by John Boyne
‘To give it to them. What do you think is the greatest form of entertainment the world has ever produced? Think about it now. It’s an easy one.’
I gave a low whistle and decided to humour him for the moment. The greatest form of entertainment I could think of. ‘Something that can be performed in public, you mean,’ I asked innocently.
‘William.’
‘Okay, give me a minute.’ I thought about it. ‘I don’t know,’ I admitted after a moment. ‘Movies? Books? Roller-coaster rides?’
‘Roller-coaster rides are very good things, William,’ he said in a dry voice. ‘Very good things indeed. But surprisingly, that’s not what I’m thinking of. Try again.’
‘I give up,’ I said. ‘I’m sure I’ll never get it. Just tell me.’
He leaned back in his seat and a glow seemed to emit from him as he did his curtain trick again. Staring me right in the eyes he said, ‘The wild west shows,’ before sitting back and looking at me triumphantly.
I blinked. ‘The wild west shows,’ I repeated. ‘What are you talking about exactly?’
He barked out a quick laugh. ‘What do you mean what am I talking about? How many times have I told you about them? What’s your great-grandfather most famous for, for heaven’s sake?’
‘Shooting buffaloes,’ I said.
‘No,’ he said irritably. ‘He’s famous for his wild west shows. You know about them, they travelled all over the world, bringing the wonders of the west to places that had never heard of them. Cowboys, Indians, shooting matches, daredevil horse riding. Look at all the people he knew there, Wild Bill Hickok, Annie Oakley, why it was the greatest thing that ever hit the world! People talked about it for years.’
I could feel my face begin to pale slightly. ‘What exactly are you getting at?’ I asked him slowly.
‘I’m setting up my own wild west show,’ he said, banging his fist on the table with excitement. ‘I’ve been working on it for months now. I’m trying to get the financing in place to hire performers, organise lorries and tour dates. Of course, I’m too old to get bank loans but that’s where you come in.’
‘Me.’
‘Yes, you. You’re young, you’re enthusiastic. You know almost as much about these things as I do. With your energy and my knowledge it’ll be the greatest hit of the century. Think about it. We’ll be millionaires!’ I could barely believe what I was hearing and didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Isaac was getting carried away now, though, and didn’t seem to be noticing my reaction. ‘The greatest of them all,’ he continued, ‘was the Congress of Rough Riders of the World. Remember that? That was your great-grandfather’s most famous show. Every form of western life was in there. Every warrior from around the world. Did you know they performed before Queen Victoria at her jubilee? He was the most famous man in the world then. That’s what we’ll do, William, you and me. Only ours will be so incredible it will put the Congress of Rough Riders into the shade. What do you think? It’s a great idea, isn’t it?’
I stared at him and tried to count to ten in my head before responding. I reached six. ‘There’s nothing wrong with you at all, is there?’ I said quietly. ‘Except for your obvious mental problems,’ I added.
‘What?’ asked Isaac, confused by my question.
‘I said,’ I repeated between gritted teeth, my tone becoming louder as my sentence progressed. ‘There’s nothing wrong with you, is there? You’re not dying at all?’
‘Dying?’ he said, laughing nervously. ‘Well whoever said I was dying?’
‘You did,’ I pointed out. ‘You wrote me a letter. I was three thousand miles away, living my life, and you wrote to me and told me you were dying. You said you wanted to see me before it was too late. I came home to be with you when it happened.’
‘Well,’ he said, a crack appearing in his voice. ‘I mean … I’m not a young man, William. I’m sure I don’t have that long left. But I never meant to give you the impression that I—’
‘You lied to me,’ I said. ‘You led me to believe that you were about to die and I packed up my things and left my home and the woman I love and came here, all so you could tell me some ludicrous story about the fucking wild west shows!’ I was shouting now and had even raised myself off the seat a little. I hovered above it in anger, gripping the armrests in order to keep my hands away from his throat.
