The Transformation of Bartholomew Fortuno: A Novel (32 page)

I beat a hasty retreat down the hallway, understanding that Iell needed me more than ever. I left a note in the Yellow Room that night, folded and wax-sealed, telling Iell I had to see her as soon as possible, and my news was not good.

S
UNDAY EVENING
I
MARCHED UP THE HALL
promptly at seven and knocked on Matina’s door. She answered in a flourish of excitement. “Give me one minute,” she said, so I stood in the hallway, overly warm in my padded coat. I’d be responsible for Matina in public, and I didn’t want to draw any more attention to us than was necessary. I wondered why I was the one she’d asked to accompany her. Most likely, this was her way of reestablishing our old relationship. With a bit of patience, I might have her once more as a confidante, and that would be worth the trip to the Bowery. Perhaps she could tell me how to manage Mrs. Barnum’s demands. I simply couldn’t let Iell leave, not until we’d spent more time together. Not until she knew me.

Matina swooshed out her door, bringing my mind back to the task at hand. “Well, look at you.” She raised an eyebrow and fingered my padded sides, and I forced myself not to blush.

“Traveling can be difficult,” I started to explain, wishing I hadn’t put the damned coat on, realizing at the same time how much I’d used the thing since concocting it. Matina seemed nonplussed and passed me her cape to lay over her shoulders.

“We are to be at the shop no later than seven forty-five and ask for a Mr. Giovanni,” she said. “Hopefully, we can find something irresistible in formaldehyde.”

There are summer evenings in New York marked by soft, calming breezes and gentle sunsets that can turn the clamor of the city streets into a lullaby. It was that kind of evening, and for a moment it felt as
if the last few months had never happened. All was as it used to be, and all was well.

“Look at that woman, Mama. She’s fat!” Some young brat hanging on to the arm of his mother was pointing at Matina. I instinctively stepped between her and the boy, but Matina merely loomed over him and grimaced. The child took off with a squeal.

The carriage I had called waited on the corner of Ann and Nassau, but it was smaller than the one I had requested. The driver leaned on his horses, smoking a foul black cigar.

I frowned at him once we got close. “This contraption you call a carriage is not what I ordered.”

The driver didn’t answer at first. He was mesmerized by Matina.

“Do you hear me, lad?”

“The other rig broke down, sir. I had to bring this one. Though I don’t know if it will accommodate the lady, no offense to her.”

Matina pushed me aside. “Open the damned door, you fool. We’re late.” The driver stared helplessly toward me, but when I slipped a silver dollar into his hand, he shrugged and flicked his smoke into the gutter. It took the efforts of both of us to pop her through the doors, and the carriage tipped slightly under her weight, but the wheels held. Matina gave a hearty laugh, and I climbed in beside her.

The trip uptown was bumpy. The gas lamps on Nassau Street were still unlit, and the few private houses remained hidden beneath the full foliage of the surrounding trees. Once we skirted up along Park Row, the walkways grew more active. Matina fanned herself and hummed as we trotted along; she was in high spirits. For a moment I considered talking to her about Iell, but I wasn’t sure we were ready for that yet. The last thing I wanted to do was raise the subject too soon and have her clam up again or, even worse, give her the chance to talk about our own intimate past. So instead I sat quietly.

We turned east on Canal Street. Who lived in these tidy houses, with their picket fences and well-tended gardens? What would it be like to live such a life? I felt a twinge of excitement until we drove past
Mott Street and the dark secrets of the Chinaman and his herbs. My heart pounded, but I said nothing aloud.

“I wanted you to come,” Matina said, her voice startling me, “because I thought you should see the Bowery.”

“Why ever would I want—?”

She put a finger to my lips. “I have thought a lot about it, and I’ve decided that much of your recent behavior has come about because you are bored, Barthy. Our lives are so similar, day after day. Sometimes we take actions simply to wake ourselves up. I understand that now. So I thought a little trip to the other side might be a good idea. A reminder of how lucky we are to be at the Museum despite your diminished performances.”

I flinched.

The driver hit a large hole in the road and the carriage bounced into the air. I nearly hit my head on the roof, and when we landed Matina’s weight caused the carriage wheels to creak dangerously. Was Matina warning me away from Iell? Or was she simply worried about my position and trying to bring me back into the fold?

