The Transformation of Bartholomew Fortuno: A Novel (23 page)

“Your wife strongly encouraged me not to help you in any way,” I blurted out, wondering who had told him of the meeting. “In fact, I’m happy you brought this up, sir, because your wife—she’s quite formidable. She suggested that I would have to share my rooms if I helped you.”

“Helped me do what?” Barnum moved away from the balcony’s edge and stood along the weather-stained wall. The sun washed out his features, and for a moment he looked buried in dust.

“Mrs. Barnum knew you’d sent me to the Chinaman’s and seemed quite determined that I not go again.”

Barnum kicked the wall. Hard. Alarmed, I jumped away. Barnum pulled out a handkerchief and ran it over the side of his neck where a trickle of sweat had rolled. Don’t say it, I begged him silently. But sure enough, he said exactly what I didn’t want to hear.

“Perhaps the trips into the city weren’t the best idea. Let’s not repeat them, all right? How about you simply come to my office when I’m elsewhere. You could drop me a little note at the end of each week and let me know what Mrs. Adams is doing. You wouldn’t mind doing that, would you?”

I stifled the urge to groan aloud. “Not at all, sir,” I said.

Barnum’s eyebrows lifted like foxtails. “And as far as my wife goes, you are not helping me in any way, are you?”

“No. Of course not.”

Barnum took hold of my shoulder and stopped me when I tried to move away. “Let me speak frankly with you, Fortuno. You work for
me
, no one else. I found you and brought you here, so your only allegiance is to me. If you don’t understand that, you might end up—well, let’s just say in a place not as pleasant as our Museum. Is that clear?”

“Perfectly.”

“Also, you are not to assist Mrs. Adams, not even contact her, unless I instruct you to do so. We need utmost discretion while my wife is here.” Barnum rubbed his hands together decisively. “So then, what can I do for you to show my appreciation?”

“Do for me, sir?”

“Your help has been invaluable, and I’d like to show my thanks.”

I swear I didn’t mean to say what I said next. Maybe it was a reaction against the fact that now both Barnums had expressly forbidden me to go to the Chinaman’s. Or maybe it was the root I’d swallowed
that morning. But out came the words. “My mattress is so thin that I find my sleep quite painful at times.”

Barnum smiled. “Is that so? Well, as long as you remember who your boss is, Fortuno, painful sleep will be a worry of the past.”

I
HAD
the devil of a time falling asleep that night. As if my request had angered the gods, my old mattress felt even harder than usual and I tossed about on it for hours, worrying. Now that aiding Iell would be an act of disloyalty to both Barnums, surely she would understand if I wrote her a note begging out. But I’d promised her, hadn’t I? And a man is only as good as his word. But again, she wouldn’t ask me to do something that would threaten my well-being.

Back and forward I went until finally, to help me sleep, I pictured the delicacy of bird feathers and recalled the sounds of their songs. But I’d no sooner slipped into oblivion than Fish’s voice tore through my dreams.

“Up, up, up, up, up!”

I shot out of bed, wide awake. Fish was in the resident hall, yelling and banging a gong. The air smelled like smoke.

“Fire!” I cried. “Oh, my God, fire!” As I threw on a jacket and ran down the hall, my first thought was for Matina, but she was already on her way down the service stairs, Emma and Alley on either side, giving her a hand, Bridgett looking surprisingly calm. The rest of the floor residents, in various states of dress, staggered across the hall and down the stairs.

Ducking back into my rooms, I grabbed my mother’s comforter, Iell’s note, and the root and took off down the stairs after them. Cries from a few of the caged animals stopped me at the entrance to the third floor. How many of them could I free, I wondered, before I threatened my own well-being? And the birds. What about my birds?

Thankfully, there was very little smoke rolling up the stairs. The animals seemed riled more by the bells of the approaching Fourth Brigade than by any real danger. By the time I made it to the courtyard
gardens and huddled with the rest of the shivering staff, the peril seemed to have passed.

