Although I was well behaved on most occasions, I still possessed my natural curiosity, an urge I tried my best to ignore. Perhaps my rebel’s soul had been inflamed by the Wolfman’s tales of wandering the world. Surely something had ignited my disobedience, which flared with every passing day. I slipped into the workshop, closing the door behind me. The decision was quick, like diving into the sea. One step, and I was inside. The scent of amber and incense lingered, and the room felt close, for the single window in the cellar had been boarded over and no natural light entered the room other than a few pale rays of renegade moonlight that filtered around the nailed planks. No one came to clean here; Maureen was not allowed to pass through with a mop or a broom, and nothing had been tidied or organized for many years. Papers were everywhere, letters and graphs of all sorts left in a jumble. I went to my father’s desk, and there I saw the bones of a baby’s skeleton set out upon the blotter, like a puzzle. The bones were so tiny I could have picked up the entire spine and rested it in my palm. I, who was rarely cold, felt a chill as I stood there.
I had once asked Raymond Morris why he thought God had made him the way he was, and he’d laughed and said he did not think God had a hand in every error that humans made. He shocked me when he admitted there were times when he did not think there was a God at all, for when he looked into a mirror he believed only the devil had been at work in his creation. I disagreed with him. I thought that God had blessed Mr. Morris in some way, and that was why he was so knowledgeable and so kind. I was convinced that God had a hand in everything we did on earth, though we might never understand his ways, but I did not say so, for I was a girl at the time, and didn’t believe I had the right to speak my thoughts aloud.
I don’t know what made me open the top desk drawer in my father’s workshop; perhaps it was God’s intention or perhaps it was entirely due to my own inquisitive nature. There were papers, and contracts, and tallies of figures, along with photographs of a sexual nature I could not bring myself to look at. I may have gazed upon them for a moment, but I quickly put these things aside. What interested me most was a leather-bound journal fashioned in Morocco, a handbook of my father’s studies. I took it from the drawer, although as I did, my heart hit against my chest.
The handbook was clearly a private document, and some of it seemed to be written in code, with numbers and drawings replacing the letters. Still I could make out certain sections. My father’s handwriting was elegant, a script of flourishes that created large, perfect lettering. I began with the first few pages, a remembrance of a time when my father had been one of the greatest magicians in France. I hadn’t realized how famous he had been until I spied the articles about him, with photographs of the Professor as a younger man.
My father had written accounts of his card tricks and illuminations, some sketched out, lavishly illustrated. Soon I came upon his most famous trick of all, one so astounding people who witnessed it firsthand swore it was a miracle worthy of a saint. There was a drawing of a woman who was brought onto the stage in a steamer trunk, rolled out on a platform that had been fitted with wooden wheels. The woman’s head and legs emerged from either side of the box. Before the eyes of the audience my father sawed through the wood; as he did, the woman was cut in half. The crowd was silent, in shock, on the edge of their seats, revolted, yet straining to see more.
My father recorded how vividly the woman screamed when the sword went through her. But when the trunk was opened, the victim leapt up, half a woman with no legs at all, able to maneuver with the use of her hands as she swung herself across the stage. The audience gasped in astonishment. They had no idea of the truth of the matter: the woman was my father’s assistant, a living wonder who had been born that way. The sword’s blade was dull and had done no damage whatsoever, for it had only cut through the trunk, which was already scored. The legs that remained in the trunk had been fashioned by a sculptor, carefully painted to appear real. When the living wonder was inserted back into the steamer trunk, she was made whole again, for the legs were secretly fitted into a corset that was attached with a belt and cables. Therefore she was able to walk the length of a stage with the height of a fully grown woman.
My father left France when the half woman accused him of all manner of vile deeds, which included enslavement and defilement. A yellowing newspaper article that had been slipped between the pages stated that he had promised to marry her but instead had beaten her and forced her to perform. He had abused her and degraded her in ways that I passed over, for I thought it was improper for me to read these claims. I did notice that she’d sworn she’d been treated like a common prostitute. Enough to say she told the magistrates what my father had done, and in each instance he denied any wrongdoing. He said he was a professor, and had nothing but respect for his employee. Still, his illustrations of her in the handbook after she had made her accusations were nothing less than monstrous; scorpions and frogs leapt from her mouth and from her private areas, which should not have been drawn at all, for modesty’s sake, but were sketched in great detail.
The date when all this happened was ten years before my birth. Although my French was far from perfect, when I studied the article I understood that a court had ordered my father’s arrest on charges of fraud and abuse. The woman in the trunk would testify against him, and a trial date was set; they expected ten thousand or more onlookers, for the case had attracted the attention of the public. But like any magician worth his salt, my father vanished before the date of his trial. The newspaper report said they found his cloak and his shoes and the key to his rooms. Nothing more.
