Hottentot Venus (29 page)

—You son of a bitch, screamed Alice.

On March 20, Napoleon escaped from his prison on Elba and returned triumphant to a Paris Louis XVIII had fled just hours before. He restored himself as Emperor of France. One of his first proclamations was to abolish slavery and the slave trade that he himself had reimposed after the Revolution five years before. For the third time Baron Cuvier changed camps, and rebaptized himself a Bonapartist, and I got out my old Grand Army uniform. Who would remember now that I had deserted?

17

There are no missing links . . . What law is there which would force the Creator to form unnecessarily useless organisms simply to fill the gaps in a scale?

—BARON GEORGES LÉOPOLD CUVIER,
Thirty Lessons in Comparative Anatomy

Twisted Ears, the English month of March, 1815. The sharp light was almost blinding and it cut everything into different shapes of color: triangles, squares, circles, outlined by milk-white stone. The King’s Botanical Gardens were the most beautiful I had ever seen. Magnificent and precise, laid out with a ruler and a compass, the gardens were very different from the English gardens and parks I had known up until now.

Master Réaux held my arm tightly as he walked me through the gates, emphasizing what an important day this was and how I was to comport myself. He went on to explain why it had been necessary to have this exhibition at all. I put one foot in front of the other, listening not to him but to the sound of my leather boots scraping against the pink and gray pebbles underfoot. Alice had dressed me in the most conventional clothes I possessed. Somehow I felt my most important garment should be my own dignity. After all, I was not at number 188. I was not to meet a mob of carnivalgoers but the cream of Parisian intelligentsia; scientists, writers, artists, doctors and professors had all gathered here to behold my person. This was hardly our “public.” These were the masters of the world. Of one thing I was sure, I would never allow these white men to examine my sex. I would cover myself with the white handkerchief I carried in the pocket of my dress. My apron was my own business.

—Baron Cuvier has agreed to certify your scientific importance in
La
Quotidienne
next Saturday.

I didn’t answer. Master Réaux had not received permission for us to cross the Seine to the Museum of Natural History in the King’s Botanical Gardens until the end of March. During that time the exiled Napoleon had returned from Elba, invaded the Gulf of Juan, rallied the army sent to stop him and incited a general rebellion which had borne him triumphantly to the gates of Paris. Bonaparte had entered Paris on the shoulders of the army on March 1 as Emperor once again—and on the coattails of King Louis, who had fled the same day. Even now, Paris was still caught up in the jubilation of Napoleon’s return.

We made our way towards the tall white château situated at the end of the gardens.

—This is fantastic publicity for you, repeated Master Réaux. The baron is famous as “the Napoleon of Intelligence” and he’s Napoleon’s surgeon general—his favorite scientist! It’s a miracle of good luck! I asked him if he wanted me to introduce you but he just looked at me very strangely and declined, saying he had his own introduction . . . So, don’t open your mouth unless someone asks you a direct question. You are not here to talk. You are here to be seen. Great painters will draw you as well and the professor baron will allow me to reproduce one of the illustrations for our own publicity . . . besides the certificate! Imagine the most famous, most brilliant mind in Paris . . . in the realm . . . the Emperor’s surgeon general . . .

I wasn’t listening to Master Réaux. I hadn’t listened to him since we stumbled off the mailboat from Southampton and he had kissed the ground of his native France. He had even shed a tear, but was smart enough to keep me from the money I had earned since then. Alice found out that he had been a deserter from Napoleon’s army before he had been an animal trainer. And that before that, he had been the black sheep of a respectable French family. I was busy thinking of all this when his voice interrupted my thoughts.

—Are you listening to me, stupid? Didn’t I tell you to wear your circus dress?

—I wanted the great masters to see me
as I am,
not with a
costume
on . . . That’s for the crowds at number 188 . . . It seemed to me . . .

