by Annet Schaap
The wind blows her voice away, and the planks give her nasty splinters; in no time, she has three of them jabbing into her. She pulls out two with her teeth, but the third one breaks off and a big chunk of it stays there, deep in the fleshy mound of her hand.
“Father!!” She yells again, as loud as she can. No one comes. Nothing moves.
What did you think would happen? mutter the planks on the door. Think you could just stop in for a nice cup of tea? This house is a prison now. It’s our job to guard it. When will he be allowed to leave? In seven years’ time. Seven. Have seven years already gone by?
No…sighs Lampie, and she sits down on the doorstep.
So long to go, so long to go! scream the seagulls circling around the tower. Whatever were you thinking? What did you want?
I just wanted to see how he is, and…
That man? hisses the prickly grass. That man with the stick?
The one who hit you? tease the waves rushing by. The bruise has only just faded, hasn’t it? Forget about him. He’s forgotten all about you.
It’s not true, it can’t be, he would never…
Oh, no, of course not, everything around her whispers. Because he was always so kind to you. Child, he loved his bottle more than you. You knew that, didn’t you?
Lampie can picture her father, stumbling around the house, looking for that one bottle he could have sworn he had left, or the money he thought he’d hidden away. And, whether he found the bottle or not, he always disappeared.
What are you doing here? You have a new home. Go and live there. Forget about him.
Yes, but he wasn’t always like that. It really was different, once upon a time. This beach, this doorstep, she can see it all as it used to be. The pirates pulling their boats up onto the sand, the shrimps over the fire. Her father making jokes, her mother…Her mother, her mother…
You know, the thing about the past, the whole world whispers in her ear, is that it’s over.
Lampie rests her head on her knees and feels herself getting slowly colder and wetter.
Yes, but, she thinks, Miss Amalia told me. He is here. And the lamp was on; I saw it. So why won’t he come to the door?
“Hello there. You’re Lampie, aren’t you?” a voice says suddenly. “I suppose you must be, eh?”
Lampie looks up. There is a woman standing on the sea path. She has a pan in her hand.
“Is it your afternoon off? Did you decide to come and visit? Oh dear, I’m afraid you’re out of luck.” She climbs up onto the doorstep, and Lampie feels the soft fabric of her skirt brush her cheek.
“Mr. Waterman!” the woman shouts through the hatch. “Look who’s here! Your daughter! And your food too, if you want it! So you come down here, do you hear me? Mr. Waterman?”
Lampie has stood up now and is listening. But she does not hear anything, just the rain tapping on the door, because it really has started pouring now.
The woman shakes her head. “He came down yesterday,” she says. “So we won’t be seeing him for a while. It’s not your lucky day.”
Lampie wipes her cheeks. Ouch, that splinter is really deep. Her whole hand is throbbing.
“But he is there?” she asks, shivering. “He is upstairs?”
“Where else would he be?” The woman has a wide, friendly face with wind-and-weather cheeks. “He’s not going anywhere. But sometimes he doesn’t come downstairs for days on end, even if I call up there a hundred times and tell him his food’s getting cold.” She takes the lid off and shoves the pan under the girl’s nose. “Look, it’s good now, but it won’t be for much longer.” Drops of rain splash into the gray mush.
“But sir will come down in his own good time. What’s he doing up there? Nothing, I reckon, because there’s nothing up there, is there? Light on and light off again, and that’s it. You might think eating would break the day up a bit. But no, he’s as stubborn as an old…” She looks at Lampie and does not complete the sentence.
“Oh well,” she continues in a friendlier tone. “What a palaver, eh? And what about you? I’ve thought about you too, you know, all alone in that Black House. Is there really a monster? I guess not, eh, because you’re still here. And it looks like you’re still in one piece. You remember me, don’t you?”
No, I’ve never seen you before, Lampie wants to say, but suddenly she is not quite so sure.
