Читать книгу Orphans of the Carnival - Carol Birch - Страница 14

Is This the Ugliest Woman in the World?

Miss Julia Pastrana is surely the most remarkable creature ever to have graced a stage in this city of excess, far surpassing any of the attractions currently on show at Mr Barnum’s American Museum just a couple of blocks away. She has the appearance of an ape but dances like Lola Montez and sings pretty Spanish folk songs in a very pleasant mezzo-soprano while sometimes accompanying herself on the guitar.

The newspaper lay open on a pouffe by her feet. It’s not that I have a particularly beautiful voice, she thought. It’s that they’re surprised I have any voice at all that isn’t a grunt or a howl.

Wearing scarlet boots, a tight-fitting skirt, and silk panty hose, Pastrana sang an Irish melody — ‘The Last Rose of Summer’ — and danced a bolero, looking every bit like the famed ballerina Fanny Elssler and displaying ‘a symmetry’ that would make the most successful ballet dancers envious.

Three nights on Broadway at the Gothic Hall, a big old palace covered in tarpaulin, the canvas a riotous mish-mash of colour. Sea monsters, a man with two heads, a boy pierced with pins, serpents and Cyclops and a scorpion with a woman’s face. In the corners, scenes from cannibal life. And now her picture was up there too, the head wild and fierce, the body a ballerina.

The front stoop of the rooming house was full all day with people waiting, hoping for a glimpse. She heard them, laughing and fooling around, crossing the road to the coffee booth, but she didn’t dare look out. ‘Think about it, Julia,’ Rates said. ‘Who’s fool enough to pay good money if he can just schlep down here and take a look for nothing? Guard your mystery.’

When this was over, they were for Philadelphia.

‘Or we are for Philadelphia,’ Myrtle said, laying out the cards for Patience. ‘I don’t know about you, Julia. You know he’s had an offer?’

‘Delia told me.’

They were in the pink parlour on the third floor, a room full of faded brocade and walls crammed with pictures and playbills of all the show people who’d ever stayed there. Julia was at the window, behind the curtain so she couldn’t be seen, looking down at the coffee booth across the street. A young man leaned against it with a bored air. Myrtle tossed one of her endless thin cigars into the air with her foot and caught it between her lips. ‘Look out for yourself,’ she said.

‘I’m not a slave,’ said Julia. ‘He can’t sell me.’

Myrtle looked thoughtfully at her, the cigar drooping on her lip. ‘Can’t he?’

‘Not unless I want to be sold.’ Julia turned from the window and sat down opposite Myrtle. ‘Can I have one of those?’ she said.

‘Sure.’ Myrtle gave her a cigar. ‘Mine’s gone out. Pass me a spill.’

‘I want to travel,’ Julia said, plucking a spill from a pot on the mantelpiece and lighting it at the fire.

‘Well, you’ll surely do that. They’re all out there, waving their big bucks, you could have your pick of them.’

‘I don’t want to stay with Rates,’ Julia said. ‘Do you?’ She lit both their cigars.

‘For a time, I suppose.’ Myrtle drew on the cigar, opened her lips and held the smoke in the bowl of her mouth. ‘He’s not too bad,’ she said, letting it out slowly, ‘wears thin, travel, believe me. I’ve been on the road since I was nine,’ leaning down, passing the cigar to her toes. ‘Been all over the west, up to Alaska, up in the snows, all over the place.’

‘I want to go everywhere,’ Julia said. ‘I want to go all over the world.’ She shivered. ‘I’m cold. I’m getting a shawl. Do you want yours?’

‘No.’

‘I’ve been in one place,’ said Julia, ‘all my life.’

‘Just look out for yourself, that’s all I’m saying.’ Myrtle shifted a card from one line to the next.

‘I’m going to get my shawl.’ Julia ran down quickly. Coming back with the shawl around her shoulders she saw Rates’s door at the end of the passage and thought, I’ll go there now and talk to him, no more of this drifting, put her hand in the pocket of her dress and closed it on the gris-gris bag. Courage and luck, the Doctor said. Be brave.