—It seemed to you? Since when do things
seem to you?
How would you know what they want or wish to see? Have you ever been to the Museum of Natural History in the King’s Botanical Gardens before? Have you ever seen a scientific laboratory before? Or the greatest collection of specimens, animals, fossils and skeletons on the Continent? Do you know Cuvier himself has a private collection of 11,486 items? You give me any more lip and I’ll smash you one . . .

He drew me closer to him and pinched my arm. He rubbed his jaw.

—Look how beautiful these grounds are . . . I wonder who’s invited to the lecture . . .

The day was warm and the light clear and calm as after a storm. It was spring light and spring weather and at the end of the perspective stretching perhaps half a mile stood the Museum of Natural History between two avenues of chestnut trees. Halfway up the avenues was a large pool with a shining, spouting fountain of stone animals. From the fountain radiated triangular flower beds and sculpted boxwood shrubbery. The pool reflected the sky. The château of white stone had two sets of steps leading to twin entrances. The slate roof with its glass dome gleamed, and above the dome flew the Emperor’s flag. On either side of the gardens were somber woods where tropical plants from Africa and India grew in glasshouses. These were called hothouses and plants for the garden were grown in them all year round. This was why the gardens were called Le Jardin des Plantes.

In the distance I spied a large blue-and-green-striped tent from which the most beautiful music came. I turned my head from left to right, not having time as we walked to take everything in: the gardens which descended to the banks of the Seine, the tall trees, the caged animals, the dark-frocked men strolling amongst the clipped hedges. I saw two elegantly dressed white men hurrying towards us. One was dressed in black with a black shirt and black cravat and black trousers. Only his shiny golden decorations flashed in the sunlight. He was hatless and his bright wavy red hair stood up in the breeze. The other man was slightly smaller, dressed like a peacock in bottle green and lavender. He too was covered with decorations and was hatless. His receding blond hair plastered down across his bald pate was worn long and pulled back in a ponytail. As they approached, my master adjusted his stiff white cravat nervously.

—Here they come, he croaked. Remember to curtsy. Let me do the talking. Just greet them with a nod. Don’t smile. Don’t speak unless you are spoken to. I’ll . . . I’ll take care of this. Remember your French?

—Bonjour, messieurs.

—And you curtsy like you would in South Africa.

—And I curtsy . . . I repeated.

I regretted not having insisted that Alice come with me. My heart was racing. I was about to encounter science thanks to the man who was approaching slowly with a stately stiff-legged walk.

—Bitch, stand up straight . . .

—Yes, Master.

We came face-to-face with the two men.

—Good morning, Sieur Réaux, may I introduce the Chevalier Etienne Geoffroy Saint-Hilaire, professor of zoology at the University of Paris . . .

—Good morning, sirs, chirped Master Réaux.

—Bonjours, maîtres,
I murmured.

As I curtsied a cold chill went up my spine. There was no recognition in the baron’s eyes. As if this were the first time we had met. Didn’t he remember the ball? His introductions? The unblinking gaze of the doctor was as cold as ice and inspected me as if I had just arrived in a crate. How could he pretend he had never beheld me before? It was the cold stare of a cobra, paralyzing with fear before striking. I felt my chest being squeezed tighter and tighter as if in a fatal embrace, one in which I recognized my own fate in helpless horror. Oh Lord, this man’s a murderer, I thought. I kept my eyes lowered, my lower lip trembled, my hands were wet and clammy in their gloves. I had what Caroline called stage fright. This was not the Parisian mob but God himself.

—So here is my Hottentot Venus!

—So it is, Baron. Here she is. Your missing link . . .

—There is no missing link, Monsieur, the Creator wouldn’t be so . . . silly.

Master Cuvier turned on his heel and started walking towards the imposing white palace at the end of the gardens. He spoke over his shoulder.

—Welcome to our new museum. This is my home. I used to live on rue de Varenne, but when I was named director here, I moved into a part of the museum. It seemed so much more efficient. I rise early, at five, and by seven I am in my laboratory. I moved my own private collection of skeletons and fossils here with me, some eleven thousand. You’ve never been here before? This path to the right leads to our zoological gardens, which you, Monsieur Réaux, as an animal trainer will be very interested in seeing. We have myriad specimens of birds, reptiles, even an elephant. All bounty from the voyages of the
Geography
and the
Naturalist
under the command of the explorers Levaillant and Nicolas Baudin.

