Among the Wonderful (44 page)

“Why should we sign such a thing?” he said. “We will be moving on soon enough. What is the benefit for us?”

“There will be others arriving for this Congress of Nations. The petition will help protect us, and them, from unfair treatment.”

The old man laughed. “If a piece of paper could protect us from anything, we would know it by now.” He sucked on his pipe. “That hasn’t been my experience so far.”

“No one will force you to sign,” I said. The man chuckled again but reached for the petition and pen.

Across the gallery, a dim shape moved. A rounded figure that I recognized as They Are Afraid of Her, wrapped in the blanket, came toward us.

Her hair was wet and she was barefoot. She must have been swimming with the beluga again.

She looked at me eagerly. “I can go?”

She looked at the old man, then at the floor. In a quick, cruel movement he grabbed her by the wrist and shoved her toward the tent. He released a torrent of incomprehensible words in their language as she tripped over the blanket she wore and fell to her knees.

“She is a fool,” he said by way of explanation.

“She is certainly not! She has learned quite a bit of English since she’s been here.”

He shook his head. “When we found her she was half dead. She was wandering in the heat on open ground. Those cuts were bleeding. She had dried blood all down her face. The buzzards were circling her. That’s how we spotted her. She should have died.”

“She said she was not from your tribe.”

The man laughed. “No, she is not one of us. But she is Sioux. We took her with us. If we had known what she’d done, we would have left her for the buzzards.”

“What did she do?”

“She left her family to marry a man from another tribe. He was an enemy of the Sioux. But her lover’s people would not accept them, either. So he abandoned her. But her family wouldn’t take her back.”

“What about the scars?”

“We think she did it to herself. Or else her people gave them to her. She will not say. Foolish woman.”

No wonder she wanted to leave the Indian camp.

When I returned to Maud’s apartment, I did not meet Thomas’ curious gaze, though I felt his eyes on me. The albino children were still playing their instruments, but now the sound was cacophonous, and those who had been drinking talked too loudly. Gradually, though, amid their congratulations and toasts to the success of my petition, my mood lightened. I talked with Tai Shan, and when he left I sat in the massive chair and soon I, too, was clapping along to the uneven rhythm of the music.

“How is your father?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your ancestral home is Pictou, is it not? Nova Scotia? I presume he is still there?”

“No. He moved to Halifax after he sold his fleet. And how is your wife?” I countered his strategy. “We were all very sorry at the loss of your daughter.”

“Mrs. Barnum is doing her best. Her grief has been difficult. We miss our girl.”

“Of course.” My gaze was level. “Wasn’t Mrs. Barnum expecting a new baby?”

Barnum shifted in his seat. “No.”

We eyed each other; his expression became satisfyingly clouded.

“Well. All of us on the fifth floor certainly miss them. They were such
fun.”

He moved a book to one side of his desk and revealed a copy of my True Life History. “This reads like the beginning of a novel.”

“It’s selling,” I managed to reply. I had no idea he even knew I had written anything.

“Yes. Giants’ histories are among the most profitable pamphlets. Yours is particularly well done. Brilliant, your decision to tell different versions of your story. Reading it made me ponder a question that has haunted me for quite some time.” Barnum pressed the tips of his fingers together and
studied his joined hands as if they were an architectural model. “The question of art in my enterprise. Is there a place for it? Does art, literary, painterly, or any kind at all, draw? Are people
really
as interested in art as they claim? My own interests are diverse, Miss Swift. The interests of the public, however, are of the utmost importance to me. And I have deduced that the public is largely indifferent to art, despite what they insistently claim.”

“You can hardly expect me to believe that, Mr. Barnum.”

He was shaking his head, trying to hide a small smile. “I’m afraid I can convince you quite easily, if you will allow me two minutes.”

His confidence irked me.

“I was in London, as you know, with the General Tom Thumb. We booked the Egyptian Hall for our performances. During the few days it took to organize the show, I traveled back and forth from my hotel to the Egyptian to oversee the rehearsals and concessionaires. During this time, I noticed there was a small gallery next to the theater, and inside the gallery, one man worked, day after day. I observed him first washing the large windows facing the street. I even saw him sweeping the sidewalk in front. Then he set up two easels, one in each window, and set two large paintings upon them. He whitewashed the walls in the gallery and soon he was hanging paintings along the walls. Finally, I strolled to the gallery, hoping to invite this hardworking soul to the General’s performance, which was scheduled to open the following evening.

