Among the Wonderful (46 page)

I lit the two sconces in my room. With the door closed, the noise from the Indian camps faded to a faint fluctuation. I
undressed in flickering patterns of lamplight. Unbound, my body creaked and snapped like a dying oak. I sat on the edge of the bed and pulled off my stockings, hanging them over the arms of my chair for tomorrow. I rubbed my feet, kneading my fingers into the soles, gritting my teeth as bands of searing pain ribboned up my legs. I kneaded harder, suddenly determined to squeeze all of it out. Needles of heat alternated with cloudy numbness in the small of my back and my shoulders emitted their usual unfocused complaint, without beginning or end. By the time I loosened my hands, my head throbbed. I lowered myself down on the bed.

I lay mired in self-disgust. As I grew conscious of it, the feeling thickened to fill my whole room and even, I imagined, spilled out into the hallway. I was too tired to dismiss it. Images of Mr. Archer, the fighting Indians, Barnum’s terrible grin, Matthew’s stricken face, and the Aztec Children surfaced out of the murk and sank away. Mother, what would you tell me now? There you are in your nightdress, standing among the hens in the yard, wearing his boots. You face away from me and I know I’m young because I stand straight in the doorway and I look at your back without looking down. You take a few quick steps and catch a hen, tucking it under your arm and then swinging the creature out and extending the arm that holds it, wringing its neck in the first momentum of the arc. When you turn, your face holds a faint smile, you’re thinking of something else. You are already pulling at a handful of feathers as you clomp toward the house; the image dissolves before you see me standing there.

I was angry about the Aztec Children only because Barnum had made a fool of my petition, of me. Predictably, I had steered by the compass of my own pride, and not out of any real compassion for the idiot children. The truth settled uncomfortably around me.

They Are Afraid of Her appeared in the rooftop restaurant the next morning near the end of our breakfast hour. The museum was not yet open for the day; the dining area was full of employees. It was the warmest morning of the year, the sweetest smelling, and even those curmudgeons, like Clarissa and the conjoined twins, who always insisted on breakfast in their rooms, had come blinking out into the sunshine. I sat with Maud and Thomas, admiring the way the sun illuminated the orange juice in my glass. They Are Afraid of Her appeared in the doorway and stood there without moving for close to a minute.

“Look who it is.” Thomas put down his fork and made a futile attempt to smooth down his hair. “The Indians
never
come up here. She looks beautiful, doesn’t she?”

“Look what she’s wearing,” whispered Maud. “That was one of the Martinetti daughters’ dresses, wasn’t it?”

Thomas looked at his plate. I had only ever seen this woman in the plain layers of beige muslin that all the Sioux women wore, with the same, barely tailored blue overdress. Now, as she stepped uncomfortably into public view, she wore a skirt of raspberry taffeta buoyed up by a layer of tulle just visible at her ankles. She had buttoned herself into a dove-gray velvet jacket, hiding the top of the gown. She must have been terribly hot.

“Maybe the dress doesn’t fit her,” Maud commented.

They Are Afraid of Her looked straight ahead as she stalked between the tables to the edge of the roof.

“She probably pillaged what the Martinettis left behind.” Maud sniffed. “What is she doing up here?”

“From what I understand, she would prefer us to the company of her brethren,” I said.

“That’s awful,” Maud muttered.

They Are Afraid of Her looked out over the city. When she finally turned back toward the restaurant, Thomas jerked to his feet as if he were attached to a string. In his crooked gait he fetched her.

Her new costume accentuated the fine scars slicing across both cheeks and made her shorn hair all the more striking. With scarlet cheeks she sat among us and carefully folded a napkin onto her lap. Thomas poured a glass of juice for her from our pitcher and stared at her until Maud prodded his knee.

“My goodness, dear,” Maud began. “It seems as though you’ve ventured far from the nest.”

“Maybe she couldn’t stand the fighting last night,” I commented. “Lord knows it kept me up.”

They Are Afraid of Her looked between our two faces, smiling vaguely. “Hello,” she said.

Thomas whistled and sent his finger in a long arc from right to left, impersonating an arrow flying across the gallery.

“What is happening out there?” he asked her. He shot the arrow again, this time impacting it against the flat of his other palm.