‘That’s not it,’ he muttered, panicking now. ‘Sit down, William. That’s not what I … we can … this can be a great success. If you’d just think about it for a moment.
I didn’t wait for the end of the sentence. I left the room quietly, not even slamming the door behind me, and went straight to my room. Sitting on the edge of the bed I wrapped my arms around myself, automatically rocking back and forth; the room appeared to be spinning on me. For the life of me, I could not believe what I had just heard. Looking up, I noticed something that I had not realised since my return. All the posters and memorabilia which I had taken down when I was in my teens had returned to my room. So accustomed to them was I from my childhood and youth that I had barely registered their return since I myself had come home. I stared at them and began to laugh hysterically. ‘It’s an obsession,’ I said aloud. ‘It’s a fucking obsession!’
Chapter Seven
Celebrity
One of the many myths of the American west is that is was an enclosed society, a series of states gradually shifting from Indian to white control, one which excluded the outside world almost entirely until the settlements had reached their end and the reservations were in existence. While there is some truth to that, there were also times when the land outside of America entered into their activities and played a surprising part. One such entry formed the last occasion when my great-grandfather and General Custer would be in alliance.
President Grant was beginning the last year of his first term and was again attempting to endear himself to the voters by presenting himself not just as an American leader, but also as one who embraced dignitaries from around the world. When he received a message early in 1872 that the Grand Duke Alexis Alexandrovitch, the son of the Russian Czar, wished to visit the prairie lands of the mid-west in order to hunt buffalo, Grant saw the perfect opportunity for a good public relations exercise. It would also be the catalyst that would lead Bill away from the prairie lifestyle for ever.
Custer and Bill were given the task of preparing a reception party for the Grand Duke and organising the hunting party which would take place over three days. The president made it clear in his briefing how important this exercise was and both men were intrigued by the task, being not a little overawed by the presence of such a dignitary within their ranks. It was agreed that the hunt would take place near the Red Willow, on the North Platte region of Nebraska, not far from where the Sioux tribe was located under the leadership of Spotted Tail. Buffalo roamed freely on the plains in that part of the country and the Sioux had been given permission by the government to hunt there during the winter months; it was agreed therefore that an emissary would be sent to Spotted Tail to seek permission to use the land – more out of courtesy than anything else – but also to invite the Indians to play a part in the visit, thus ensuring greater harmony between the two cultures. General Custer wanted to send a small troupe of enlisted men to speak to the Sioux, but to his surprise Bill volunteered for the job.
‘What worries me is that your reputation will precede you,’ he told him, mulling over the idea. ‘You’re well known for being part of the Republican movement which has moved a lot of their fellow tribes from their land. Don’t you think they might have some measure of hostility towards you?’
‘A lot of what they hear isn’t true anyway,’ countered Bill. ‘Spotted Tail will know that. He’ll be insulted if you send someone he hasn’t heard of. It must be an acknowledged leader or he will take offence. Be certain of it.’ Bill was referring to the dime novels which had been published over the previous year recounting the adventures of ‘Buffalo Bill’ on the prairies. Although they were written
by a series of ghost-writers, he had sanctioned them and taken great pleasure in their success. Most of the stories were pure fiction but based, he liked to claim, on his own character, which was one of heroism and fortitude. In truth, he was attempting in his real life to become more like the character depicted in the books. Custer resented the success of these books but tried to hide his dislike; fortunately he himself remained a popular hero or a greater hostility might have arisen between them.
‘Perhaps,’ said the general. ‘But if you end up being killed, I will let it be known that you insisted on going yourself. I won’t be seen as your murderer.’
‘God forbid,’ said Bill with a smile, and the next morning he jumped on his horse Buckskin Joe and set off for the Sioux camp. It took him a day and a half to reach it and the closer he got, the more nervous he grew at what might lie ahead. The possibility of death and scalping was a strong one but he believed that if he could get to the chief before being spotted by any of the young men, whose aggression might overpower their sense, he would be able to make the trip a success. To this end, once he had the camp in view, he waited out of sight on a mountain top until late evening before creeping surreptitiously in.