“He eyed me warily, and when I invited him to the show he insisted he would not come. Since my gesture had been made out of nothing but friendliness, I was annoyed, yet remained courteous as I bid him good day.

“I asked the house manager at the Egyptian who the lad might be, and he told me a story that truly softened my heart. His name was Benjamin Robert Haydon, a painter fallen on hard times, who was putting on his exhibit as a last resort to retain his freedom. His debts were leading him to debtor’s prison, you see. He hoped that with the proceeds of his sales,
he could lift himself up and resume his business of portraiture. The manager told me that Haydon had rented the gallery for one week, with his exhibit opening the following evening, coincident to Thumb’s first performance.

“You may already have guessed what follows, Miss Swift, so I will be brief: Thumb’s opening was a gala event, the house crowded with London’s elite classes, including royalty and Members of Parliament. The following evening was the same. I glimpsed Mr. Haydon walking toward his gallery as I approached the museum one morning, several days after I had extended him my invitation. As I passed him on the street, I asked him about his sales, simultaneously noticing his grim and haggard visage. He glared at me, saying not a word.

“Two days later I learned that the poor man had sold nothing. Not a single canvas. In fact, only a handful of people had attended his opening; among them, a London critic who disparaged the work the next day in the
Times
. The artist’s hope had been dashed completely. I do not intend to shock you gratuitously, Miss Swift, but when Mr. Haydon did not appear for the fifth and final evening of his show, an acquaintance went to his small garret and found him sprawled on his bedroom floor, quite dead, having ingested some quantity of turpentine.”

I let an appropriate silence punctuate the air.

“An interesting tale,” I remarked. “You seem to have a fable for every circumstance.”

“Apparently the young man left a note, condemning me personally, and the type of entertainment I represent. He believed that if his show hadn’t coincided with Thumb’s grand opening —”

“Suicide is a compelling finale to a miserable life, especially for an artist. I suppose all of Haydon’s paintings sold after he died?”

“I don’t know.” Barnum’s voice was thoughtful. “Do you think that could have been his hope?”

“Isn’t it the wish of every artist who perceives that his end will come before his success? Your story reminds me of someone
I once knew.” I leveled him in my gaze. “If you can spare two minutes for a tale in which you do not feature, I will tell you.

“You probably haven’t heard of Miss Juliet Besalu. I made her acquaintance a very long time ago, in Halifax, where we worked together in Jones’ Medicine Show. She came from Mississippi, a slave, and was sold to the first traveling show to come through her town. They had to teach her everything. Up until then, all she could do was sweep and care for chickens. No small feat — if you forgive the pun — given the fact that she was born without arms. So they taught her the act, you know, pouring tea and lifting cup and saucer, painting, eating with silverware. She learned very quickly; by the time I met her she was playing piano and had a short equestrian routine. She almost never spoke, but occasionally we’d pass the time together, reading or playing cards.

“I believe the clay pigeon routine was her own idea, although I don’t know for certain. But soon she was practicing with a small lady’s pistol. She cocked it with her toe, and when her manager tossed the pigeon she shot it out of the sky. The shards tinkled like glass. I remember that. In a matter of weeks she had mastered it. Now, Mr. Barnum, I don’t want to shock you gratuitously, but Miss Besalu had a plan entirely outside the parameters of her act. As you might surmise, her ultimate aim was not to obliterate a clay decoy. She succeeded in her true intention on a warm evening when the tent was packed. I must admit it was a graceful and perfectly executed maneuver; she shot the second of her three allotted pigeons and before the fragments had reached the ground she turned the pistol around with her feet, closed her eyes, turned her head to the side, and discharged one bullet precisely into her temple. It was not a powerful firearm; she knew she must hit her mark.

