by Carol Birch
When everyone sat, the band struck up something jolly, and the waiters poured champagne. The table was beautifully adorned with flowers and silver and starched white linen. Julia was very careful, sipping slowly. The music calmed her down. She didn’t know the tune, but it was so spirited that her head began to sway and her ankle to jog, and the Major leaned down toward her.
“You like the music?” he asked.
“It’s wonderful,” she said.
The Major’s eyes were sad and wet and drooped down at the outer corners. He smiled. Leaning across her, he struck up a conversation with Beach about the antiquity of the band and all the great occasions it had graced. Julia drank. The bubbles went up her nose, half stung, half tickled. How terrible if she sneezed. But her control was perfect. Since that horrible time with the children she’d been practicing dignity every day, diligently and persistently as if it were a musical instrument she was learning. The little wife, still eagerly smiling, was nodding at her very quickly like an inquisitive parrot. Tight-corseted, erect, Julia smiled back. The dancers lined up.
“My dear, this Charlotte Russe is simply delicious,” said a hawk-nosed officer, “may I help you to some?”
She declined politely. She was too excited to eat.
“I’ve never seen such beautiful dresses,” she blurted out.
“And your own, Miss Pastrana.” The Major’s wife reached across and laid her hand on Julia’s arm. “It’s very charming. A little bird told me you made it yourself. Is that so?”
“I’ve always made my own clothes,” Julia said.
“Very skillful! Such lovely embroidery.”
“Thank you.”
She felt like laughing. It just all seemed so funny, these polished people wanting her as their guest of honor, all wanting to touch her, say they’ve met her, yes, she actually spoke to them. And all because of her face. But inside her face she felt ordinary, and there was nothing she could tell any of them. She drank. Careful. Not too much. The second cotillion was announced. A young officer with silky hair and smooth face approached the table, saluted smartly and bowed low.
“Miss Pastrana,” he said, blushing deeply, “will you honor me with your hand for this dance?”
“I’m so sorry,” she said, “I’m afraid I don’t know this dance at all. I really must decline.” She wasn’t going to make a fool of herself getting it wrong. When she danced it would be something she was sure of. The officer bowed and departed. One more glass of champagne, she thought, and she’d be ready. She wouldn’t drink after that. She politely refused three more dances, waiting for the waltz, but when it came the old Major got in first, rising gallantly, taking her hand and leading her onto the floor, right out into the center. From the corners of her eyes she was aware of the other couples, so much taller and surer than she was. The band played “Wild Roses,” and they swept into the dance. Of course, once they started, she was fine. This she could do as well as any, better than most. So around the floor they swirled and swirled, her dress one more petal among the rest, to the dignified sweep of the waltz. The old boy was a good dancer. He looked into her eyes as they danced, smiling. He was close to death, she thought. Already his eyes were far away, fading out as if they’d been left too long in a window and the sun had bleached them.
“Are you enjoying this evening?” he asked.
“Very much,” she replied. And she was.
“You are very graceful, my dear,” he said when the dance ended, and he led her back to her seat.
They were queuing up after that. First she danced the schottische with a bright young lieutenant with red hair and a cockeyed grin. When they got on the dance floor she saw him lose his nerve for a second, saw him truly see her for the first time up close, face to face. His own face changed from pink to white to red in the space of a few seconds. Poor boy, she thought. If I smile now so close to his face it’ll scare him witless. So she tried to keep the smile to the eyes only, and said gently, “Don’t worry. It’s not for very long.”
“Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no, Miss Pastrana,” he stammered, “you are mistaken—”
The music began.
“It’s perfectly all right,” she said. “I won’t bite you.”
He plastered a smile across his face, took a deep breath and steeled himself. But as they danced his smile became real, and soon he was laughing as they hopped about. “You can certainly dance!” he called above the noise. “You never miss!”
“Of course not!” She laughed too. It was like being at home dancing with one of the boys on the patio after everyone had had one drink too many.
He brought his face close to hers as they turned. He’ll tell this story over and over, she thought. “This is a real schottische,” he said. “One two three, jump, one two…”
“Yes!” she said, keeping time perfectly.
“I enjoyed that so much,” he said when it was over, and kissed her hand before he led her back to the table. Bowing, he backed away with a besotted smile as if she were royalty. Another came at once. Another waited. Beach was grinning like a fool.