The tent which Spotted Tail resided in was easy to spot as it was at the very heart of the camp and stood taller than any of the others. A fire burned within and Bill could make out the shadows of two men inside, talking animatedly. As he grew closer he could make out the harsh vowel sounds of the Lakota language, which he was not well versed in, and hoped that he would be able to identify himself and make himself understood by the tent’s occupants before he was taken for an assassin and murdered. Standing outside the tent he gave a brief cough before raising the flap and looking inside, one hand held up in a gesture of peace. The two men – one Indian, one white – stopped talking and spun around to look at him, but neither seemed overly perturbed or afraid. Immediately Bill recognised the white man as Todd Randall, who had lived with the Lakota Sioux for many years and had acted as an interpreter between the Indians and the whites on many occasions in the past.
‘Chief Spotted Tail,’ said Bill in a humble voice. ‘I apologise for calling on you so late at night. My name is Buffalo Bill Cody. I am sent by General Custer to speak with you.’ As he spoke, Randall translated in a low voice and at the mention of his name he clapped his hands together in excitement and ushered Bill inside.
‘Buffalo Bill,’ he cried with excitement – his words also being translated at speed as he spoke – ‘such a prestigious visitor! We have heard of you many times.’
My great-grandfather smiled a little. ‘My name does seem to be attracting more and more attention,’ he admitted. ‘These adventure stories written about me are mostly fabricated however,’ he added, recalling some of the anti-Indian activities which the dime novels had recorded.
‘The stories may be made up, but they’re based on your true character, are they not?’ asked Spotted Tail; Bill decided to allow the question to stand as rhetorical. He looked at the older man by the light of the fire. He was probably in his mid-forties and had the darkest black hair, shoulder length, that he had ever seen. Normally it would have been tied behind his head, but now, late at night, it sat around his shoulders giving him an almost feminine appearance. His skin was dark and lined and a scar ran from beneath his left eye to the corner of his mouth.
‘Again, I apologise for the lateness of my visit,’ repeated Bill. ‘I thought it was safest to come at night when I might approach you directly. I was unsure how strong the welcome your people might give me would be.’
‘You were wise,’ said Spotted Tail. ‘There are many of my people here who would have had the hair from your head had they seen you. You are not as popular with them as you are with me, you know.’
‘And am I popular with you?’ asked Bill, prepared to play the sycophant if necessary.
‘You have not harmed the Lakota Sioux as yet,’ stated Spotted Tail. ‘Until you make an enemy of me, you are my friend. And for you to be here now says to me that you want something from me. I’m always ready to listen to a man who wants something from me because in these days, I never know when I might need something in return.’
Bill nodded. He turned to look at Randall, considering whether he should include him in the conversation but decided that it would be rude not to. Randall was the translator and held no sway over their discussions. He turned back to Spotted Tail in order to state his business. ‘A great chief is visiting us from across the waters,’ he said. ‘The son of the Russian Czar.’
‘Visiting us?’ interrupted Spotted Tail. ‘Who is this us?’
‘Visiting America,’ said Bill. ‘He comes to hunt buffalo.’
Spotted Tail let out an enormous laugh and slapped his hands down on his knees heartily. ‘What kind of crazy people are these Europeans?’ he asked. ‘He comes across the world to hunt buffalo? He is either idle or stupid. Have they no buffalo of their own in Europe?’
Bill thought about it and realised such a thing had never occurred to him before. ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘All I know is that he’s coming here because he’s an avid hunter but has never been able to hunt buffalo before. He wants to try it.’
‘Perhaps he has been reading your books as well?’ asked Spotted Tail with a sly grin. ‘Your legend is truly spreading far and wide, my friend.’
‘He may tell us his reasons when he gets here,’ said Bill, ignoring the question.