‘Julia!’ said Rates, as if delighted, ‘I was just about to . . .’

‘Mr Rates,’ she said, with no idea what to say, ‘what are your plans?’

‘My plans, Julia?’

‘Someone wants to buy me.’

‘Everyone wants you!’ Rates laughed, came out into the passage and pulled his door to behind him. ‘Barnum! Barnum sent someone! Soon sent him packing. Didn’t come himself, you note. Sent someone.’

‘So,’ she said, ‘am I to come to Philadelphia with the others?’

‘Don’t you want to?’

‘To tell you the truth, Mr Rates,’ she said, ‘I haven’t really thought any further ahead than this moment. And now suddenly, I don’t know why, but I’m feeling nervous.’

‘No need for that!’ Rates smiled down at her. ‘No need to rush into anything. Have the girls been talking?’ His face took on concern. ‘I’m sorry, Julia, perhaps I should have mentioned it, but I didn’t want to bother you with the details.’

‘But Mr Rates,’ she said, ‘I need to know what’s happening.’

‘The truth is,’ said Rates, all business, ‘I’ve had three or four offers and I’m weighing them up, settling in my mind which is the best for everybody all round. But, more to the point . . .’

‘I don’t want to go with just anyone,’ she said.

‘Of course not!’ Rates was shocked. ‘What are you worrying about, Julia?’

‘Who are they?’ she asked.

‘Associates. I don’t deal with anyone shady, as you know.’

‘I’d like to know.’

‘I promise,’ Rates said firmly. ‘I’ll tell you everything from now on. The truth is there’s nothing to tell right now, at least not as far as that’s concerned. But,’ and he bounced eagerly on the balls of his feet, ‘there is something very interesting, very interesting indeed. I’ve had a request from one of the most distinguished medical men of the age.’

Julia’s eyes went blank.

‘Desperate to see you. Desperate.’

She’d seen a few medical men as a child. They’d studied her teeth, peered down her throat and down her ears, made her lie down and close her eyes and sing a little song to try and make her forget where they were poking their fingers. But that had been a long time ago. ‘I suppose I’ll have to see him,’ she said, dully resigned, ‘him or someone else. I know. They’ll say I’m a fake otherwise, won’t they?’

‘You must realise, Julia,’ he said. ‘Oh, it’s a bore, I know, but the medical establishment will inevitably take an interest.’

‘I know.’

‘Anyway, I’ve spoken to this Dr Mott. He’s the best. Very top of the tree. Extremely hard to get to see him normally but he’s made a space for us. Tomorrow, three sharp.’

She must have looked worried because he patted her on the shoulder encouragingly. ‘Sooner the better!’ he said briskly. ‘Get it over with.’

When she returned to the pink parlour, Delia was there, doing Myrtle’s hair. ‘How much is he paying Rates?’ she asked when Julia told them about the doctor.

‘I’ve told her,’ said Myrtle, ‘time and again. You get something out of it for yourself. You ask how much he’s getting for it. You want your cut.’

‘He’s not getting anything,’ said Julia.

‘Ha!’ Delia gave a little shriek. ‘He says!’

Myrtle just snorted.

They drove from the Bowery to Madison Avenue, where Dr Mott lived and had his practice. Through the veil, through the coach window, she watched the great show of the streets. New York made New Orleans seem quaint. It was like an ant’s nest nudged by a foot, the clanging of the omnibuses endless and deafening, the noise of children, beggars, hawkers. This was really The World, whatever that was. Slap centre of the Big Adventure. By night, coming and going between the theatre and the rooming house, the city had seemed smaller, enclosed by darkness. Daytime revealed its colours, sombre for the most part, slashed with brightness here and there. The further they travelled, the grander it got. Great buildings rose up like mammoths

‘Shall we walk a little coming back?’ she suggested.

Rates raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips. ‘Oh, I don’t think so, Julia.’

‘It was fine in New Orleans. With my veil.’

