Love, Let Me Not Hunger

by Paul Gallico

  “Oh Gaw, she’s sick!” said Mr. Albert, and would have started forward had not the major-domo put a hand upon his arm and restrained him.

  “Be quiet,” he said, yet Mr. Albert was aware that he was staring aghast at the Marquesa and that a look of fear had come into his face.

  The Marquesa ejected a long, harsh sigh; the eyes returned to their normal position, the flush faded from her face, and she became aware of the major-domo and Mr. Albert in the room. Every speck of blood then drained from her countenance and across her face passed a look of such rage and ferocity that it caused Mr. Albert’s knees to quake, and he looked to Don Francisco for courage and support, only to find that the major-domo’s pallor matched that of his mistress and that he himself was in the grip of an appalling fear; and Mr. Albert saw that it was not for the Marquesa but for himself. The dreadful moment seemed to spin on endlessly, tautening towards a climax that Mr. Albert felt would be catastrophic, cataclysmic, unbearable.

  And yet it did not take place. Instead, with a movement that was an agony of apprehension, the miserable eyes of the major-domo turned to the face of a clock in one corner of the room. Mr. Albert saw that the minute hand had unmistakably passed the ornate figure of twelve and indeed indicated that the time was four and a half minutes past three.

  How the Marquesa would have vented the anger collected within her Mr. Albert never discovered, for even as the two men were staring at the clock her eyes were drawn thither also and astonishingly her anger was dispelled. Her features recomposed themselves and colour once more supplanted the pallor of her fury.

  Some of the terror left the eyes of the major-domo though his face remained damp with perspiration. Mr. Albert gathered that the black finger of the clock, which now read a full five minutes past three, had interceded for Don Francisco and he remembered that the major-domo had refused to enter the room until he heard an outside clock strike the hour.

  And even as he wondered what had gone wrong, Mr. Albert marvelled at the strong streak of justice in this cruel and domineering woman. During another minute of silence the Marquesa composed herself further; her breathing returned to normal.

  Then from under the table came a scrabbling noise. One side of the cloth was lifted and from beneath it emerged Janos. He was clad in his clown’s suit but without clown white or make-up. What was strange about his face was that it was purple in colour as though he were about to have a stroke or had come close to suffocating, and Mr. Albert saw that he was weeping. But there was no telling whether they were tears of terror, humiliation, sadness, or rage. He did not appear to see either of them and, having emerged from under the table, went trotting out through the open door and vanished.

  Mr. Albert, filled with an overwhelming apprehension, looked to the major-domo once more, but there was not the slightest change of expression upon the grave face of Don Francisco, who had heard nothing and seen nothing.

  “In the matter of the bear—” began the Marquesa.

  C H A P T E R

  2 3

  Left to himself and with a wealth of food which now arrived promptly every third day, Toby looked after the animals, fed them, watered them, cleaned, groomed, and exercised the horses with a kind of work fury to try to keep his mind from the bitterness engendered by Rose.

  There was occupation from sun-up to sun-down, hard, muscle-wearying labour, and when it was done he could work off surplus energies by practising with the Arab horses or doing ground tumbling. He made no friends with the animals, gave them no affection, and did not even resume his exuberant relationship with Judy. He tended her properly, fed her, altered the chaining of her feet so that sores would not develop, examined her hide, but never caressed her with either hand or voice, or even put her through her routine, for something had gone out of him. He was not aware that it was his youth.

  Yet none of these furious activities put off the coming of night, the bitterness, the brooding and the loneliness.

  When darkness fell and he had cooked and eaten his supper and washed the dishes, lit the lanterns, and made his final round of the cages to be certain that they were all securely locked and barred, and then returned to the living wagon, there awaiting him would be the phantom of Rose. He tried to eject her with the same violence and intolerance with which he had thrown her and her belongings physically out of the camp, but it was impossible. The real Rose had picked up her clothes and articles strewn in the dirt and left. This other, the one he always conjured up whilst lying in his bunk at nightfall, refused to go but smiled at him, her odd wry little smile that merely tilted the corners of her mouth, pressed her body close to his and whispered, as she always did when her climax approached, “Oh, Toby, I love you.”