We turned onto the Bowery. Even on a Sunday, sailors jostled past girls in beads and secondhand dresses peddling their wares. Hungarians, Russians, Italians, and Irishmen hung from rickety second-floor windows and awnings that lined both sides of the street, selling everything from petticoats to potatoes. In this part of town you could buy Whatever your heart desired—glassware, bed linens, strawberries, porcelain, china dolls, whitewashed chairs—all of it shabby and gray and much cheaper than in other parts of the city. In the shadows you could find other things to smoke or smell or touch or eat. A thousand ways to feed your hunger, and all the prices were negotiable.

As we passed the Worth Museum and the Pig & Whistle Tavern and then turned up Delancey Street, Matina shot me a meaningful glance. “Barthy, I need some advice from you.”

Instinctively, I tensed.

“Barnum wants me to play Mazeppa at his party like Adah Menken in San Francisco does. I don’t know what to do.”

Utterly astonished, I swiveled in my seat. “
Mazeppa
is obscene! How could Barnum even suggest such a thing?”

The play was about a Tartar page named Mazeppa, who makes love to a nobleman’s wife. In the last act, the townsfolk punish him by stripping off his clothes and binding him to the back of a wild horse. In civilized renditions, a dummy is strapped onto a stuffed horse that dashes against papier-mâché cliffs before disappearing into cotton clouds. But the actress Adah Menken took San Francisco by storm by riding a real horse on stage while dressed in flesh-colored tights. The scandal hit every newspaper, and it was rumored that audience members fainted or ran from the theater. A woman playing a man onstage? And barely clothed? Bad enough for a common actress to do such a thing, but Matina? I flushed at the idea.

Matina shrugged and twisted toward the window, fanning herself vigorously. “At least it would give me a chance to be onstage again.”

“It’s totally outside the boundaries of good taste. You can’t do such a thing. You would be nearly naked!”

“I could negotiate with Barnum. Do this for him in exchange for a real act later on. Something that would show off more than just my body.”

“Wasn’t it you who told me, moments ago, to be content with my lot in life?”

“Content?” Matina snapped her fan closed, eyes darkening. “Settle for being a fat woman and nothing more?”

“Trust me, Matina. Barnum understands that doing this will make you look foolish, and I don’t want that to happen.”

“Foolish?”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

“Not as foolish as some, I assure you!”

We rode the rest of the way in silence until, at the corner of the Bowery and East Second Street, Matina rapped her parasol on top of the carriage. We’d finally reached our destination. With effort, Matina
struggled out of the cab without my help, and we stood uncomfortably in front of “Madame Theresa’s Hall of Wonders.” The street smoldered with cheap marquees advertising minstrel shows and sensational plays such as
The Scaffold
and
Ten Nights in a Barroom
, and everywhere we looked were seedy displays of iron-skulled men, tattooed women, and human pincushions, not one of whom Barnum would employ.

Strangers jostled past us on the street, some staring, a few stopping nearby to point and laugh.

I clutched Matina’s elbow and steered her roughly into the little shop, desperate to leave the throngs behind. She pulled away as soon as she could and left me standing at the door as she disappeared down an aisle full of horses’ hooves and tails strung on dirty rope.

“Hullo?” she hollered. “Anyone at home?”

The Hall of Wonders was disgusting, full of filthy-looking items with hand-scrawled labels. There were wood remnants marked as coming from the True Cross—enough crosses to crucify an army—and bits of bloodied sheet claiming to be the one Mr. Lincoln lay on while dying. On the walls hung mildewed charts giving obscene instructions for ensuring a happy marriage, with illustrative casts of body parts propped up nearby in case you didn’t understand the charts. Bloodied uniforms and muskets filled the left wall, and one could almost see sewage seeping up from underneath the floorboards in the rear of the store.

I wandered the shop, horrified. Matina stood in the rear, chatting with the proprietor, a pock-faced man with a round belly and trousers covered with unidentifiable stains. I’d seen his type. At one point an emporium master, he’d fallen to hawking cheap replicas to unwary buyers, and he was always on the lookout for goods that could pass for real.