I walked several paces behind them, my head down, my heart racing as if I were on my way to the guillotine.

—Look! I suddenly exclaimed.

There was a great purple heron standing on one leg, staring at me. Suddenly she opened her wings as if in an embrace, hopping pitifully.

—We allow peacocks and herons to roam the gardens at liberty. It delights the visitors to come upon them. Their legs are fettered with brass weights so that they cannot fly away, said the baron.

Master Geoffroy Saint-Hilaire trailed behind me, taking up the rear, his eyes boring into my back. I wore a dress of thin white silk, cut straight and caught by a girdle just under the bosom, held by a green sash. Over it I wore a large cashmere shawl and a wide-brimmed bonnet of green and blue grosgrain decorated with cock feathers. I carried a parasol against the sun like white women did.

—Your Venus, Monsieur Réaux, doesn’t look like she’s African. I expected her attire to be much more ferocious.

—It is in deference to the occasion and your excellencies. The Venus didn’t think her circus costume appropriate for such a momentous occasion.

—Well, remarked Master Geoffroy Saint-Hilaire, who wore sunglasses against the light, it’s her
shape
we are interested in, not her taste in clothes . . .

I walked, my back straight, embarrassed. These men, these great scientists who so honored me, sounded no different from my circus public. I bit my lip, trembling. A hot flash, then a cold chill, drew up my spine, filling in the holes that Master Geoffroy Saint-Hilaire’s eyes had made.

We passed the blue and green tent from which the music came. Instinctively I turned towards it.

—This temporary tent is for the guests who have come to the lecture. We will visit it shortly as my guests are eagerly waiting to see you. But first I would like to show you some of the museum’s specimens, many brought back by our Emperor’s Egyptian expedition.

—Venus, Master Réaux shouted as my footsteps wandered towards the tent and the music.

—Stay away from the violins . . .

I had discovered white music at the Cape in the music room of Mistress Alya, and then again in London, where Caroline had taken me once to Covent Garden to see an opera. I learned that music was more than just pleasure. There was hidden meaning to it, more than simply a marriage or a war, but meaning within the sound of its soul. It was something I had never thought of before, but music expressed sadness and happiness, landscapes and the sea. Music said that there was a right way for things to be ordered so that life had a shape and was not brute noise or brute events. Things didn’t just happen, said the music, they occurred within something called destiny. Music made you glad you had been born.

Reluctantly I turned away from the beautiful sounds and mounted the steps of the museum. At the top, still another gentleman joined us.

—May I introduce Count Henri de Blainville, said the baron, my collaborator and illustrious author of
Prodrome of a New Distribution of the
Animal Kingdom . . .

From the very first, I didn’t care much for Master de Blainville. He was a man without color: skin color, hair color, eye color, all blended into a dirty, nasty gray fog that hovered over him like the shadow of a flock of migrating birds. He was more bird than man anyway, I thought. There was something owlish about him and he had a way of hovering over people, his elbows slightly cocked, as if he were about to take flight. His feet spread in a Y like a duck’s. He spoke in a chirping high voice, his little tongue moving in and out of his beak in a sparrow’s twitter. He followed me around like a pelican, lining up behind me and goose-stepping to my back. As much as Baron Cuvier affected somber black on black, Master de Blainville dressed like a peacock in yellow, lavender and bright greens as if to attach streamers of color to his colorless person. This only made him look more like a bird than ever—a parrot perhaps, with its endless incessant chattering. For Master de Blainville never shut up. He was round, with a round (and as I said) owl-like face with round eyes behind round spectacles, round shoulders, round hands, round knees, round stomach and a round rear end. Just as Baron Cuvier was all straight lines and angles, Master de Blainville was all crookedness and curves.