Wild Rover No More: Being the Last Recorded Account of the Life & Times of Jacky Faber (17 page)

It was with the greatest distress that I learned of the recent attempt by the federal authorities to apprehend my friend and dear companion Jacky Faber, a misguided attempt, which mercifully did not succeed.

I learned of this unfortunate incident not from Mr. Pickering or any of our mutual friends, but rather from the local newspapers, which have been following the plight of Miss Faber most avidly. Apparently, scandal, violence, and other people's troubles are what sell their vile broadsides.

Boston journalists, knowing of my connection to Miss Faber, have been swarming all over Dovecote, hoping to glean information as to her whereabouts. I, of course, tell them nothing.

One man, a Mr. David Lawrence, Jr., who is held in high regard by his fellow hacks but whom I decline to call a gentleman, is a particularly persistent pest. His column in the
Boston Patriot
was most colorful in the use of language to describe the blaze of gunfire that enabled Miss Faber to make good her escape from Plymouth. I had him forcefully removed from the premises.

The legal fight to exonerate Miss F. continues. Ezra Pickering is optimistic. I am not. I am, however, desperate for news.

 

Entry dated October 12, 1809—signed Amy Trevelyne

There is an opening in the tent over my head, next to the center pole, which lets the sunlight shine in on me, standing on the highest platform. I lift my arms above my head in acknowledgment of the introduction and then bow deeply to the audience below. I am wearing a stiff sequin-­covered corsetlike thing that extends rather tightly from my crotch to my upper chest, and over it a skirt that is full in back but is cut out in front to expose my legs. After all, I could not be expected to walk the wire in a full skirt, now, could I? No, matters of propriety must give way to practical concerns, and that is how we get away with it here in Puritan New England; otherwise, I would surely be arrested. Under the dress, I have on white stockings and ballet slippers. I had worn similar attire that time back in Paris, but that is another story.

All eyes are upon me as I step out on the wire. A hush falls on the crowd . . .

“Ladies and gentlemen!” roars out Ringmaster Gen­eralissimo Pietro, through his speaking trumpet. “Your attention is directed high,
high
up in the very center of the tent, where stands,
direct
from the Royal Russian Circus of Moscow, performing
without
a net, our very own Princess Natasha Annasova Romanoff, death-defying Queen of the High Wire!”

Yes, I have joined the circus—the Montessori andMattucci Grand Circus, to be exact. It seemed the safest place for me to go, but then again, if you can't hide out as a meek governess, where can you hide? I do not know, but we shall see.

 

After stranding young Master Edgar Allen Polk on that beach—older and, I think, far wiser now—the
Star
and I made straightaway for Provincetown on Cape Cod. Gaining the harbor of that town, I changed back into girl garb—long drawers, blue dress (yes, that rather scandalous thing, famous in legend and song, that I put on when I need to attract male notice), wig back on head, mantilla over all, and fake Russian accent on lips. Thus rigged, I headed for the big tent I had spotted on the outskirts of town and made application for employment.

My audition consisted mainly of lifting up my skirt to show my legs to Ringmaster Pietro, in whose estimation they apparently passed muster, and in doing my bit on the wire. After that, I was a member of the troupe, and glad of it.

I knew the circus would be there because of that circular I had spotted on the print shop's kiosk in Plymouth, right next to that annoying
WANTED
poster. In addition to having a fine engraving of a fierce tiger jumping through a flaming hoop, it handily listed their performance dates and locations, and so here I am, working the high wire.

Marcello Grimaldi, the trapeze artist whose act preceded mine, had just left the high platform, executing his signature finale, which is to swing out high on the trapeze bar, let go, tuck, do several flips, and then fall down into the net, landing on this back, always to great ovation.

Before he went off, Marcello said to me, “Be careful, my sweet little Russian sugar beet!” and I told him,
“I am alvays care-ful, Mar-chell-o!”

After he climbed out of the net and took another bow, the net was unhooked from its fastenings and taken away. I picked up the balance bar and prepared to walk across.

The audience holds its collective breath.