  “Whore! Whore! Whore! Get out! Get back to your brothel!”

  What brothel? Where? What was it like? What did she do? What did they do, the faceless men who lay with her and upon her, and used her?

  But they were not all faceless, for he had seen Garcia, the fat little wine merchant who had been so attracted by the sample that he had wanted the package.

  This was the most fearful agony of all, imagining the white, soft, pudgy, slug-like body of Mr. Garcia crushed against Rose, and she looking upwards at the ceiling past his bald head with the misty and faraway look that he knew came into her eyes. For Mr. Garcia would have bought everything, the looks, the sighs, the smile, the movements of her body, and no doubt the whispers, for was not all this a part of “loving it up?”

  Then Toby would try to justify what he had done to her, and he would call in his family to aid him: those good women, his mother and his sisters, and that wise old fellow, his father; and they would all join him in shouting Rose down. “Slut! Whore! Harlot! Fallen woman! Strumpet, jade, and baggage! Gutter girl, bitch, and hussy!” And they gave him the comfort of their experience and their opinion. “What could you expect from a piece up out of the slums? Stick to your own class, boy. Once a tart, always a tart! You can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. She’s a dirty little tramp. She’ll pull you down into the gutter with her.”

  Solidly he gathered his family about him like a bulwark against her, but Rose would not go away. She was leaning over the sink in the little galley burnishing a pot until it shone like the copper of her hair, singing softly to herself. She was sitting in front of the tigers cage with her arm through the bars caressing the huge savage head with gentle strokes, and upon her face the sweet, half-introspective look of the mother contemplating her sleeping child. She was at the side of the ring while he leaped, twisted, turned, and somersaulted, and her eyes and mouth were wide with admiration for him. And she was standing in the doorway with her nightdress drawn together about her gentle throat whispering, “Toby, aren’t you going to come?” And concealed beneath the fabric was Rose, Rose, Rose! Rose who gave pleasure and pain in ecstasy; Rose with her crooked, tender, wondering smile. Where was she now? Where was she selling it? In whose arms was she lying? Oh God, oh God, what had he done to her?

  For he would not let himself think of what Mr. Albert had said to him upon parting, “She’s a good girl.” And also, “She was only doing it for them and for you. A minute ago you were shaking my hand for doing the same thing.” He annulled it, obliterated it, denied it, and shut it out of his head so that it could never even so much as echo faintly within him. Or at least so he thought. And he would brood himself to sleep with the memory of how he had bloody well paid her out for what she had done to him. And always the last picture was of her back as, holding her suitcase, she had disappeared into the dark.

  Late in August Sam Marvel had gone home to Chippenham, his insurance claim unsettled, still fobbed off with promises of early action now that criminal proceedings had been dropped against him by the Spanish authorities. He had warded off the questions of his wife and had spent some days going over the equipment remaining in his winter quarters, as well as taking another look at the inventory of animals on loan or rent to other circuses. But by early September he was back
in Birmingham, knocking at the gates of the insurance company with a log-sized chip on his shoulder.

  This time, however, he was met with a different reception when he stormed into the office of the assistant chief of claims, his Schimmelpenninck jiggling between his lips. The man looked up from his sheaf of papers and said, “Ah, Mr. Marvel. Glad to see you. I’ve just written to you. Mr. Gryder, our general manager upstairs, would like to have a word with you. I think you will find he has some very good news.”

  Mr. Gryder’s office was different from the noisy floor of the Claims Department. It was quiet, deep carpeted, opulently furnished and opulently manned, for Mr. Gryder’s clothes, manner, and distinguished greying hairs bespoke the trustworthy, well-off, and solvent company.

  He proffered a warm, moist hand and said, “Mr. Marvel, how do you do? So sorry there have been difficulties and delays, but you know how it is with those foreigners.”

  Sam Marvel felt warmed to him like a brother—for the moment, at least—the brotherhood of knowing how it was with “those foreigners.”