She stared at his raised hands. When she lifted her glass to her lips, she clenched the stem of the goblet so tightly I expected it to snap. She shook her head and hissed a few words in her language.

Thomas nodded sympathetically.

The Indian regarded him and then glanced over her shoulder toward the stairwell.

“Our enemy” — she paused, looking into her glass — “is
come.” Her voice was much calmer speaking these words than in her own tongue. We all stared.

“You must be a better teacher than you thought,” Maud observed. “She’s speaking English much better.”

“Someone in her own group is teaching her,” I said. “It appears that she’s the only one among them who isn’t fluent already.”

They Are Afraid of Her shook her head and pointed toward the floor. “Our enemy.”

“Are you married?” Thomas asked.

Maud covered her face with her napkin. “Thomas!”

They Are Afraid of Her pointed at the stairwell and spoke words that sounded like they came from the middle throat, damp and hollow. Her brow furrowed and she made a fist of her right hand, shaking it furiously. She looked at Thomas the whole time.

“It won’t end,” she finished in English. “They are devils. Always.
This
is my home now.”

Of course we were at a loss and our silence was awkward.

“I wonder if Mr. Barnum knows about this,” Thomas said.

“I doubt that. If he did, he’d probably put the two tribes on a stage together and see what happens,” Maud said bitterly.

“He wouldn’t go that far,” I said.

“Wouldn’t he?” Maud was tiring of the conversation, I could tell. Soon Thomas and They Are Afraid of Her rose from the table, with Thomas saying something about finding someone to translate for them, so they could continue talking.

“Good luck,” I said as they walked away. “I think I’ll sidestep that conversation.”

“No good will come of that,” Maud commented when they were out of earshot.

“What, Thomas’ obsession?”

“No. The girl leaving her tribe.”

“This museum strikes me as one of the best places to leave your tribe. She could just take up with the Circassians, or learn an art that would keep her employed.” Compared with
what the Sioux elder had told me about the woman’s history, a life in the museum would be easy.

“But she is fundamentally defiant. Couldn’t you see that in her? She will fight what contains her, whether it’s a tribe, a museum, whatever. I’ve seen women like that before. She brings trouble.”

“You sound like an oracle, Maud. Do you have secret talents hidden away?”

“I just might. Shall we have a walk before retiring to our cages for the day?”

“That sounds lovely.” We strolled along the promenade, pausing occasionally to peer over the edge of the building to see the swarm of humans below.

In my booth I swayed like a sleeping elephant, half in a trance, vaguely noting the undulating current of spectators as they passed by me, my mind somewhere between Pictou and the sea, when Barnum materialized directly in front of me. It was a magician’s trick, as if he’d stepped out of someone’s shadow or unfolded himself from behind a child.

“Who is this
Advocatus Diaboli
?” Barnum demanded.

Was it a figment? I blinked down at him.

“I don’t know.”

Was it a riddle? Incredibly, none of the passing horde seemed to recognize Barnum. As he stood in front of me, two men even bumped his elbow in their jostle to view me.

“Who is it, Miss Swift?” His voice shifted to a strangely loving tone. From the crook of his arm he unfolded a newspaper and handed it to me. The headline:
Idiot Children Purchased Illegally from Five Points Orphanage for Barnum’s Collection by Miss Elizabeth Crawford (Heiress to the Crawford’s Boot Black Fortune) Only to Be Sold Again by Barnum
. The byline:
Your Advocatus Diaboli
.

“There is only one person in this establishment who ‘cares’ enough about the so-called Aztec Children to have an article written about them and we both know who it is. I will be honest: The particulars of your grievances do not interest me. I
must
discover the author of this diatribe! Who signed his name so blasphemously? I do not wish to stop him, necessarily. But I absolutely must know who he is.”

“I’m sure you have your methods,” I replied. I handed him back the newspaper.

“I do. But I would rather find out right now.” Barnum scrutinized my face.

“You say you do not care about my grievances. And yet it is we human performers, your own so-called Representatives of the Wonderful, who are responsible for much of your revenue. Have you forgotten that it is us, the living tableaux, who most attracts the public? Isn’t it to your advantage to give fair attention to our requests, as we are the vessels of your fortune? I am formally requesting that you give serious attention to the injustices among your employees, beginning with the release of the Martinetti family. If you agree to liberate them I will forget about the Aztec Children.”