“At first the audience cheered, not perceiving what was obvious to the other performers. But the truth dawned on them as Methuselah Jones threw his coat over her form and carried her away. And while it is true that the suicide yielded publicity for Mr. Jones, it was of the variety that drove him
quite to the depths of despair, and ultimately to the utter destruction of his enterprise.”

“I remember Methuselah Jones,” Barnum said.

“He was a small-time showman compared with you.” I was practically cooing. “But don’t doubt what happens when the performers mutiny. They are perfectly capable of turning entertainment into horror. Just imagine the scale of your ruin.”

I didn’t let too much time elapse. “I have a petition.”

Barnum laughed suddenly. “I should have guessed! Brilliant, Miss Swift.”

“My concerns are twofold: First are two individuals currently in your employ. They are known as the Aztec Children.”

“Ah, yes. Wonderful specimens of the lost race of Iximaya.” Barnum spoke as if he still addressed the journalists. “Discovered by our own Professor Chatterton.”

“My interest is not tearing the web of those particular deceptions. I do not even care to cause a stir over how these children came to be in your employ, although that would be satisfying to me personally.” I raised my eyebrow in what I hoped was the equivalent of a checkmate. Barnum made no move. His face was curious, unhurried. I realized that we were on equal footing.

“These children must be cared for properly, however they came to be here, with special attention to their particular … fragilities. These needs are not being met at the current time. I have a petition here, signed by each one of your Representatives of the Wonderful.”

“I see your English lessons haven’t extended to handwriting,” Barnum said, perusing the signatures. “I assume these marks are for the Indians.”

“No, the Indians write very well. The marks are Oswald La Rue’s and the tribesman’s.” How did he know about my short-lived English class?

“The tribesman?” Barnum looked at me vacantly. “My memory does not conjure that one. I’ll take your word for it.
This looks reasonable enough.” He tossed the paper lightly onto a stack of papers. “I’ll see to it.”

“Good.” I hadn’t thought it would be so simple. “And the Martinettis. They must be released from the Tombs.”

Barnum swiveled in his chair and looked out the window. He appeared to be finished with our conversation.

“Agreed,” he said.

I was just getting up, feeling the blood flow back into my legs, when he spoke again. His voice was altogether different: soft, ruminating.

“You know what I could never understand, Miss Swift? How it is that the word
museum
is unrelated to the verb
to muse
. It’s a linguistic fluke! A coincidence, if you fancy that term. Palace of the muses. Place where we muse.” He shook his head. “The world is strange.”

It was as if Barnum conjured the Congress with his words. Within two days of his speech in City Hall Park, eight more Indians appeared on the fifth floor and efficiently constructed a camp along the far wall of the gallery, on the opposite side of the room from the Sioux. Between the two camps swam the little whale, still unseen by the paying public.

Barnum also reopened his museum. As far as anyone on the fifth floor knew, none of the acts that had offended the mayor’s office had been changed, except that Zobeide Luti, the Circassian Beauty, had altered her costume to more tightly restrain her abundant bosom.

Although there is no great pleasure associated with my vocation, and the particular miseries I have encountered in the course of my professional career have been many, on a good day I am convinced they are no more than is usual for a working person of my years, whether an alderman or a button-maker, and I try to never lose sight of the reason I continue my work: independence. For each day that I did not earn my salary in Barnum’s museum, I felt a fraction of my independence slipping away. This was not an entirely financial anxiety; after my tenure with Mr. Ramsay I decided I would never work under the hand of a manager again. To operate under the direct instruction of another was to work with the mindless ease of a trained animal, with no eyes to see and no ears to hear, no matter how well you understand your instructions. However inverted it may
sound, returning to my work as a public spectacle meant maintaining my dignity.

Blossoms from City Hall Park sweetened the air on the balcony. The breeze was strong but tunneled warmly toward the harbor. Thomas nodded to me from the depths of a sonata. The keys to his harpsichord were visibly worn; he and the two other musicians looked disheveled as ever, the ophecleide player seeming nearly asleep as he played. Several museum patrons stood at the railing with eyes closed and faces upturned, as if they rode the prow of a great ship, but instead of a glinting sea below there was a river of traffic on Broadway.