Among the Wonderful (3 page)

“We could clear out these crates and set you up in here on a purely temporary basis.”

Mr. Archer paced back toward Guillaudeu, who fought an urge to dive under his desk. The man was clearly accustomed to having his way. Mr. Archer seemed to be fuming, or so Guillaudeu supposed from the fish-like opening and closing of his mouth.

“Will these louse-infested creatures stay?” He gestured toward the burlap sack.

“We’ll see what we can do. There are many such … specimens in need of a cage.”

Mr. Archer stomped out to direct the unloading of his carriage.

Guillaudeu broke up empty crates and carried the piles of wood and papers to the curb. He moved the unopened packages that he could lift to his side of the room, all the while silently enraged that he had made such a careless offer of hospitality. Mr. Archer’s valet and Guillaudeu then carried a large oak desk into the office while Mr. Archer stood by to make sure the desk was not scratched in the process.

“This will have to do,” Mr. Archer muttered. “The rest can wait until I have my own office.”

After the two men eyed each other for a moment, Guillaudeu retreated. He watched Mr. Archer pull a sheaf of white paper from a box and set it in front of him on his table. He primped the papers, squaring the stack so each leaf lay aligned with the next. He pulled a pencil from his waistcoat pocket and put it on the table.

Guillaudeu picked up one of the crates that had been sitting in the office for days. He’d been receiving everything from African artifacts to monkeys, and he pried the lid off
the package warily. He dug through the packing material and finally pulled out a wrapped bundle.

“Mr. Guillaudeu, I’m curious about something.” Mr. Archer held up a sheet of paper. “I have a letter from Mr. Barnum here, describing my duties.”

“I see.” Guillaudeu began to unwrap the bundle.

“Of course I fully understand the advertising bit. I’ve worked in the papers for years, as you know.”

“Quite right.”

“But there’s a whole other element, you see. To my job here.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. ‘Illuminating the exhibits,’ Mr. Barnum says. ‘With Historical, Scientific, and Astonishing Facts.’ ”

“Yes, it seems like more descriptions and explanation would help visitors,” Guillaudeu said.

The final layers of wrapping fell away from the bundle and Guillaudeu put a small mounted specimen on the desk. He then jumped back as if the creature had spoken.

“I see,” Archer continued. “But then he mentions something I can’t understand:
The Representatives of the Wonderful
. What or who are they? What does he mean by this?”

But Guillaudeu neither comprehended nor even heard Mr. Archer’s query. He tugged his mustache and then grabbed the crate, searching for a return address. He tore through the packing material.

“What on earth is happening over there? Did you hear my question?”

“This is unthinkable … definitely impossible!”

“Good gracious, sir.” Mr. Archer rose from his seat. “I don’t see that there is cause for such a loss of composure, no matter what it is.”

Guillaudeu looked at him. “Have you ever seen anything like this?”

The stuffed animal specimen was only a foot long. The creature had a dense coat of smooth brown fur fading to brassy blond at its belly. Its head was round, with no discernible ears and tiny black eyes.

“Look. Its tail is like a beaver’s,” Guillaudeu whispered, picking up the specimen. “But rounded, and short! And its feet. They are fully webbed, but these long claws … look at them!”

Mr. Archer by this time was standing next to him, arms folded across his chest. “Obviously someone’s a humbug, Mr. Guillaudeu. Look at its beak. There’s nothing natural about its beak. What would you call that, anyway?”

“It seems to be cartilaginous. It has nostrils just here.” Guillaudeu brushed the top of the animal’s broad fleshy muzzle. “It appears to have part of a spoonbill’s beak attached to it. Perhaps with an epoxy of some kind?” Guillaudeu searched the creature’s face. “If it’s manufactured it was done by a master.”

“You mean you think it may be real?” Mr. Archer scoffed, his chin jutting.

“That’s difficult to say. Even the mermaid was so well made it was hard to say for sure.”

“You must be joking, monsieur. China has been manufacturing mermaids for centuries! Men are born into the mermaid business over there.” Mr. Archer took the creature in his hands. “Its tail does seem quite real, though, doesn’t it?”

“See.” Guillaudeu pointed. “It has a coat like a seal, with longer hair on the outside and a sort of downy layer near the skin. This animal lives in the water. At least part of the time.”