  “But that’s all settled now and I think you will be pleased.” Mr. Gryder consulted some papers from his basket and said, “We are allowing you the whole of your claim for destruction of material. According to the report of our man in Madrid the fire was total. I am afraid we can offer you only half of your claim for reimbursement for the season’s losses.”

  Sam Marvel could not believe his ears. It was on a chance that he had stuck in an estimated figure of his profits on the Spanish tour, certain that it would be disallowed. Full damages on his equipment! Half profits on the tour! Wow!

  “But I am sure you will admit,” Mr. Gryder was continuing, “that your estimate is based upon most optimistic attendance, whereas if there were a sudden falling off of crowds for other reasons you would not be able to claim insurance—”

  “Yes, yes, yes,” said Marvel, “that’s all right. That’s fair enough. When do I get paid?”

  “If you will come in tomorrow morning and see Mr. Barnes, our cashier, after ten o’clock he will have a cheque ready for you. And perhaps you would just like to sign here, accepting the adjustment.” He proffered a document and a pen.

  Sam Marvel was not a drinking man or a person who knew how to laugh and exult and so he went and sat in the lobby of his hotel and read the copy of the World’s Fair he had brought with him. All he wanted to do was pass the time until ten o’clock the next morning when he would see that Mr. Barnes and pocket his fat cheque. He turned to the column headed “British Circus Ring Notes” where he read:

  We ran into ever-young Joe Peabody of Peabody’s Family Circus at Heysham Head last week. Joe is sixty now but looks forty and sprier than when he was twenty. He tells us that not only is he not thinking of retiring, but on the contrary is considering expanding for next year, in which he was seconded by the ever-charming Ma Peabody. Said Joe: “If you hear of anyone wanting to sell out some stock and equipment cheap, you just let us know and we’ll be Johnny-on-the-spot.” Peabody said he wanted to enlarge his menagerie and his horse acts in particular, and present a bigger show. Good for you, Joe! Go to it, say we, and we’ll let you know if we hear anything. Joe can be contacted at the King’s Arms Hotel in Heysham.

  Sam Marvel read the item, re-read it, and read it again. He knew Peabody and his little show. He made money because it was a tight, compact family affair. And now the old fool was talking of expanding. What a chance to unload not only his assets at Chippenham but whatever remained of the menagerie at Zalano! If he made the price right he might even persuade Peabody to go over to Spain and get the stuff out himself.

  For now that the insurance was about to be paid, Sam Marvel looked back upon Zalano as something of the past and out of his life. He was neither a bad man nor dishonest, and for a time the situation of those he had left behind in charge had weighed upon his conscience, as had the animals themselves. He knew that he had left them with insufficient funds, but also that it could not be helped, since he had expected each day, each week to be reimbursed, in which case he would have flown to the rescue. Every time he was put off he worried, until he suddenly found he could worry no more. His wife had not thought to tell him of the strange telephone call she had had. As a matter of fact, she had never understood even where it had come from. Two months had gone by. Something must have happened. The animals were either dead or okay. The people had either coped or they had not. Whichever, it was too late to start fretting now.

  Instead, he went through the little article once more and then got up and placed a long distance telephone call to Joe Peabody at the King’s Arms Hotel in Heysham, and when it came through went into the box nervously.

  “Hallo, Joe Peabody?”

  “Yeah, this is Joe.”

  “Sam Marvel here.”

  “Say, hallo there, Sam. How are you?”

  “Fine, fine.”

  “How did you make out in Spain, Sam?”

  “Okay, okay. Look here, Joe, I just been reading in the World’s Fair you’re thinking of expanding.”

  “That’s right, that’s right. You got anything? At a good price?”

  “Listen, how’d you like to buy me out?”

  “What! Are you kidding? Buy you out? I couldn’t afford it.”

  “I’ll make the price right, Joe. It’ll put you right up there with the Chipperfields and Billy Smart. Lock, stock, and barrel.”

  “Are you kidding! You mean the name, too?”