“I live over there. Remember?” The woman points to the end of the sea path, where there is indeed a small house, half-hidden behind a rocky outcrop. “I haven’t been there that long, just since my husband…I’ve waved at you so many times, but you didn’t ever seem to notice me. Always so worried, always talking away to something…” She looks back into her pan. “Well, it doesn’t look like he’ll be wanting this today. Would you perhaps like to, have you already?…Oh, but child, you’re soaked through! Come on, come with me, for a cup of tea at least.” She takes Lampie’s hand. When the girl says, “Ow!” she stops to have a look at the splinter and then goes on talking as they walk.
“And I have a nice clean needle for you too. We’ll get that splinter out in no time. It’s from those planks, I’ll bet. Ouch, yes, splinters can really hurt. Not that long ago I got a—”
Lampie tries to jump into the conversation as if it were a skipping game. “But, but,” she says, “how is he? My father? Is he well?”
The neighbor stops and looks back at the lighthouse. “Well? Hmm, I wouldn’t say that. But he’s still alive. And I think he’s missing you terribly.”
“Really?” asks Lampie. “Has he said that?”
“No, not in so many words.” The neighbor pulls her onward by her good hand. “But, even so, it’s still true. Come on, and then I’ll give you some tea. What a shame you had to come today of all days. Are you going to the fair? Do you still have enough time? Would you like to sleep over? Oh no, of course you can’t,” she says when Lampie shakes her head. “I’ll tell him you’ve been. I’m sure he’ll be…Wait a second, I have an idea.”
She stops halfway along the sea path and gives the girl a grin. But then a cloud passes over her face.
“Oh no, of course not. I thought you might be able to…But that won’t work. Or will it? Can you write?”
For the first time on her afternoon off, Lampie smiles.
PART FIVE
The Mermaid in the Tent
the phenomenal freaks
Everything costs twenty-five cents, and Lampie has exactly that: one quarter, the quarter from Martha, hidden away in the depths of her pocket.
She can go on the Big Wheel or on the Swashbuckling Swing Boat, or she can have one attempt at fighting the strongman in his red-striped shirt, who seems to be angry with everyone—well, she certainly won’t be doing that. One sausage with sauerkraut; one turn on the shooting gallery, where you can win bottles of scent and paper roses; one spoonful of the miracle oil that will cure all ills…But Lampie already knows what she wants to do.
Among the jostling crowds and the splashing beer, she has already spotted the candyfloss tent. She is going to buy some and carefully take it home, all wrapped up, for Fish. As a surprise. He always looks so gray and tired. Maybe it will help.
But first she wants to look around—there is so much to see.
A watery sun has broken through the clouds and is turning the sky purple and green and gold. Lampie’s hand does not hurt anymore, and this evening or tomorrow or by the next day at the latest, her father will have read her letter and will be thinking about her.
Dear Father, she wrote. How are you? I am good. I can see you from the windoe of the house where I live. Will you wave to me? You have to eat. I will come agen soon when I can have time of.
Lampie smiles and pushes her hands deep into the pockets of her new dress. Writing—it really is a miracle.
People are screaming and whirling around, and groups of children are chas
ing each other, on their way to the next attraction and the next. Look at that! And that! Look over there! No one is paying any attention to her, thank goodness; everyone is looking at the parade that is marching straight across the crowded field.
Stripy clowns on long stilts are pulling along small white dogs on strings. Jugglers are tossing all kinds of things into the air: scissors, bottles, apples, oranges, rabbits. Stacks of acrobats are swaying and sweating and swinging their flags. Fire-eaters are breathing flames…
Here it comes! Here it comes! It’s the elephant!
What? There’s an elephant coming? I have to see this, thinks Lampie. She climbs onto a barrel and tries to look out over the heads of the crowd. Yes, here it comes, from behind that tent over there, the elephant, waving its trunk.
But suddenly she sees something else. She sees a pair of eyes. Fish’s eyes.
