“So while the Ponca walk through want and danger you think that my place is in my shop in Omaha, standing behind a counter, selling trinkets?”
Standing Bear’s eyes blazed. He pounded his fist on the bed of an empty wagon.
“Perhaps we are still quaint to you. The ‘noble savages’ that your politicians and do-gooders love to speak of. But the Ponca live in the real world. And just like all in that world, it is white money that comes between us and death. You say I am your father. If this is true, then obey me, and believe that where I tell you to go is the best position from which to do battle.”
Julius looked out over the village. It was half what it had been yesterday. In a few more hours it would be half that, and by the morning it would be gone.
“The books of the egg eaters say that once we were many tribes, holding dominion over the world we knew. We were like the Sioux—numerous and powerful, making war and conquering enemies.
“But one day, our God became angry and our people became lost. He condemned us to wander the world until we could stand face to face with a brother of our tribe and not know him.”
Julius turned back toward the chief. His cheeks were wet.
“Sometimes I imagine the Ponca are the tribe that was lost to me all that time ago—my people returned from wandering. With the Ponca I have known God as never before. For this blessing, I can never thank Standing Bear—but I can obey him.”
Standing Bear placed a hand on Julius’ shoulder and smiled. He turned quickly on his heel and walked back into the frenzy of leaving.
Julius ran to the north side of the camp. Beside her lodge, he found Prairie Flower wrapping the hide of a tipi around its wooden poles.
“Your father will not budge,” Julius said. “He insists that I can do more good for us in the white world.”
Prairie Flower looked up at Julius. The sadness in his eyes was mixed with anger.
“My father speaks the truth, of course,” she said. “If you were still only some white boy, clever with words, he would not care if you stayed or went. But he is telling you that you are truly one of us now—and that as one of us, you must sacrifice.”
“So while Prairie Flower freezes in the snow and bakes in the sun, I am to sell crafts at the Wigwam? While soldiers herd you like sheep, I am to talk and talk with men of my race, always wondering which pocket the railroad keeps them in, or how much Ponca grass their cattle will soon be eating? You and I have never embraced, never even touched. Now who knows if we ever will?”
Prairie Flower turned away from Julius. She knelt again to work. “I have much to do. These tipis will not wrap themselves, nor will the white world wait while you argue with me over a fate you have already accepted.”
In her words, Julius heard a thousand years of Indian survival and ten thousand years of the wisdom of women. Yes, it enraged him to think that she could remain practical even as his soul broke in two before her eyes; but he also knew that his anger could never advance his cause in the face of her fierce serenity.
“I apologize for my selfishness,” Julius said, “and I would ask Prairie Flower to stand once more so that she and I might take our leave.”
Prairie Flower stood and faced him. “People say that if the betrothed are to embrace, it should be within the privacy of the courting blanket. Anything else would be unseemly—and followed by much talk and scandal.”
“Yes,” Julius said, “people say this.”
“But look around you, beloved. Perhaps the people are too involved with their preparations to pay attention to a single man and woman. It is also possible that in the coming journey many hardships will make people forget a single breach of tradition.”
“Perhaps.”
She paused for a moment and then, as gently as a breeze, put her arms around Julius and pressed her cheek to his breast. He laid his chin on the top of her head and held her tightly.
They heard nothing of the panic surrounding them, nothing of the noise and rush. The sound and rhythm of their courting returned to them and they rocked back and forth in tears. Prairie Flower took his hands in hers and, bringing them to her cheek, quietly sang the remembered melody his flute had seized from the air.
That night, Julius had a dream.
Haunted figures trudged forward in misery by the thousands; Jews dressed in the manner of the old world. Above them, soldiers on horseback shouted orders in all of the languages of Europe, but for some reason the Jews could not understand them.