Guillaudeu pawed around in the crate, finally discovering a crumpled sheet of stationery. “Thank goodness. A letter.” He held it up.

Mr. Archer cradled the creature in the crook of his arm. “Well?”

“Dear Mr. Barnum: here is
Ornithorhynchus anatinus. A-ha! Let’s see … bird … snout. Duck-like snout.”

“Not terribly helpful.”

“I can scarcely believe I’m parting with it, but your price was too generous to pass up. So here she is, all the way from Botany Bay. I know she will draw a crowd, even in New York. Yours, V.”

“Who is ‘V’?” Mr. Archer handed the specimen back to Guillaudeu.

“I don’t know.”

“Is it real?”

“I don’t know.”

Guillaudeu examined the junction between the specimen’s bill and its skull. He could see no stray stitches or gloss of adhesive. It seemed to have an entirely natural transition from fur to flesh. “I don’t know.” He turned the animal over. “I see no mammaries. If it is a she, as ‘V’ suggests, there should be mammaries. If it’s a mammal.”

“How could it be anything else? Look at her fur.” Mr. Archer brushed a finger along the animal’s back. “It certainly is soft.”

“It’s not a reptile. And it certainly is not a bird.”

“The tail seems to be a bit scaly. What an extraordinary tail.”

“How could it
be?”
Guillaudeu looked at the ad man.

Mr. Archer raised his eyebrows. “You’re the naturalist, Mr. Guillaudeu, not me.”

“Taxidermist.” Guillaudeu sat down in his chair.

Mr. Archer picked up
Ornithorhynchus anatinus
. “People will pay to see it, I’m quite sure.” He walked back to his desk, petting the specimen. “I would pay to see it, wouldn’t you?”

“But we don’t know what it really is.”

“That is true, but is that a relevant question, Mr. Guillaudeu? Is that truly the correct question to ask
here
, of all places? I’m not sure Mr. Barnum gave me that impression.”

“Well —”

“I don’t think so.” And Mr. Archer, now sitting at his desk with the creature in front of him, licked the tip of his right forefinger and swept a leaf of paper off the stack. After rubbing his hands together and glancing at Guillaudeu, he tapped the tip of his pencil seven times against the page and began to write.

Guillaudeu pulled down the third volume of Cuvier’s
Illustrated Natural History
. This book provided Guillaudeu with
not only an encyclopedic survey of the planet’s creatures but also what he considered the necessary philosophical context for his studies. In one essay Cuvier stated:
It is only really in one’s study that one can roam freely throughout the universe, and for that, a different sort of courage is needed, courage which comes from unlimited devotion to the truth, courage which does not allow its possessor to leave a subject until, by observation and connected thought, he has illuminated it with every ray of light possible
.

Guillaudeu had been following the debates between field naturalists and sedentary scholars of nature. The field naturalists embodied, in his opinion, a sort of base recklessness in their travels, haphazardly bringing home natural objects from all over the globe without knowing anything about them or taking the time to place them in a proper taxonomic context. The sedentary naturalists like Cuvier, though less traveled than the field-goers, were repositories of knowledge and applied that knowledge to each specimen in the solitude of their offices. Being an anatomist, Cuvier shared, Guillaudeu felt certain, his own love of close, meticulous study of the internal structures of animals. Knowing that an important man of natural philosophy agreed with Guillaudeu’s own ideas strengthened his resolve. It was an added benefit that both he and Cuvier were French by birth. He flipped through pages of engravings. No duck-tike bird snout. He pulled the index off the shelf. Nothing.

He paced the length of the office. He stared at the brown creature on Mr. Archer’s desk, which stared right back at him, defying the implausibility of its own existence. He stroked the animal’s back. He looked again at the small curved claws, the webs of leather in between. No artist, however masterful, could have created this from bird and beaver parts. But where was the proof? He returned to his desk and again flipped through the book, passing pages of beetles and pages of birds. His desire to find the little creature safely documented by Cuvier was more urgent than he would have liked to admit. An ominous sense grew in the back of his mind that the boundaries of Cuvier’s world were not as fixed as his elevated language and four-color lithographs implied.