A handful of ruffians from the Fourth Brigade soon burst through the Ann Street entrance—long hoses and axes flying every which way—and charged through the door leading to the first-floor exhibit rooms. Nothing happened for at least a quarter of an hour, and then out they tramped, carrying two blackened pails of charred rags, sodden now with water but still sending off smoke.

Even though the fire was small, Barnum went berserk. He kept us in the garden until well past sunrise, tramping up and down the stairs with the chief of the Fourth Brigade, hollering out questions a mile a minute as the fire chief stole wide-eyed looks at the lot of us. At one point, Alley fetched a chair for Matina, and the two of them stayed near the dining room door, talking quietly. In the old days, I’d have gone over to them, but now I hesitated. What if they were talking about that kiss of mine? Maybe Alley had spied on me? No, that was ridiculous. I’d told Matina about my first trip, but that was all she knew. And why ever would Alley care what errands I ran?

Around seven, two policemen showed up and joined Barnum, Fish, and the fire chief. They gathered near the pails, poking through them for any final clue they might provide. Then the police lined everyone up. In front were the Curiosities, behind us the theater talent, then the staff, the stagehands, the chambermaids, and even Cook—all forced to stand in line like common criminals. Barnum waited along the side, fiddling endlessly with his watch fob as the police questioned first one and then another of us. “Where were you in the last hours? Do you have any complaints against the Museum? Have you ever been to jail?”

When they got to Alley, they lingered. Alley answered their questions with his usual truculence, and when asked to show his hands, opened his palms upward as passively as everyone else, but the younger of the two cops, broad across the shoulders and bowlegged, didn’t seem to like his answers.

“What’s that black stuff under your nails? And who says you was asleep?” The bowlegged cop poked his nightstick in the middle of
Alley’s chest. “How are we supposed to believe a chap as nasty-lookin’ as you?”

Alley shrugged. The cop thwacked him so hard on the side of his leg with his nightstick that he staggered back and grimaced. Matina cried out, “Hey!” and even Emma stepped forward to complain.

“That will be enough of that!” Barnum bounded over to the two cops. “What do you think you’re doing? These are my employees. You’re not to harm any of them.”

“We’ve dealt with this one before, sir,” the pockmarked cop explained patiently. “We know what we’re doin’.”

“That will be quite sufficient, thank you.”

The officers grumbled but complied; after taking a number of notes they conferred one last time with the fire chief, and Fish led them out.

After all of the outsiders had gone, Barnum addressed us.

“I am not a happy man,” he said sternly. “Fire is our biggest threat, you all know that.” He ran a shaky hand through his hair. “How many theaters have been lost to fire in this town? The National, Sans Souci, Tripler’s Hall. I still weep over what got destroyed at the Crystal Palace; that venerable establishment only took half an hour to go up in smoke. Think about that.”

The expression on the stricken faces around me said we
were
thinking about that. Every one of us knew how quickly flames could grow out of control. And anything could set them off: gunpowder, gas lamps, pipes, foot lamps catching curtains on fire, wooden stairs like tinder. I looked over at Alley. Little was as frightening as a match in the hand of an arsonist with a bone to pick.

“Clearly, the fire last night was no accident.” Barnum indicated the pails with his chin. “I have my enemies. Any manner of skullduggery is possible.”

Fish came scuttling in and whispered something in Barnum’s ear. They glanced briefly over at Alley, and Barnum shook his head no before again addressing the group.

“I will consider what is to be done in terms of protection, and
Mr. Fish will report back to you shortly. For what it’s worth, I think the arsonist is someone from outside, not one of you. But—and I cannot emphasize this strongly enough—if one of you
is
responsible, Lord help you if I find out.”

A quick look at Alley revealed nothing. I certainly hoped Barnum was right about the threat being external, because clearly he was in no mood for mercy.

T
HE NEXT EVENING, THE MOON WAS ON THE
rise, a good omen for my third trip to the Chinaman’s. Also, talk of the fire had worked in my favor. Everyone was preoccupied with the previous night’s events, making it easier for me to slip away undetected. Still, I took great care with my preparations. I’d decided to make the trip after the Museum closed, which would allow me to claim I was on my way to McNealy’s, should anybody ask. I’d wear the padded disguise I’d made to get into Iell’s show. It would help me navigate the city streets without drawing too much attention.