“I’m having such a good time,” she said, and everyone laughed as if she’d said something hilarious and very clever.
Another came. Another. She danced over and over again. Some of the men were young; some were handsome. And there was one, serious and pale, unsure of his feet, who counted under his breath and shot quick awkward smiles at her when he wasn’t looking down at the floor. His lips were childish, his hair long, and the touch of his palm against hers was unlike anything she’d known or imagined. The strangest thing, a sensation in her skin and bones, a sweet tearfulness in the breast, the kind she got from the songs she sang. The feeling lingered when the incident had flown.
As they were leaving, a beautiful young girl in a lavender gown ran up to her. “Oh, Miss Pastrana!” she cried, bouncing on the balls of her feet, “I’m so happy you could come—may I kiss you?”
“Of course.”
The girl gave a smothered little shriek of delight, stooped and placed a kiss on Julia’s cheek. “Oh, my my!” she said, “I am so happy,” and danced away back to her admiring friends while the onlookers chuckled and tinkled applause, though for whom was unclear.
Back at the hotel she lay with her head spinning, the memories already taking form. She imagined them old and precious, finding words for the story she’d tell herself again and again the further away they got. The Ball. The Night of the Ball. When she danced again and again, and some of the men were young, and some handsome. And everyone loved her because she made them so glad they were themselves and not her. She held onto Yatzi and smiled in the dark. And that boy, she thought. That boy. When I’m old I’ll remember him. In another place he thinks of me. She sees his face clear, not special but somehow wonderful. He waits in the entrance to the hotel, in the shadows, and, when she comes down, steps forward. He sees her soul. That’s when her imagination gives way.
Rose liked to sleep in the afternoon when it rained, stretched full out on the red sofa, head on the cushion, whisper of wet leaves just beyond the window, gurgle of a drain. In one hand she clutched a plastic horse, in the other a dirty leopard Beanie Baby. Tattoo was cradled in the nook of her arm under the thin Indian bedspread. She was not really asleep but not awake either. The gas fire hummed.
She was wandering about in that place she went to on rainy afternoons. Under the trees, trying to sustain it till she could reach the castle with the drawbridge, which she knew was there because she’d glimpsed it a couple of times but never got close enough to take a good look. If you pushed on too far, the whole thing just faded away. It was like trying to see seven separate stars in the Pleiades and ending up with just a smudge on the sky. She could, however, stay as long as she wanted in the wood. She always entered by the southern fence, approached across a yellowing field. For a long time she’d had to crawl under the barbed wire, but she’d put a gate in a few years ago, and now just lifted the latch. There were logs lying about on the
edge of the wood, fallen branches, usually a few bluebells and some wild garlic. The weather was always still and mild. The trees were not that dense here, and there were two paths, one to the left, the one she always took. The path to the right didn’t look any different, but for some reason she never went that way. It wasn’t something she gave any thought to, apart from a vague unhurried sense that she’d take it one day. If you followed the usual path the woods soon grew hushed and holy, high-roofed like a cathedral. It was never so wild as to be impenetrable but always lush. Wildflowers scented the air; ivy stormed over trees and rambling roots. The undergrowth was low and moist. As the woods deepened, there was no sense of a world beyond. There were people somewhere in here, she thought, but she’d never met any. She’d glimpsed creatures. Off in a pollen-dusty glade, a fallow deer, poised. She heard birds, a serene echoing, murmurous as water far away. A stag beetle crossed the path. At last she came to the place where she always stopped and rested. Ancient trees stood at respectful distances from one another. Between them, sinuous green clearings rolled out as if shaken, and the roots of the trees were gigantic, cushioned with starry green moss you could lie down on and fall asleep. She usually fell asleep in the end. Only occasionally did she keep her eyes open and, later maybe, move on to the place where the land opened up, and the little bridge crossed to the moated castle, the drawbridge down, welcoming.
Someone banged on the door.
Damn them.
When she opened her eyes the room was unrecognizable, resolved into its shapes with all dimensions removed. Rap, rap, rap. Then the shapes reangled themselves into a different perspective, and for a moment a great high-edificed city with thoroughfares and byways spread out in front of her. But it was gone in a moment, leaving only stuff.
Rap, rap. “Rose!”
I’m not in, she thought.
“Rose!”
Bloody Laurie. If you knock on someone’s door three times and they don’t answer, they’re either out or they don’t want to open the door. You don’t go on banging and shouting.