Because my father was particular, he wrote down small details another man might have overlooked. Not only the hour when he took the train to Marseilles, a city of docks where he would find his passage to America, but also what he ate for his lunch on that train—sharp cheese, white wine, olives. He wrote down the name of the ship he took, the Allemande, which sailed for New York Harbor, leaving France on a bright May day. He described the sleeping berths, the lack of fresh vegetables, the swells of the ocean as the ship pushed out to sea. He had always told me that my mother was his childhood sweetheart, and that her name was Maria Louisa, and that they had sailed from France together. But there was no mention of her in the handbook, though he’d written that he’d been forced to sleep with his overcoat as his blanket at night. Still the journey made quite an impression. The stars were so bright above the water he became mesmerized, and he saw all manner of creatures below the waves, beings so fantastic that he felt his life begin anew. Because of his experience at sea, and perhaps because of the trouble he’d been in with the law, he vowed to give up magic and study science from that day forth.
He’d always told me that my mother had cried when she saw the outline of Manhattan. She’d fallen in love with the city at first sight, as my father had fallen in love with her when she was a schoolgirl dressed in black, wearing white gloves and flat black shoes, her pale hair braided down her back. His employees might disparage him, my father had often confided, for they saw him as a harsh master, a difficult, uncompromising man who thought too highly of himself. But say what they might, he was faithful, and in time I would learn that a faithful man was as much a wonder of the world as the stars in the sky.
As I was reading, I heard my father’s unmistakable gait upstairs when he came into the kitchen to wash his hands for his dinner, which Maureen had left on the table. She had prepared a cod stew and a dessert of gingered apples and cream. I wondered if my father would mark down the components of his dinner later that evening in this same book I now held in my hands. I had no choice but to close the journal and replace it in the drawer, making certain it was in the exact position where I’d found it. I went out then, carefully clasping both locks. I was a mouse, silent as I came upstairs unnoticed, but a mouse that would not forget where the trap baited with cheese had been. I never told my father what I’d done, nor did I mention the handbook in the drawer.
/> But after that I knew the first part of the truth about my family.
When my father came to this city, he came alone.
MARCH 1911
IN THE LAST DAYS of March the windy month turned mild, but despite the approach of springtime, the Professor’s mood was even more foul. Ashes had swept across the East River, depositing cinders throughout the gardens of Brooklyn, smoldering among the onions and the peas with a bright yellow glow. Everyone’s attention had been riveted by the Triangle Fire, the greatest workplace disaster to occur in the history of New York. A wave of sorrow stretched out, and the world in which they lived seemed a much more perilous place. The dangers of ordinary life left the population dazed. The newspapers were filled with reports of worker unrest. Vigils of inconsolable mourners who had lost beloved family members went on throughout the city. The days were already lengthening, yet a darkness held fast. Even at dawn the light was a cold, bitter shade.
In Brooklyn, the Museum of Extraordinary Things was shuttered. A gloom had descended as the Professor’s plans began to unspool. He’d been unable to locate a creature he might put forth as the Hudson Mystery. Soon the public would forget the sightings in the river, and the men and boys who’d vowed they’d seen a monster would be considered nothing more than fools. Readers of the Sun and the Times and the Tribune were gripped not by notions of magical creatures but by the politics of the city. A war of sorts had broken out between workers and business owners. Even Governor Dix, a Democrat himself, had called for an investigation of the Tammany leaders, whose pockets were lined at the expense of the working people of New York. It was all Commissioner Waldo and Chief Croker could do to keep a rough sort of peace, one that seemed ready to explode on a daily basis. The fire was the only topic people could talk about, and there was little room for other news. If anything, the monster they were interested in was the city itself, torn apart by rage. Soon enough bloody riots erupted on the avenues and outraged workers gathered in meeting halls. The streets near the disaster had been washed with buckets of soapy water, yet no matter how often city workers might clean the pavements, there were red stains marking the cement. In between the paving stones, it was still possible to spy shimmering shards of bone.
An investigation had begun, but the owners of the factory, who’d fled before the mourners could identify their dead, had yet to be arrested. The curtain that split the city in two, separating those who could escape to the rooftops from those who could not, had been torn open to reveal inequities long kept in the dark. People were furious to find that life was considered a treasure for some but worth so little for others. A huge gathering of garment workers was arranged to take place at the Metropolitan Opera House on Thirty-fourth Street, with hundreds of women taking the stage, insisting on better conditions for the half of the city that worked for the benefit of the half that could calmly gaze at the damage around them through their windows, safe and protected from the mayhem on the streets and from the despair of those who tailored the clothes they wore.
It might have been best to let go of the idea of creating a monster, but the Professor was single-minded, convinced that, in brutal times, people longed more than ever for an escape from the harsh realities of their daily lives. Why else would the construction to spruce up Dreamland continue at such a fast pace? The renovation of the park would cost close to a million dollars. The buildings, once starkly white, had been repainted in a riot of color, and a thrilling concession named Hell Gate was being prepared, a wild boat ride over rushing water through a covered tunnel in which an individual might become drenched and terrified as he progressed through man-made rapids and whirlpools while having the time of his life. The greatest animal trainer in the world, the one-armed Captain Jack Bonavita, would have a show of lions. And Colonel Joseph Ferrari, a genius with animals, had gathered leopards, pumas, bears, and hyenas. One of the most beloved creatures in Coney Island, Little Hip, an elephant so attached to his trainer they slept in the same room, would lead a parade circling the park each morning. Coralie had gawked through the fence at the huge ballroom overlooking the sea, now being revamped on Dreamland’s Pier. A thousand electric lights would glow in tints of rose and green. She wondered how it might feel to dance in the arms of the young man from the woods. He might whisper The whole world is ours if we make it so.