‘This is a rough city,’ Rates said. ‘Now, if my memory serves me – yes – it’s just along here . . .’

She kept her veil on till she was in the inner room, which was almost filled by the doctor’s enormous desk. Dr Mott, still holding a white towel, emerged from a side room where he’d been washing his hands. ‘Miss Pastrana,’ he said, tossing it aside onto a windowsill and coming toward her with his hand outstretched. ‘I am delighted.’ He showed no surprise, having seen her twice already on the stage.

‘How do you do,’ said Julia, taking his hand and smiling. Rates returned to the waiting room to read the newspaper he’d brought with him, and Julia took off her coat. She’d rather have seen someone older and plainer. Mott was handsome, young but already distinguished. On his desk was a framed picture of himself with his wife and little boy.

‘Come,’ he said, ushering her deferentially before him into the room next door. There was a high narrow bed, a chair, a screen, and a sideboard laid out neatly with medical implements she didn’t dare look at.

‘You’ll find a gown behind the screen,’ he said.

He was thorough. He got the nasty bits out of the way first. She closed her eyes and did what she always did, what Solana had told her to do. Said a prayer. Sang a song in her head. After that he paid particular attention to her teeth and ears, turned her eyelids inside out, lifted her tongue and looked under it, measured every part of her meticulously from her toes to the circumference of her head, inspected the palms of her hands and the soles of her feet closely, rang bells behind her head and asked if she could hear them.

‘I’m told you know your letters,’ he said.

‘I do.’

‘That’s excellent.’ His eyebrows went up. ‘Mr Rates tells me you enjoy reading novels?’

‘I do,’ she said, ‘very much so.’

‘Good, very good. Now – starting with the top line, if you please—’

She could read all but the bottom line.

‘Very good indeed,’ Dr Mott said. ‘And tell me – what do you like to read?’

‘Oh,’ she said, ‘whatever I can get hold of. I like The Linwoods, The Wide, Wide World. And The Curse of . . .’

The doctor smiled and scratched his whiskers. ‘Very very good indeed,’ he said, more to himself than her.

Then it was over and they were back in the carriage, and it was only when she saw the next show pamphlet that she read what Dr Mott had said about her: ‘She is a Semi-Human Indian, a perfect woman, a rational creature endowed with speech which no monster has ever possessed, yet she is Hybrid, wherein the nature of woman predominates over the brute – the Ourang Outang.’

Ourang-outang? In Mexico?

A long time ago, the big boys talking over her head as if she couldn’t understand:

‘Jonas Ochoa said she isn’t human.’

‘What does Jonas Ochoa know? Did you tell him?’

‘Of course I did. She’s Indian, I said. She’s a Digger. He says he’s never seen a Digger like that before.’

‘You tell him what Papa says. She’s just like us only with hair.’

‘Then he says that’s what I mean, the hair, he says, human beings don’t have hair. Not like that, they don’t. Monkeys do. Bears do. Wolves do, dogs do. But not human beings. Not like that.’

‘He has a point.’

Rates read aloud from a newspaper article to the man sitting across from him in the pink parlour.

‘This mysterious animal is one of the most extraordinary beings of the present day . . . — you see, he knows what he’s about, the man’s a giant in his field,’ gesturing towards a large folder that lay on the low table between them, ‘and his examination was completely thorough. I have it here, in writing—’ Rates peered down short-sightedly at the newspaper. ‘His medical opinion is that she is the result of the pairing of a human being with a simian. See! She has features in common with the orang-utan . . .’

‘Better make your mind up,’ the other man said, a big-boned, yellow-haired showman with a broken-nose. ‘You’re calling her the Bear Woman, and he’s saying she’s a monkey. She can’t be both.’

‘Let’s keep it just this side of credibility, shall we?’ said Rates with a lofty smile. ‘There are bears in those mountains but I never heard of an ape in Mexico.’

‘Of course there are,’ said the blond man. ‘There’s monkeys.’

‘But no large apes.’

‘Not as far as we know.’