The overseers lashed out with bullwhips and the handles of axes, barking their instructions in Hebrew and Yiddish to no effect. When the Jews talked amongst themselves, it was in the language of the Ponca. They asked for water and begged for meat and mercy; they invoked high officials and produced letters attesting to their status. But the grunted gibberish served only to enrage the soldiers. They began to dismount and pull infants from the arms of mothers. The officers laughed as children were thrown to the ground to be trampled under the hooves of horses or carried off by starving dogs.
Then, through a haze of dust and blood, Julius saw Prairie Flower.
She walked at the head of the sad procession, dressed in the rags of a white woman, a tarnished Magen David around her neck. Her long raven hair had been shaved near to baldness. Pale and hungry, she stared straight ahead as if numb, ignoring the horror and chaos.
In Ponca, English, Yiddish, and Hebrew he called to her; in French, German, Russian, and Polish he shouted her name. But the girl could understand nothing he said—even when he screamed in languages no ear had heard before.
20
THE HOUSE OF ROTHAKER DRILLED THE WORD INTO EVERY salesman: into every designer and draughtsman, every patternmaker and office boy.
Confidentiality. Confidentiality is the watchword of our business!
“No producer wants his competitor to know what his actors will be wearing opening night,” Harold B. Rothaker would tell his employees. “I want every sketch of every suit and every gown locked up in the flat files at night. If we need to bring a dress pattern or a cloth swatch to a client, I want you to think of them like state secrets. And if you like to talk, don’t work here.”
Given this penchant for secrecy, it was no surprise that Mr. Rothaker was delighted by the pigeon.
At first, the entire transaction had seemed exactly like others that took place on his doorstep dozens of times a day. A messenger rang the bell, his pageboy answered, he notified his master, and the master read the note. This one said:
My Dear Mr. Rothaker,
Can you come to my home tomorrow, 2pm?
I have a major project which I believe only your skill can complete to my satisfaction.
I have made inquiries about your business. Your clients extol you as the very soul of discretion. But in this case, I beg that you seal your lips as if they held the battle plans for Antietam.
Your immediate reply is requested. My address is at the bottom of this letter. The boy will do the rest.
Sincerely,
Anonymous
Rothaker looked up from the note to the small bamboo cage the messenger held in his hand. Inside, burping and cooing, was an ordinary pigeon—rust and white and iridescent green at the neck. The typical winged garbage scow of New York.
“It’s our latest service, sir,” the messenger said. “Those needin’ speed and info on the quiet say it beats all else. I tie a note to her leg with just your answer—yes or no. Even if somebody shot her out of the air, they’d never get much out of that. Then, I let her go and she flies hell-bent for our coop in Brooklyn. Once she lands, another boy takes your message to the sendin’ party. He’ll have his answer in two hours. Less, maybe.”
Rothaker grinned at such ingenuity. He wrote “yes” on the note and watched as the messenger slipped it into a tiny iron cylinder. He tied it to the bird’s leg and bussed her on the head.
“Fly good, Mollie,” he said.
He tossed the bird into the air. Rothaker watched as she flew straig
ht up and then took a hard right turn in midair.
“This is what we’re doing,” the boy said, “until everyone gets the telegraph at home.”
Early the next day, Rothaker took a brougham to his atelier on Canal Street to collect the twin sisters Hannah and Ruby Eisenstein. They drove to the Fulton dock and boarded the Old Ferry to its corresponding landing in Brooklyn. From there, they took a hansom to a great brownstone on the Heights. Rothaker pulled the bell. Presently, a liveried butler answered the door.
“If youse’ll please make yaselves cumftible in the parla,” the butler said, “the praffessa’ll be witch youse shawtly.”
As soon as the servant had gone, Rothaker bade his assistants be seated and began to inspect the premises. He had always found this the best method of determining the worth of the client he was dealing with. There was nothing like furniture and carpets to calculate ability to pay.