“There we go,” Mr. Archer said, swiveling in his chair. “A first draft.”

“Already?”

“Would you like to hear it?”

Guillaudeu wished to be left alone, but Mr. Archer waved the sheet with a grand gesture.

“This is what will bring them in, monsieur. They’ll come in droves. I can get it to the press tonight, and it will be in the papers tomorrow.”

“I wouldn’t say droves.”

Mr. Archer held the paper daintily.
“Don’t miss your chance to see the Astounding Antipodean Anomaly! For the first time in History, behold a creature that defies Scientific Explanation! Bear witness to the Enchanting Ornithorhyno. Half reptile, half bird, you will be struck speechless by this curious creature. Observe a lost strand of Creation! Participate in Scientific History! Leave it to Phineas T. Barnum to bring you the very substance of Science, or is it God’s idea of a joke? Barnum’s American Museum, open seven days a week from eight in the morning to ten at night, on the corner of Broadway and Ann. Only twenty-five cents to see all!”

Mr. Archer stood motionless for a moment, and then moved toward his desk. But he managed only a few steps before a tiny golden monkey jumped out from somewhere and landed on his head.

The night had chilled uncomfortably; Guillaudeu shivered in his thin coat, standing in the shadow of the building where he lived. Across the street, the grocer, Saul, watched him from between two pyramids of yellow apples. Guillaudeu affixed his gaze to the brass door handle three feet away, but he could not move.

Ever since his wife died there, he had been unable to enter his apartment without making at least two passes around the block. Even then he often stood just as he did now, poised on the threshold with his thoughts clouding over.

There was pity in the furtive eyes of his neighbors as he circled his home, and this night was no exception. He looked over his shoulder at Saul, who gave a barely discernible shrug before disappearing behind the apples. Finally Guillaudeu raised his arm, inserted the key, and propelled himself inside.

Death smells of pumpkins. After five months, the sweet, foul odor that had lingered in the apartment was certainly gone, but Guillaudeu was sure it had permanently destroyed his olfactory apparatus, if not his deepest core. As he climbed the narrow stairs to the second floor, he knew he would always remember that smell as he approached this place. His nose would always be testing the air: Is it gone yet? Is it truly gone? Could imagination alone conjure the stench? As time passed, he became certain that it did. The ever-rising bile was evidence. Or did he actually smell a far less dreadful scent
and he was just twisting it in his mind? The grocery was right across the street, after all, and given his profession he was never far from dead things, the shreds of rot.

After she died, he sold all the furniture in the parlor. To pay for the burial, he told himself. But he surely did not have to sell the drapes for that, or every single lace tablecloth that she’d acquired over the years. The truth was that once he started, he couldn’t stop himself; it had felt profoundly right to him as he watched the heavy uncomfortable chairs, flowered rugs, and countless stools with their embroidered cushions disappear. Now that it was all gone and the parlor was empty except for his tall bookcases and their contents, the situation was better. The world, especially the museum, was crowded enough; this domestic emptiness soothed him. He had no plans to replace anything.

The disease had colonized Celia’s body and after two days of symptoms they both knew she would die. The only question left was whether it would be in a day, two, or just a few more hours. Actions were reduced to pathetic details: She could no longer bear to be moved, so Guillaudeu propped her up on every cushion he could find. By lifting his wife off the bed’s surface onto pillows, he was able to fit the chamber pot beneath her. He emptied it every half hour, turning his face away from the viscous, white-flecked fluid. Cholera was an efficient assassin. It drained its victims quickly, and without fanfare ferried them across the divide.

On the fourth afternoon of her illness Guillaudeu was stirring the bitters in the kitchen when he heard her half-choked breath. This is her last breath! Is this her last breath? She is gone! But he found her reading the newspaper. She was laughing.

“Emile,” she croaked. “This is too funny.”

She had vomited in such large quantities that her lips and chin were rashed and flaking. Beneath the skin, her flesh seemed to have been scraped away from the inside; he’d never seen the contour of her cheek and jawbone in such sharp relief. He almost did not recognize her, and her laughter, framed by this ghastly appearance and her white hair
tangled by too many hours on the pillow, transformed her even more.

“What is it?”

“It says here that five hundred and seventy-six people have died in the last two days.”