In order to discourage evening visitors, I’d pinned a note on the door to my room:
Do not disturb—I’ve taken a sleeping potion and will see you on the morrow.
And just before leaving, I swallowed not one sliver of root but two. Almost immediately, a surge of well-being helped vanquish any fear I had had of discovery.

Timing my exit to the closing bells, I slipped out into the hallway in my disguise, skittered down the public stairs and through the crowds, and left by the front doors. A gypsy carriage stopped in front of the Museum without my even having to flag it. Excellent.

In I hopped. It felt marvelous to be free and outside. The evening lamps flew by, and whatever foreboding I’d had slipped away like a dream. By the time I reached Broadway and Spring Street, my blood ran so hot, I rapped on the roof for the driver to stop. I was burning up inside and simply had to get out into the open air. After scribbling down
the Chinaman’s address, I handed it to him along with a silver dollar—a ransom for a man like that.

“I’m going to walk the rest of the way. If you wait for me at this address, I’m good for another dollar.”

The cabbie tipped his hat and took off, leaving me alone in the street.

The first thing I did was look about for anyone I knew. No fleeting shadows, no mysterious persons ducking into alleys. As long as I kept my padded coat closed and bowed my head when people passed, I made my way along quite nicely. My distaste for leaving the Museum was fading with every trip. In fact, it felt so good to be in the bigger world, I actually whistled as I passed Wood’s Minstrel Hall, where Brooker and Clayton’s Georgia Minstrels had performed the previous year. Maybe after I picked up Iell’s package and delivered it to her, I’d invite her to go to the theater with me. Perhaps I could wear my padded suit. And if I took Iell with me, she could wear her veil. We both had a choice, didn’t we? This thought sat well with me, and I made a mental note to say as much to her when next we met.

A small group of gentlemen came up behind me, smoking cigars and chatting idly. I straightened my mustache and pretended to be part of their group as they crossed Broadway. On the other side of the street, the St. Nicholas Hotel loomed up, dwarfing the nearby Haughwout Building and the Prescott House. Saloon pianos and jig bands threw music out of the rows of brothels over on Greene Street. This side of Broadway thrummed with life.

A man in front of the St. Nicholas stopped us. He wore a uniform, a faux military jacket and trousers sporting a gold stripe along the outside of the leg. “You gentlemen all right then?” the doorman asked, his eyes sliding past me to the middle-aged man to my right.

“Looking for a bit of company is all.” The man winked, pulled out a watch from his vest pocket, and snapped it open. “Or is it too early for such pastimes?”

The hotel man waggled his finger. “Sorry, sir, but you ain’t gonna locate such company anywheres near the St. Nicholas.” He was probably
one of those “cleaners” hired by the finer establishments to keep their immediate vicinity clear of ladies of the night. He grinned, revealing a missing tooth, and snapped a card from his pocket. “Although, if you want to go to an establishment and walk out with your wallet still on your person, this here is good for a free drink at Harry Hill’s up on Houston.” I reached out to take the card, but the doorman passed me by and handed it to the gentleman next to me. That was fine with me. I’d almost been accepted as one of them, and I admit to enjoying it for as long as it had lasted.

As I left the group behind and neared the Chinaman’s shop, I pulled out the root and considered swallowing one more sliver but changed my mind, realizing I’d become increasingly dependent on the rush of energy I felt when I sampled it. The Chinaman’s gift had undeniably improved my well-being. But the root was getting smaller; I would have to ask the Chinaman for more.

Pell Street set me back a step. In front of the Chinaman’s shop milled a crowd of Orientals. All were dressed in gold or black and the street was filled with pinwheels and roaring gongs. It looked like some kind of festival. What a mess to push through. Thank God I saw my carriage at the far end of the block, the driver sitting patiently in his seat. At least I wouldn’t have to worry about making my way home when I was done.