The parlor did not disappoint. Its furnishings were clearly of the highest quality, their woods rare and hand-carved, their upholstery covered in silks and damask. The oriental rugs had been woven in Pakistan and China, and the paintings on the walls would have graced the Metropolitan. But what best indicated the wealth of the house was the portrait of a spade-bearded man above the mantle. Its wild brushstrokes and moody chiaroscuro clearly marked it as the work of Eakins of Philadelphia, currently society’s most fashionable painter.
“The picture is of my brother, although there are some who believe it looks less like him than me.”
Rothaker turned from the portrait in time to see its double entering the room. He was dressed in fencing clothes and still perspiring from his latest lesson.
“I hope the ferry was on time for you,” he said. “They say that when the bridge is finished, we shall no longer be at the mercy of the river.”
“Yes, sir,” Rothaker said. “We passed right by it on our way across. I must say it is a most impressive structure.”
The bearded man frowned. “We Brooklynites have put up with its congestion and noise going on seven years. If it ever is finished, I wonder if the promised convenience will be worth the headaches it’s already cost us. But this small talk has led us to forget our manners! Might I become acquainted with these lovely ladies?”
“Forgive me, sir. Permit me to introduce my two assistants: Miss Hannah Eisenstein and her mirror image, Miss Ruby. They are respectively my finest draper and patternmaker. May I assure you that in their expertise they are as alike as they are in face and form.”
“I am of course, charmed,” the bearded man said, bowing. “I am also relieved they understand that to maintain complete anonymity in this transaction, I must refrain from introducing myself.”
Rothaker sighed. “I am afraid, sir, that such a famed personage requires no introduction. I recognize you. And judging from their reactions, I fear this is true for the Misses Eisenstein, as well.”
The young women smiled and nodded, obviously excited by the identity of their client.
“How could anyone fail to recognize the conjurer who has amazed half the world? But I also have a more intimate reason for knowing your identity. Tell me, the black Prince Albert coat with the beaver collar, is it still used in your act?”
“Every night,” Alexander said. “I would be lost without it.”
“My late father fashioned that garment for your brother Compars nearly twenty-five years ago. I assisted him as he personally sewed in every hidden pocket and secret compartment. So you see, sir, your family’s association with the House of Rothaker precedes even your entry into our industry. I sincerely hope that this will inspire further confidence in us.”
“I suppose I expected nothing less, Mr. Rothaker. Anonymity, I am afraid, goes out the window when notoriety walks through the door. But today, it is not my own privacy that concerns me. It is that of the person you have actually come here to dress. Please, this way.”
Rothaker and the twins picked up their cases and followed Alexander through a long hallway that opened out into a large ballroom. Near the tall north windows sat a young woman clad only in cotton underclothes. She was small, little over five feet, but so perfectly formed that her size was not a factor in her beauty. As the women walked closer, they noted the girl’s extraordinary skin. It was the color of copper and roses and, except for a certain roughness of the hands, so fine and smooth it appeared to have no pores. Her splendid head seemed sculpted from a single block, the cheekbones in perfect proportion to the almond eyes that in turn were in flawless harmony with the broad forehead and delicate nose. A small gasp betrayed Hannah’s astonishment. She had spent most of her young life draping the most beautiful actresses of the stage, and she prided herself on knowing the female figure better than even the most promiscuous lothario or the oldest doctor. How could it be that the most proportionate body she had yet seen belonged to a red Indian?
“Again, I apologize for the lack of introduction,” Alex said, “but it is imperative that my plans for this young lady never leave this house. When the public finally does meet her, they must think that she is the most exotic creature God has made, and that the exquisite costumes you will create for her are little more than the traditional clothing of her native land.”
Rothaker appeared confused. “Of course, Professor Herrmann, we are only too happy to provide anything you wish. But please understand that we cannot prepare these items quickly, as such costumes require the finest buffalo leathers and eagle feathers, which must be imported from the West …”
“I am afraid you misunderstand,” Alex said. “You speak as if I wanted you to dress her as some savage. Oh, no, Mr. Rothaker! I said I wanted her in the traditional dress of her native land—and her native land is Arabia.”