I put my foot on the wire and look down into the yawning netless space. I mean, was there a net down there on the deck of the
Dolphin
to catch us sailors if we fell? No, there was not. There was only very hard oak planking, hard enough to crush the skull or snap the neck of any poor ship's boy who might misstep and fall from the rigging to land upon it. So this is nothing for me. Especially since I have this long balance bar to keep me straight. I have upon my feet shoes such as I wore back when I was a member of Les Petites Gamines de Paris, during my stay in that fine city, and believe me, the bottoms of the slippers are as well rosined as my fiddle's bow.

I step out onto the tightrope, and there is a sudden hush from the crowd. I go out for maybe fifteen feet, stop and turn around, and then proceed to the other high platform at the end of the wire. There I take a bow, acknowledge the applause, and then lay the balance bar aside. I unhook the skirt from about my waist and toss it carelessly away. Then I go back out into the air, this time
without
the balance bar. The audience gasps as I go forward, using only my arms as balance. Halfway across, I stumble and fake a fall, getting several real screams from the crowd, going over and catching the tightrope with my hands. Pulling myself up to my waist, I do several kips and then put my feet back on the wire. Hands over my head, I walk back to the platform to thunderous applause. I think part of the ovation is simple relief that I am not lying on the ground crumpled up dead, but I'll take it any way it comes.

I slide down a line next to the main tent pole, take another bow when I hit the ground, and exit the tent through a side entrance.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I now direct your attention to the center ring, where the world-famous Andalusian stallions, trained and ridden by the beauteous De Graff sisters, Gretchen and Heidi, will astound you with . . .”

I hear no more from our ringmaster as I plunge out into the bright light of day. As I go out, old Señora Elena, our costumer and seamstress, brings me a light robe with which to cover myself, my discarded skirt over her arm.

“I vonder, Señora,” I say as I put on the robe and take the skirt from her. “How much ees my act skeel and how much
ees zee
striptease, eh?”

She laughs. “It is all the same,
chica,
as long as the applause is long and the money is good.” And I have to agree with that.

Heading for the food wagon, I walk across the roped-off back lot where only circus people are allowed. On my way, I wave to the brightly dressed gang of clowns, harlequins, and dwarves heading for the stage entrance, getting many good-natured hoots and hellos in return, as well as a few honks of horns.

In the center of the back lot is a large cage, and in it is Balthazar, our magnificent African lion. He is lying next to the bars, so I reach in and begin scratching him behind his ears, which I know he loves.

“Poor old toothless Balthazar, does that feel good, baby? I know it does. Give us a bit of your roar now, please.” He lifts his massive head and shakes it, rubbing himself against my hand. “Come on, Balthy, a good roar for your Natasha.”

And he does it. He opens his mouth and lets out that deep, deep rumble of a growl that never fails to thrill me and send a shiver up my spine. I think it brings out the small, cowering beast in me.

“Goot boy,” I say, in case anyone's listening, giving him a last pat on his head. I check to see if his cage is locked—it is—for old Antonio has been known to leave it unlatched. I know where the key is kept—on the inner hub of the left rear wheel—and I lock the cage whenever he forgets. Not that Balthazar has ever gotten out, for there is still a simple latch that holds the cage door shut. However, if some kid should sneak back here, well . . . toothless and with his claws clipped and dulled, Balthazar's still strong enough to do some real damage. Plus, we don't want him getting away, and then let some dumb yokel shoot him in a panic.

I go to the food wagon, which has flaps that open at the sides to form tables, about which are placed many high stools. Inside, Enrico, the cook, works at his stove. When we are moving from place to place, the flaps are latched up and the chairs hang from hooks on the sides.

We are quite a spectacle when we travel, especially when we parade through a town. There are fifteen brightly painted wagons drawn by plumed horses, led by the ringmaster, in red coat, white breeches, and black boots, on his fine, prancing white steed. The band is playing; me and Marcello in costume are standing on top of my wagon, striking elegant poses; the clowns are bouncing all around; Balthazar is roaring and pacing in his cage; and our elephant, Gargantina, is plodding along with little brown Makmud up top in turban and breechcloth. The arrogant Herr Udo von Arndt, our animal trainer, in full riding gear with whip curled up under his arm, rides the fine stallion Furio. In front of him is the cage holding Hans and Fritz, our two Bengal tigers. And I don't ever mess with that pair—they still have all their teeth and claws, and I haven't forgotten that beach on Sumatra when I almost ended up inside one of the beasts.