‘And you, why are you here now? What can I do to help you?’
‘General Custer and I wanted to speak with you of this visit,’ continued Bill, mentioning the general’s name because he knew that a message from him would be something which the chief would respect. ‘We hope to bring the Grand Duke to the Red Willow. As you know, the buffalo there number in their thousands. Even a European could hardly miss one there.’
Spotted Tail sat back and breathed heavily, tapping his chin as he considered it. ‘The Red Willow is where we hunt, Mr Buffalo Bill,’ he pointed out. ‘The Lakota Sioux. Your government has even said it should be so,’ he added, uttering that second word as if he held it in contempt anyway.
‘We’re aware of this, Chief,’ said Bill. ‘Which is why we wanted to ask your permission to hunt there. And also to invite you to join us.’ Spotted Tail looked up again, intrigued by this offer. ‘General Custer proposes that we bring together thirty men from our camp and thirty of the Lakota Sioux to guide the Grand Duke on his hunting expedition. We will hunt together, eat together and, if you agree to it, the Sioux can perform their grand war dance at a feast on the third day. We will prove therefore to our European neighbours that we are people who are living in peace and harmony alongside each other.’
‘You believe we are?’
‘I believe we could be,’ said Bill. ‘There is distrust, of course. Wrong has been committed on both sides in recent years. This could be an opportunity, however, for our two peoples to learn more about each other. I believe this could be a positive step, Chief,’ he added forcefully.
‘I think you might be right,’ agreed Spotted Tail, smiling gently, and my great-grandfather felt relieved that he had succeeded in this mission with so little effort. ‘I believe I would like to involve myself in this action. And the feast you speak of, we will sit with General Custer and this Grand Duke, yes? We will share a table.’
‘We will.’
Spotted Tail nodded. ‘Then we will accept your offer,’ he said. The bargain had been struck and without any element of discord. After agreeing to the details, Bill left the camp with as much stealth as he had approached it and returned to General Custer the following day.
In spite of what had happened, I stayed in London for almost two months. My initial fury with Isaac for the deception he had played on me had lessened when I realised that not only was his remorse genuine, but his reasons for the deceit had been rooted in love and loneliness. During a difficult conversation between us, he made it clear that he had felt that a part of hi
m was missing without me there. We were family, he pointed out. The only family either of us had.
His business enterprise was also based on fact. He had indeed been in contact with the bank and, incredibly (it seemed to me) they were getting close to giving him a business loan in order to set up his new wild west show. However the conditions of such a loan were based on my involvement in the enterprise; no bank was going to lend such a sum to a man in his seventies, but when an enterprising young man in his twenties was on board as well, the risk did not seem so great. The house was to be used as collateral and Isaac had some savings to invest as well. He talked me through the figures and the plans and, in theory, they were reasonably interesting. He knew enough about the way these things worked to put together a good portfolio of ideas; however his belief that there was an audience for such a venture was one with which I was not entirely in agreement.
Out of respect for him, though, and knowing how little he would have to live for if I did not agree to join him in this project, I gave the matter a lot of thought. I weighed up the pros and cons and spoke to the bank myself. I took a weekend trip to Dublin with Justin and Adam to decide for sure and we spent two days getting riotously drunk, a part of us knowing that it would be our last trip together. And then I came home and told Isaac ‘no’.
His disappointment instantly turned to anger. He cursed me for an ungrateful son and stormed around the house like a demon possessed. Finally one evening, in a fit of pique, he lashed out and punched me in the face, splitting my lower lip as it crashed against my teeth so that a thin stream of blood ran down my chin and on to my shirt. Although it was a relatively minor wound, it seemed to snap something inside him and rather than become apologetic and realise how destructive once again his obsession with history and his ancestry had become, he became apoplectic with rage and demanded that I leave his home immediately. I had no choice but to agree and, packing light bags, I went to stay with Justin for a couple of days until I could organise a flight.