Fish’s eyes? It’s impossible, but she really can see them. The same shape, the same color. Gold with gold flowing from them. These are not really his eyes though; they are painted on a sign outside a tent, over there behind the circus parade, which is still passing by.
Lampie jumps off her barrel and runs between legs, past fire-eaters and stilt-walkers; she squeezes past warm, drunken bodies, jumps over someone who is lying on the ground—maybe sleeping—and then she is there.
Phe-no-men-al Freaks, she reads slowly; the letters are yellow and black and flaming red. Beneath the letters are painted pictures of a fat lady with a beard, a dwarf with a head that is far too big, and a woman with Fish’s eyes. She has wild green hair and a fish’s tail. It’s a mermaid. A real one! Could she be inside the tent?
In the ticket booth, a very fat man is resting his head on his hands and shouting in a hoarse and bored voice: “Monsters and frrreaks…Only a quarter…Phenooomenaaal frrrreaks…Roll up, roll up! Come and see the freaks!” He has a strange eye, and his arms are enormous and covered in tattoos. “Behold the quirks of nature! The bearded lady, the Siamese twins, two heads, oh yes, all the way from Russia. The bird-woman and a maiden of the sea. Don’t put your fingers in the water! Only a quarter!”
Lampie fingers the quarter in her pocket. She hesitates. What about the candyfloss?
Inside the tent her eyes take a moment to get used to the semi-darkness. On the floor, a path of canvas leads past various alcoves, each illuminated with a lamp. She is all alone—everyone else is outside, watching the parade. Lampie can hear the shouts and laughter.
In the first alcove, there is a cage with a small, feathered woman inside, perched on a stool. She looks like a child, but she is old and almost bald. Her dark, beady eyes look straight into Lampie’s face.
“Hello,” whispers Lampie.
“Hello, child.” She has a piercing, high-pitched voice. “Feel free to take a look. That’s what I’m here for.”
“Um, I’m looking for the mermaid,” says Lampie shyly.
“Oh, her. Down the corridor on the left, in the tank at the back. But there’s not much to see, and she doesn’t talk either. I do. It’s nice to have a chat, eh? Or would you like me to whistle something for you?”
“No, thank you,” says Lampie, quickly walking on, past the next alcove, where the fat bearded lady is sitting in a chair, quietly snoring. She reminds Lampie of someone, but she can’t quite remember who. As Lampie tiptoes past, so as not to wake her up, the woman suddenly opens her eyes and looks at her. She stands up, and it seems as if she is about to say something, but Lampie hurries on, past a sad-looking man who is so tall that his head is touching the top of the tent, past two old ladies who have only one pair of legs between them, and a hairy creature that is sitting at a desk, writing. She feels naked and uncomfortable; the Phenomenal Freaks are all looking at her too.
Fish would fit right in, thinks Lampie. Sitting here all day and being gawped at. She gets angry at the thought of it. People just have to take the time to get used to him. Then he doesn’t seem so scary anymore, and he’s almost not really that strange either. After all, she got used to him, didn’t she? But people don’t come into this tent to change their minds; they come to be frightened. A quick “Eek!” and then off to the next attraction.
Eek! She jumps.
There is a dwarf around the corner. Loose, not in a cage or anything. He is smoking a cigarette, and he gives her an angry look.
“Hey, nothing to see here. I’m on my break. Go on, move along.” He gestures with his large head.
“Um…I’m looking for the mermaid, sir.”
The dwarf points over his shoulder. “In the back. Have fun.”
He sucks long and hard on his cigarette.
The aquarium at the back of the tent is surrounded by wild scenes painted on sheets of wood. Mermaids with sharp teeth and swishing tails are fighting giant fish. They are armed with tridents, and blood is spurting out from the places where they have stabbed the fish. Golden eyes flash dangerously; scales glisten.