Of course, all the children of the town follow us, shrieking in delight. In each town there will be several boys who will try to run away with us.

The circus is in town! Hooray!

I hop up on a stool, nod a greeting to Makmud, who's shoveling his lunch into his heathen mouth across from me. Gregor, our hugely muscled circus strongman, sits next to him, making quite a contrasting pair. Little brown Makmud is clad only in a white nappy and always reminds me of my son, Ravi, who was dressed like that when first I laid eyes on that sweet soul back in Bombay. Gregor wears a costume made of animal skins that drape from one shoulder and extend to his thighs, tucked in at the waist with a broad, studded leather belt. His own dark hair extends to midforehead, as well as down his broad back, and though his looks are fearsome, he is actually quite shy and sweet—so shy, in fact, that he can barely bring himself to speak to me. I'm working on that.

At the other end sits Rigger O'Rourke, Head Roustabout, dressed in his usual tight red-striped shirt, dungaree trousers, and round bowler hat pushed back on his head. He and his crew are in charge of setting up the tents when we arrive in a town and bringing them down when we leave . . . and handling any trouble in between. He grins and brings his fingers to his hat brim. “Hiya, toots.”

In keeping with my persona, I put aristocratic nose in air and do not acknowledge the greeting.

The food looks good, whatever it is. The day is warm, so I unfasten the robe and let it slip from my shoulders. There are only circus folk here, and we are a free and easy bunch.

“
Salute,
Enrico, dear one, and vhat ees for zee lunch-eon?” I ask. I have been picking up some Italian.

“
Stufato con salsiccia, mia cara,
” he says, putting a bowl of stew with several sausages in front of me, and a piece of bread as well.

“
Grazie,
Rico,” I say, tucking into it. It is very good, and I tell him so.

Most of the people belonging to the Montessori and Mattucci Grand Circus extravaganza speak some English, since they have been over here in the States for some time, the wars in Europe not being kind to things like traveling shows. I maintain my disguise by speaking broken English and uttering sounds I think might sound Russian. If I ever do meet an actual Russian, I shall be sunk, but that hasn't happened yet.

I feel a mustachioed kiss on my bare right shoulder.

“
Nyet,
Marcello, you must not do zat,” I say, shrugging him off my shoulder. “You know zat I am promised in marriage to Count Yakov Ivanillich Petrovsky, and I must remain pure of body for him. He vould kill you eef he knew you vere giving me attentions of love.”

“I do not care, my beautiful little bowl of borscht. I will die happy,” says the young man, taking his lips from my shoulder and plunging his nose into my neck hair. “Besides, he is not here.”

“The Count dispatches his enemies by impaling zem, you know. Zey sit you on a sharpened pole and zen enjoy your struggles as zee pole vorks its vay up through you. It ees a very unpleasant vay to die. Vee Russians can be very cruel, you know.”

“You are most cruel to me every moment you do not let me into your heart, into your bed, into your—”

“You vill stop zat now, Marcello, and come sit by my side and have some-zing to eat.”

He slips onto the stool next to me. He is wearing the performance costume of the trapeze artist—skin-tight white pants and sleeveless shirt. He is, of course, given his trade, very well muscled—trim, though, not heavy. His hair is coal black and curly, as is the mustachio, of which he is very proud, having only recently been able to grow it, because of his youth. He is, by and large, a very handsome lad.

“I cannot eat when I am this close to a goddess,” he says. “I will be content to watch you eat and take great pleasure in it.” He puts his elbow on the table and his chin in his hand and proceeds to gaze upon me.

I reverse my spoon to dip forward into the stew in the approved Lawson Peabody manner, lift it to my mouth, and take a sip.

“Such elegance of manner! Such perfection in the turn of lip, such delicacy! Oh my tiny little Volga River nymph, I cannot stand it, me being only a poor earthbound troll, in such a presence,” he exults, while I try not to laugh and snort the stew out my delicate nose.