Barnum stared at me. “You are promoted. To forty dollars per week and the title of Manager. Of the fifth-floor residents. Including the Congress, which will arrive in due time.”

“Mr. Olrick made fifty a week and performed far less than I,” I countered. I hoped my voice did not waver or otherwise betray the shock I felt at his offer.

“Mr. Olrick had an astute manager.” Barnum smiled slightly. “Fine. Fifty it is. Keep a registry. For all human performers and Representatives of the Wonderful. Collect names, rates, arrivals, and departures. Inform them they are to register complaints with you and you will deliver them to me. Agreed?”

“Only if those of us who have been in your employ since the beginning are guaranteed ten Saturdays off from work per year. And you must negotiate the Martinettis’ release immediately.”

We faced off, the flimsy boards of my booth seeming to melt away as the showman gazed at me. He extended his hand. “Agreed.”

I pantomimed pulling an arrow into a bow. “Your
Advocatus Diaboli
has an office in this very building, Mr. Barnum.” I let fly the arrow. “I’m surprised you did not suspect him.”

“That word is a curse. Why would we choose it for our name? We’d be better off inventing something new. Something people haven’t heard before, so they won’t make assumptions. We don’t want them to think of that dog-faced boy they saw at the Bowery Theater in ’38.” Clarissa flushed with the exertion of her speech. Squeezed in beside her on the sofa, Oswald La Rue and Maud nodded in agreement. “How about something like Barnum’s League of Anomalies?”

“His name shouldn’t be part of it. We don’t want to give him the added publicity,” said Maud. “The New York League of Anomalies?”

Oswald La Rue shook his skeletal head. “Anomaly is too … medical. We should have something more grandiose. Prodigies.”

I was stung. We’d gathered in Maud’s parlor to celebrate the return of the Martinettis, who had arrived on the fifth floor the evening after I spoke with Barnum. They were fewer in number; several of the younger family members, including the lady contortionist and her two children, hadn’t come back to the museum after their release. We didn’t know why, and Mrs. Martinetti the elder would not speak of it, or say anything at all about their ordeal at the Tombs. After a celebratory feast prepared by Gustav, she sat in a corner of Maud’s parlor over a great swathe of shimmering blue fabric. She was sewing new costumes for the family. They had taken
a different name, as well: O’Malley. Apparently Barnum’s negotiations had been with Irishmen.

The gathering was festive enough, with wine and cakes and music, but all too soon the conversation among my colleagues had barreled headlong into the impossible question of a name for our emerging guild.

“Guild of Unusual Diplomats!” Clarissa blurted.

“Why not call ourselves by our true name?” Jacob growled from the settee. “Citizen Horrors.”

The room quieted. By now everyone was aware of the severity of the twins’ condition. Matthew had succumbed to complete silence. Jacob had reacted by trying to provoke him, first verbally and then with his fists. One evening, Oswald La Rue had tried to stop Jacob from becoming drunk, but Jacob struck him a blow and then locked himself, and of course Matthew, into their room. An hour later, Tai Shan broke down the door because of the screaming. One of them had tried to cut the ligament that connected them. We didn’t know which one inflicted the wound, and no one asked. They emerged from the room blood-spattered and wild-eyed and Oswald La Rue escorted them to the hospital to be stitched. They returned bandaged and sullen. Tai Shan and Oswald La Rue tried to talk with them the following morning, but nothing came of it.

If we had been traveling in an itinerant show, each of us would have moved our wagon away from theirs. Some professional problems could be addressed by the group, but this clash of wills was too deep for an outsider to approach. I continued to feel bad for Matthew, and on numerous occasions I paused outside their door, imagining a conversation in which I offered some aid or insight, even comfort, but any urge to intervene was tempered by a fact our kind knew all too well: If they needed to die, they would do it. Who was I to meddle?

“It seems to me the question of our name can wait,” I remarked. “The Martinettis have returned to us, safe and sound.”

“What about this Congress of Nations?” Oswald La Rue leaned forward, planting his bony elbows on the knobs of his knees. “I’ve been hearing strange things —”