Something is floating inside the tank. The water is dirty and green, so Lampie can’t really see very much in there. What she can see, though, has a tail and green hair too. Or is it seaweed floating in the water? The skin is gray; the tail is covered with algae and barnacles, like driftwood that has been rotting away in the water for a long time. That’s what it smells like too.
Lampie goes closer. She wants to see the mermaid’s face. The poor creature only just fits inside the tank, and she has hardly any room to swim or to stretch her tail.
Lampie wants to leave. It’s creepy here, and sad. And it smells so bad. But she takes a deep breath, not through her nose, and goes one step closer. There is no movement in the water. She places a hand on the glass.
Go on, turn around, she thinks. I need to know. I need to know for Fish.
“Hello! Wakey wakey! You have a visitor!”
Lampie jumps at the sound of the dwarf’s voice. He is standing right behind her with his hands on his hips.
The mermaid jumps too. With a wild movement of her hair, she whirls around. Water splashes out of the tank. She glares at Lampie, with her face right up against the glass. Just as angry as Fish can sometimes look. Because yes, she has exactly the same eyes.
eyes
Edward lies panting under his bed. The muscles in his arms are shaking. But there is no time to rest: he has to stand up, he has to stand up. He has to! He slept badly and, when he did manage to sleep, he had strange, restless dreams. But that is no excuse, of course.
Finally, for once, he has to walk downstairs by himself. On his own legs. And his father will stand at the foot of the stairs, his mouth wide open with surprise. No, no, he won’t be surprised; he’ll just nod and smile at his son.
A man’s job! I had my doubts, but it turns out that you’re made of the right stuff after all. Bravo, Fish.
Edward! Edward! He has become completely used to the stupid name that the stupid child keeps using. But it is not his name. His name is the same as his father’s! Another week to go, or maybe three days, or it could be tomorrow.
His father has gray eyes with the sea in them; his cheeks are rough from the wind. Edward would like to look at that face all day long, until he knows every hair, every wrinkle by heart, to make up for all those months when he doesn’t see him.
But there was never enough time.
After just half an hour, the admiral would start to become restless again, picking things up and putting them down. Sitting at his desk. Writing something down. While Edward still had so much to tell him, to ask him, to show him.
Behind him, Joseph would start shuffling his feet and mumbling that it really was time to go now.
“We won’t hold you up any longer, sir. You must have all manner of things to do, of course.”
His father would then mutter back something along the lines of, “Yes, yes,” or, “It’s sad, but true,” and would stand up from his chair. And then the best part would com
e. But also the worst, because it was always the last part. His father would walk over to him, reach out his hand and take hold of him, just under his chin, and look at him with narrowed eyes, as if searching for something in his son’s face. One time he had even briefly placed his hand on Edward’s head. He can still remember exactly which time, and how big the hand had been, and how heavy. It did not happen again, no matter how much he hoped.
“Well, make sure you do your very best,” the admiral had said. “The next time, I want to see you standing.”
“I promise, Father,” he had said in a voice that was as deep and manly as possible. But he was already talking to his father’s back.
“I need to talk to you later, Joseph,” said the back.
Taking one last look, Edward would try to remember as much as possible: the figure standing by the desk, the desk itself, the cases full of insects and butterflies, the masks on the wall, the stuffed animals and, oh, the tiger, the tiger on the floor! There was never enough time. Then Joseph would shut the door and carry him upstairs.
Usually the admiral stayed at home for only a few days. He ate there and slept there and had a dinner party or two. Then the boy would listen so carefully all day, trying to catch something of what was happening downstairs. But not much sound reached all the way to the room in the tower.
While he waited, he would take out all his most interesting books, his neatest essays, his finest maps.
“Ah, lad,” Joseph would say, when he saw that Edward, pale with exhaustion, was doing extra practice, skipping sleep, and constantly looking at the door. “I’ll ask him. But he’s busy—you know that.”
The admiral never came upstairs.
After a few days, he always went back to sea. For a year, sometimes shorter. Usually longer. Much longer, it seems this time. He has already lost count.