his head on a maroon pillow and closed his eyes. She wondered, now, if she knew him at all. His eyes remained closed when Esther the White stood over him and softly said goodbye. He did not answer; he may have been asleep, or in a soft, white dream. Esther the White looked around the wagon, and wished that she were a fortuneteller, that she wore a blue turban tied around her head. She wished that she could climb over the velveteen pillows and cradle Solo’s head in her arms. And she might have; if Solo had said one word, if he had even opened his dark eyes, but he did not move. So, Esther the White licked her lips and turned away; she had no time to waste; she was on her way to America, to riches. She had a plan and a timetable; and anyway, the tattooed man was sleeping, so he could not have asked Esther to go away with him, even if he wanted to.

  When Esther the White and Mischa left the wagon, Jules was searching through a trunk for a nightgown which would fit Max; Solo was snoring lightly. It was nearly dawn, and, when they walked past the docks, Mischa could see that the silver greyhounds were really the shade of dust in the morning light, and that they were nearly starved. As soon as they were away from the docks, Esther the White tried to erase Solo’s dark, dreaming eyes; she could hide the stolen earrings away, she could hide the memory of Solo as well. She raised her pale eyes and pinched Mischa’s hand. “We’re almost there,” she whispered. “We can leave for England. We’ll be in New York before you know it.”

  They stayed in France only a few more months. Slowly, Esther the White realized that she was in love with Solo; she could not erase him; but it was too late. Esther often returned to the dock where the circus cages had stood; the troupe had disappeared, and no one who worked the docks seemed to know where they had gone. And even if Esther the White had discovered where the tattooed man was, she might not have followed him. Long ago, as she peered into the frozen river, she had decided not to let anything get in the way of her plans. And so, she stopped going to the dock, she stopped staring into the dirty water; and although she often dreamed of Solo, and found that she was holding on to nothing but air in her sleep, Esther the White and Mischa had become lovers.

  She surprised Mischa one night by holding her arms around him just as he had begun to dream. Mischa touched her hair, imagining that Esther might suffer from nightmares, as he did. But, Esther the White slipped off her woolen nightdress, and asked to be held closer still, hoping that someone else’s arms, anyone else’s arms, would help her to forget Solo. Mischa fell in love, Esther the White did not; although sometimes, at night, while Mischa slept, Esther would lightly touch his face, and wonder if she should have left him behind, in their village. And Mischa moved somewhere between delight and guilt; wondering if there was some unspeakable thing wrong in what they did, wondering if he didn’t love Esther a little too much, for they always made love in the dark, like strangers who have met accidentally. Often their own breathing was mirrored by the horses breathing behind the blanket—softly and hidden behind the wool room divider, but breathing all the same.

  They left Marseilles in the spring. By
the time they reached England, two months after Esther the White’s eighteenth birthday, she was already pregnant with Phillip. Mischa found work, this time as a housepainter and carpenter, and soon he had earned enough to buy a small flat. He s:udied English; although when he dreamed of his brother, Max, the same sad dream, almost every night, he dreamed in Russian or French. Soon after they had moved into the flat, Mischa asked Esther, who now spoke perfect English, to marry him.

  Esther the White still imagined the tattooed man each time they made love, and she kept the diamond earrings he had given her in a secret jewelry box which also held the stolen jade pendant. But she was now five months pregnant and she didn’t know if the father was the man who stood before her, or if he was the man who had turned out to be nothing more than a thief. So she smiled and said yes, having decided that since they were not really brother and sister, to be married would not be anything at all like a sin.

  Chapter Four

  ESTHER the Black knew nothing of her grandmother’s history. Through the girl’s lifetime, Esther the White had barely nodded through the pale walls which surrounded her, she had barely spoken to Esther the Black. Any words which were spoken were instructions or criticisms, as quick and as cold as ice. By the time she was six, Esther the Black already knew that she was not what her grandmother had hoped for. She was not blond, she was not cool, she did not hold her knife correctly, she cried. The two had nothing in common: only their name—that, and Phillip.

  Esther the Black had been raised to fear her grandmother. Her own mother, Rose, believed the only way to inherit the family’s money was to train her daughter to behave. And to behave was to fear. Rose had grown up in Bridgeport, and she still stood at the sea wall and searched the ghostly coast of Connecticut for her hometown, though she had not been back for years. Rose had discovered Phillip in a business course at N.Y.U. which Mischa had demanded he audit. The family had just arrived from London, the Compound was not yet finished, it was only sand and stone, and Phillip and his parents had sublet an apartment on East 79th Street.