“Madame Theresa, I presume?” I tried to get their attention, but they ignored me in favor of a discussion I could not hear. I watched as Matina’s expression went from sweet to animated to sweet again, and eventually the proprietor disappeared into the bowels of the store.

“I think I’ve found the perfect gift! It took a bit of convincing, but
Mr. Giovanni has promised to bring out the best he has.” Matina’s face glowed as the proprietor returned with several fingers pickled in bottles of formaldehyde. One finger sported a great black ring, indecipherable markings etched into its face.

“Those are disgusting.” I pulled out my handkerchief and pressed it to my nose.

“That one!” She pointed to the ringed finger.

“What superb taste, miss. This finger comes from the hand of the great pirate Blackbird.”

“Oh, Barthy!” She turned to me. “Barnum will love it!”

She was probably right. “It’s a sham,” I said, “and probably too expensive.”

The shopkeeper passed the jar to Matina. “This finger comes right off the ropes of the
Queen Anne’s Revenge
. The old pirate hung on to the very end.”

I rolled my eyes at the stupidity of his assertion.

“He was a nasty one. They say he’d dip candlewicks in gunpowder, tie them all over this big beard of his, and then light them for battle, so his whole face was spitting fire.”

“Barthy, why don’t you conclude our business with this gentleman while I look around the shop.”

Irritated at Matina for leaving the hard part to me, I snapped, “Simply tell us how much.”

The proprietor eyed me warily. “You know,” he said, making certain Matina was out of hearing range, “I also got something you might like. I can give you a better price on the finger if you want to buy both.” He reached across the counter behind him and opened a cabinet; then, using his body as a shield, he held out another bottle. Instead of a finger, this one held a severed penis, shriveled and gray.

“That, sir, is absolutely revolting! You should be put in jail.”

“What is it, Barthy?” Matina came scurrying down the aisle, not wanting to miss anything.

The shopkeeper realized he’d misjudged me and slid the second jar into his coat.

“The price,” I stammered. “He quoted me a ridiculous price.”

“How much?” Matina asked him directly.

“For you? Fifteen dollars.”

“You can’t be serious! Surely you can do better than that.” Matina leaned into the counter, her bosom all but touching the man.

“Perhaps the lady would consider a trade? I have customers who would love a bit of time alone with someone like you.”

To my horror, Matina put her hand on his arm and squeezed. “Between us, all we have is six dollars fifty.”

“Har-har-har.” His laugh made me flush with irritation. “How’s about eleven dollars? You wouldn’t wanna steal from me, would you?”

The man’s eager expression turned my stomach, and I detested the syrupy expression Matina had adapted. But I wanted to break back into Matina’s good graces.

“You’d be bringing pleasure to a good woman’s heart,” I reasoned.

“This heart?” he said, reaching his slimy hands toward Matina’s chest, looking at her as if he were about to gobble her up.

“Why not?” Matina barely stepped back.

“Sold,” he said, just like that.

I forced myself to look away, glancing out into the street while trying not to listen to Matina counting out the dollars. The transaction complete, we returned silently to the cab. I refused to even look at Matina, and when I rapped my walking stick repeatedly against the floor to hurry the cab forward, I used unnecessary force. The driver sped through the streets, dark now except for the light from the streetlamps.

Eventually Matina spoke. “I don’t see why you’re so upset, Bartholomew. A girl must use what wiles she has.”

“I am hardly upset.” I turned toward the window, stonewalling her, figuring silence would be the best punishment, but it was me who suffered as a leaden quiet filled the carriage. Halfway home, I couldn’t take it anymore and reached over and tried to touch her hand.

Matina yanked her arm away. “I have tried to be patient with you, Barthy, but I must tell you, I am close to the end of my tether.”

I was shocked. Why was she annoyed with me when it was
she
who had acted so badly with the shopkeeper?

“You are being quite unreasonable,” I said, and she turned on me, her face red, her eyes livid.

“And you are acting quite the fool! If I had known a shopkeeper could elicit this kind of reaction from you, I should have brought one with me the day after our little soirée, because, Lord knows, you’ve barely looked at me since that night.”

“I have simply tried to respect you.”

“And how might you treat me should some decent man court me? Would you never speak to me again? Try to marry me?”