  “Yes, yes! Why don’t we meet and have a talk?”

  “Where are you calling from, Sam?”

  “Birmingham.”

  “I’ll come up tomorrow.”

  “No, wait a minute, Joe. I got another idea. Meet me in Newcastle. The Queen’s Hotel.”

  “Newcastle? What’s the idea? Birmingham’s nearer.”

  Marvel replied merely, “Do you want to talk, boy?” An idea was swelling within his head.

  “You’re the boss, Sam. Newcastle, day after tomorrow, the Queen’s Hotel. I’ll be there.”

  Sam Marvel hung up, and for the first time in a long, long while there was a smile to break the grim line of his mouth. He’d be there too. The insurance cheque would be in his wallet.

  C H A P T E R

  2 4

  The sudden death of Janos one night was bruited about the finca, whispered through the barns and workshops, passed along to the men working in the fields, and finally confirmed by the dolorous tolling of the bell of the little private chapel. But news of it did not reach Mr. Albert until late that morning because he did not understand the language. Yet he was aware from the bell’s tolling that there had been a death, and he went about his work uneasily as the rumors and whispers circulated about him, until finally the name of Janos was heard too often. Filled with foreboding, he rang timidly at the door of the villa and asked to see the major-domo.

  Don Francisco appeared, looking as always grave and reserved.

  “Excuse me,” stammered Mr. Albert, “—I oughtn’t to be here—but I heard—has something happened?—Can you tell me?—The bell—and they’re talking about Janos.”

  “Yes,” said Don Francisco, “it is true. Janos died suddenly during the night.”

  “Oh Gaw!” said Mr. Albert, and was swept by a wave of sorrow and shock. “Oh Gaw,” he repeated, “the poor little fellow. What happened?”

  “Apoplexy,” said Don Francisco. “Dr. Calderon has been here this morning and given the death certificate.”

  Mr. Albert repeated after him, “Apoplexy?”

  “What is surprising about that,” Don Francisco said with some asperity, “after the way he had been stuffing himself?”

  Mr. Albert was astonished at the sudden sharpness of tone employed by one who was always calm and courteous. Perhaps the sudden tragedy had shaken Don Francisco too, for there were some beads of sweat at his brow and temples.

  “Can I see him?” Mr. Albert asked.

  The major-domo said, “Wait here. I will enquir
e.” And he went away across the patio and up the stairs.

  In the dark and quiet of the night! Apoplexy! What was apoplexy? No more Janos! His dogs ought to he howling, Mr. Albert thought. They’ll miss him. I shall have to be a father to them. Poor dogs. Poor little Janos! Do you die happy when you eat yourself to death?

  Without being aware, his steps had wandered along the side of the patio to the doors of the drawing room which stood open, for a maid was cleaning within. And as he stood looking once again at the monstrous portrait of the glandular girl, swollen within her white satin gown in her awe-inspiring jewellery, waiting to be presented to some king or queen, he had a moment’s horrid fantasy: that of the squat, ugly face of Janos peering out from beneath the folds of the dress. And for an instant he thought he must be mad until he remembered that incident of the little dwarf crawling out from under the tablecloth, weeping. What did human beings do to one another? Perhaps best, then, that it was apoplexy, whatever that was, and sudden darkness.

  There were footsteps. Mr. Albert turned to see Don Francisco there as though he had known where he would be.

  “You may see him. Come.”

  They proceeded to the small room where Janos lay upon the bed, his small, pudgy hands folded over the red and white frill of the clown’s costume that he wore. There were candles burning at his head and feet. The chaplain of the Marquesa was not there, but in his stead the young acolyte, the student priest who over the summer assisted at Mass. He was a tall, pale, intense young man with a hook nose and deep-set eyes. He was mumbling prayers for the dead.

  Mr. Albert did not know what to do or say since he could not pray but only feel sadness settling in his stomach. His mind kept repeating, Poor little Janos! He saw that the dwarfs face was suffused and empurpled, as though some of the eternal darkness into which he had entered had coloured his features.