‘I’ve had interest from other quarters, you know, Beach,’ Rates said. ‘Barnum’s after her. Did you know?’ He glanced up. ‘And here – yes, here it is.’ Rates slapped the paper. ‘And don’t forget this Mott’s at the very top of his – here, says he’s never seen anything like her – see, see, something absolutely new, he says, absolutely new, unknown to science.’ He put the paper aside. ‘Science!’ He turned his pale steady gaze onto Beach. ‘You see my dilemma.’

‘Not at all,’ said Beach. ‘Mine’s the better offer, and it’s that simple.’

Rates pursed his lips and tried to look thoughtful. ‘Yours may be the better offer, but Mott’s working in the interests of knowledge. Science,’ he said reverently. ‘Of course I have to take that into account.’

‘No, you don’t.’ Beach laughed and stood up. ‘Who cares about science? She doesn’t. The girl wants a good time.’ He laughed again. ‘The girl bit does, who knows about that other thing? Ask her. What’s she want?’

‘She doesn’t know what she wants.’ Rates drained his glass. ‘She wants to get around a bit and see the world.’

‘She’ll do that with me. Least she’ll see Milwaukee,’ Beach said.

Rates sighed. ‘She’s a good girl,’ he said. ‘Does the very best she can, you know, nice nature. Open to suggestion, you know, very helpful. You say try this, she tries it. No nonsense about the girl. I want her treated right.’

‘No question about it. Shake then.’ They stood and shook hands. Beach towered over Rates. ‘Time of her life’s coming,’ he said. ‘This time next month she’ll be drinking champagne.’

They went down to see her straight away. She was alone. She knew what they’d been talking about. Twice Beach had visited her backstage after the show, filling the dressing room with his bulky self-made air.

‘My dear Julia,’ Rates said, taking small steps towards her and clasping both her hands in his, ‘I can’t tell you how privileged I feel to have been a party to your great success.’

Beach smiled over Rates’s shoulder, his eyes an eerie pale blue.

‘And now,’ said Rates, ‘I feel a parting of the ways is nigh.’

She looked Beach in the eye.

‘Mr Beach has a proposition,’ said Rates.

‘I thought so,’ she said.

Her eyes made Beach shiver, she could tell, but he showed no sign of disquiet. What to make of him? Caramel-coloured coat. Gold cravat. Carrying his hat. Only thing she could do was trust instinct. He came forward. His cheekbones were shiny ridges, his grin made him look like Punch. ‘Cleveland,’ he said. ‘Buffalo. Chicago. Lenox, Massachusetts. Milwaukee. Cincinnati. I have these lined up for you already.’

She laughed nervously. ‘I don’t know where they are.’

‘Want me to show you a map?’ He patted his pockets comically. ‘Don’t have one on me right now, but I sure will next time I see you.’

‘And the contract?’ she said.

The girls would have been proud of her.

On the steps Beach lit a cigar, shaking his head in wonder. A light rain began falling on the steaming pavement, and a breeze blew up from the river. ‘The strangest thing,’ he said, gazing down the street to the carriages waiting in line. ‘The face, the face . . .’

‘The face indeed,’ Rates echoed, scratching his smooth bulby chin.

‘Impossible to comprehend.’ Beach put his collar up and hunched his shoulders. ‘There’s a kind of – no, the word wonder isn’t right – she is so – completely—’ He shook his head again.

Rates completed the sentence. ‘Inhuman.’ The rain was turning to sleet. ‘Went down a charm in New Orleans,’ he said, ‘thought she was the rougarou.’

‘As if the head of a wolf or a boar—’ said Beach.

‘I know.’

For a moment they stood in silence.

‘Beggars belief,’ said Beach. ‘I tell you, gives you the shivers. Puts the fear in people. And then she opens her mouth – the mouth of Cerberus! – and this sweet little voice comes out!’

Rates gave a short laugh. ‘And her English is perfect. She’s not at all bad, is she?’

‘She’s a sensation,’ said Beach, ‘that’s what she is. She’s a good girl, I can work with her.’