“Arabia? Pardon me, sir—I’ve hardly been out of Manhattan in my poor life, but from the pictures I’ve seen in the illustrated magazines, this lovely lady …”
“… is Arabian, Rothaker! A caliph’s daughter, no less! A princess of the blood born, she was rescued from a harem by yours truly on one of the many journeys I’ve made to the mysterious East! That is what I will tell the world, Mr. Rothaker; and that is what you and the charming twins here must show that world! Isn’t that correct, your highness?”
The young woman smiled, first at Alexander, then at Rothaker and the sisters.
“In-doob-a-dib-ly, Professor.”
“There. You see? It’s all settled. From this moment on, the House of Rothaker will have the great honor of dressing she who has escaped the clutches of the Sultan of Oman and learned the secrets of vanishing from the Grand Vizier of Bur Safajah! So, I suggest we get to work. If anyone can pull this one off, Harold old boy, I’m guessing it’s you.”
Lady-Jane lay in the half-light, enveloped in pleasure.
She had heard about this “glow” from other women. It had been mentioned by the prostitutes at the Nickel & Dime from time to time; she had even been able to catch a few words about it from the women in the Ponca camp. It was something that apparently occurred during the sex act: a kind of rush in the blood followed by a warmth, or a feeling of well-being or security or some goddamn thing.
Lady-Jane didn’t buy it. She had likely fucked ten times as many men as either the whores of the Dime or the wives of the Ponca; and she had never experienced any such feeling. Ever since Adrian Calhern had turned her out and taught her the moans and shrieks and the best things to tell the customer, she had carried out his orders to the letter. Get them done quick, he would say. Once they get a look at you, they’re halfway to finished, anyways. There’s more behind them and time is money. Not counting those who “finished” before their pants were off, two minutes constituted the average session—five was a veritable eternity.
With Alexander, it was different.
For her, the Great Herrmann was indeed magic. He did things with her no one ever had, exploring her like a strange valley or devouring her like a sumptuous meal. He would spend an hour pleasing her before even beginning the final consummation;
and then he would stay within her for as long as she pleased, only breaking his spell when she begged him to stop or sought his satisfaction. Completed, he would hold her in his arms, her silent head against his breast, and speak of her charm and beauty. And through it all, he would kiss her, a skill he had needed to teach her in detail. Though Lady-Jane had been instructed in all of the basics of the courtesan’s art, rarely had she put her lips to any man’s and never as a professional. Such intimacy cost extra and few patrons seemed disposed to pay for the privilege.
Perhaps, she thought, this was love. It did seem very like the stories in the ladies’ novels and the lyrics of songs she had heard. They all used words like warm and tingle and shiver. But as she watched Alexander sleep, she put such questions aside, concentrating instead on the funny bend in his black beard and the rising and falling of his chest.
Then she wept. And when she finally fell asleep, she dreamt of a land where she felt this way all the time, every day, according to her command as ruler of the kingdom called Arabia: the land of Princess Noor-Al-Haya, whose name means light of life.
21
SHIVERING OVER THE HUSK OF HER MEDICINE MAN, PRAIRIE Flower wondered if the Ponca weren’t suffering retribution for all the times her father had cursed his ancestors.
Trudging toward Oklahoma, all of nature seemed allayed against the tribe. The weather had been cruel; the white government, charged with supplying the journey, had produced little in the way of food or medicines. The promised salt beef and bison jerky had disappeared in a few days; the guaranteed flour had never arrived, and so they ate milled corn fouled by rats.
Colonel Nelson A. Miles had been assigned to guide the tribe from the Niobrara to the Quapaw reservation. Seeing the meager state of the supply wagons, he became livid, firing off telegram after telegram to reservation agents and the Bureau of Indian Affairs. When he did finally receive a response, it was not from one of the officers to whom he appealed, but from a bureaucrat of whom he had never heard.
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