There had been a recent announcement declaring that Dreamland would venture into the world of science, for what was more miraculous than the future men made for themselves? There was already a village built in 1904 called Lilliputia, where three hundred little people resided in a world of their own, with their own fire department and parliament, so that they might be studied by the crowds. There were exotic human beings who startled New Yorkers with their differences: Algerian horsemen, Somali warriors, Bantu women who stretched their necks and lips with brass rings. The Dreamland sideshow featured oddities and curiosities the Professor referred to as freaks rather than wonders: Ursa, the bear girl. Rob Roy, the albino. A human salamander named Schrief, who could catch flies with a flick of his tongue. There was an exhibition to display the tiniest babies in the state, each cared for by a nurse in a starched white uniform, each babe placed in a new contraption called an incubator, a machine not yet used in hospitals.
This devotion to science infuriated the Professor, for it was a realm he considered to be his own. He could never afford the huge exhibitions Dreamland would offer, and yet he felt that grand park stole from him. The Wolfman, the very act Sardie had created, was said to be one of the acts planned for display in the sideshow just outside Dreamland’s gates, steps away from the Museum of Extraordinary Things. The beaten-down creature rescued from a jail cell would now be known as Professor Morris. He would wear a tuxedo and glasses and smoke a pipe as he read Shakespeare’s sonnets and the poetry of that great local hero, Whitman, in a voice that was as heavenly as his countenance was beastly.
“Do you think it’s true that he’ll work for Father’s enemy?” Coralie asked Maureen as they cleared the overgrown area that would soon be the vegetable garden. Coralie had always wished Mr. Morris had left them to travel from one wonder of the world to another, from Paris to Cairo to the Victoria Falls.
The two women tended their garden each spring, wearing muslin aprons and heavy boots as they cleared out mud. Coney Island, once pastureland for cows, flooded each winter, which was why there was a need for raised, slatted sidewalks and why the iron pier was so very popular. This year the women raked cinders and their eyes teared as they labored. These were the ashes of the dead that had drifted across the East River. By June there would be all manner of herbs in this garden, rosemary and sorrel and parsley, along with mustard, which was said to cast off gloom, and madder root, which was used for a dye. There would be bulbs of garlic that would appear burnt when peeled and tomatoes with bloody, black hearts, formed, perhaps, from their bed of embers. Coralie and Maureen did not speak of the tragedy. They usually did not discuss disturbing issues, which was why Mr. Morris was not often a topic of conversation. The museum employees likely had been directed not to ruminate over his fate, for whenever Coralie had brought up the Wolfman, the living wonders had gazed away. It had been several years since Professor Sardie had let him go. Now, as they worked side by side, Maureen paused upon hearing Mr. Morris’s name, but she quickly resumed ridding the garden of stickers and weeds. “How would I know what’s become of him?” she huffed. “I’m employed as a maid, not a mind reader.”
Yet a distracted smile played upon her usually stern mouth. Coralie had always guessed that the housekeeper knew far more than she dared to say.
“Fine, don’t tell me. Keep your secrets.”
Coralie had her own secrets, the nighttime swims in the Hudson, of which Maureen would have never approved. All the same, she was hurt by this turn of events, for she’d mourned Raymond Morris after his disappearance, and had feared for his welfare. She used her spade to make neat furrows for a row of peas, turning away to
ensure that Maureen wouldn’t notice the tears flooding her eyes. The sun was so bright that the dim light that had been drifting over to Brooklyn ever since the Triangle Fire was finally burning up.
When Maureen came up beside her, Coralie pretended to be squinting in the haze. “It’s not you I’m keeping things from.” Maureen slipped an arm around her charge’s waist. “Trust me when I say, it’s best for both of us to keep our thoughts to ourselves.”
PROFESSOR SARDIE was more desperate every day, frantic in his quest to find a wonder that would match the ones soon to be on display at Dreamland. He arranged for Coralie to make one final swim. She had always considered herself to be fearless in the water, but now she felt a wave of anxiety. For the past few nights she’d experienced a recurring dream in which she remained underwater for so long she grew gills and fins. It was a painful, bloody process. In every dream, when she attempted to climb from the river to its banks, she found she could not walk across the grass but instead slipped back into the watery depths, gasping for breath, confused as to what sort of creature she had come to be.
“Perhaps it doesn’t make sense to excite people for something that doesn’t yet exist,” she dared to say to her father as they waited for the carriage. She felt the base of her throat, for her dream had seemed so real she imagined she’d find a line of gills, as if she were becoming what she pretended to be.
The Museum of Extraordinary Things Page 11