Rap, rap.
Sod off. She sat up, leaning forward with a frown, slipping her feet into a pair of patchwork slippers. A couple of minutes later she heard him turn and go back downstairs. She had sharp ears and knew all the sounds of this house, the creakings of particular stairs, the sighings of particular doors. When she was sure he was out of the house, she got up and shuffled over to the mantelpiece for her tobacco. Bang goes sleep. Her big toe, the long nail pointed and purple, stuck out of a hole in one of the slippers.
Laurie could go jump. Too many rows lately. If you could call them that, him nagging on about her stuff as if it had anything to do with him, and she endlessly telling him to give her peace. Anyway, whatever happened to that nice casual no-strings thing?
Her face in the mirror was scarily plain and blank, all the makeup rubbed off her eyes. She looked like no one she knew. Once, in madness, she’d thought it could work but of course it couldn’t. It was lust only, never meant to last. Touching him used to be an electric thrill, now it was a shudder. Now her flesh crept apologetically when his clumsy great hand brushed the side of her breast. Oh, here we go again, she’d think, and he sensed it. She was glad he was married. He couldn’t blame her for backing off now, could he? She’d let him in tomorrow, or tonight if he came back maybe, so long as he didn’t moan. But she wasn’t giving up this sleepy rainy afternoon.
She opened a cupboard. Halva. Absinthe. Sugar. Some Dunkaroos from her brother in America. Absinthe. Yes. She turned up the gas fire. Listen to it teeming down. Outside the window was a green garden washed with rain.
She’d shaken thousands of hands and spoken to hundreds of people over the past couple of years, since leaving home; most just wanted to stare and ask the same old things. How are you? Are you happy? Unhappy? Do you wish you were like other people? They looked so closely, they didn’t really hear what she replied. I’m like others, she’d say. Sometimes happy, sometimes not. What’s the point of wishing? Things are as they are. My life is more interesting now. I travel. Meet people. Her real feelings, too hard to describe, were that life was not back there at home but somewhere ahead, so there was no other way, she’d keep moving. Let them look, yes, yes, I’m real and so are you, let’s look at each other. Off they’d go, amazed she could talk, having gazed so much they hadn’t really seen her at all. And she’d cry at nights, remembering young men she’d danced with and the faces of children throwing stones, quake at her insecurity, the vagueness of time, but still sing and dance and carry on.
When Theo Lent called, she had no idea at first that he was anything other than a regular rube, though one rich enough to afford a private audience. Beach just said it was a gentleman to see her, showed him in, introduced them and withdrew. They were in the upstairs parlor of a house on Broome Street in New York, a place used entirely by show people. Christmas was past. Snow fell softly, drifting past the window, and a good fire billowed in the grate.
“Miss Pastrana,” he said, holding her eyes very firmly, smiling in a businesslike yet disarmingly boyish way, “I’ve been wanting to meet you for a very long time.” She wasn’t wearing her veil, but he obviously knew what to expect and showed no sign at all of being unsettled.
“Surely not so long,” she replied as they sat down. Her first impression was of a smug overgrown schoolboy, twinkly-eyed and dressed like a swell but a little shabby.
“Yes,” he said, “so long.”
He leaned toward her, bringing his face so close to hers she could smell his clean eager breath. His neat round face was cheerful, black hair combed high above his forehead. “I saw you at the Stuyvesant last night,” he said, “a remarkable performance! Wonderful!”
“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” Julia said.
“Miss Pastrana,” he said, coming closer still, “oh, look at you, Miss Pastrana.” His intensity was ridiculous.
She looked away, excited and slightly alarmed, almost thinking he was going to kiss her. There’s some madness in him, she thought.
“Outrageous,” he said. “Completely outrageous.”
“What is?”
“The things they say.”
“What things?”
“I can quote.” He sat back. So did she, thankfully, a faint quivery sensation growing inside. “ ‘Eyes like the owl. Gifted with speech. The link between mankind and the ourang-outang.’ ”
“That was Dr. Mott.”
“I know.”
“But they all say different things. The one in Boston said I was human.”
“Your eyes are nothing like the owl,” he said. He never stopped smiling. “How many wise men have you seen?”
“Wise men?”
“Doctors. Fellows with fancy education and tripe for brains.”
“I lost count.”
“I’m a showman, Miss Pastrana.” Mr. Lent leaned forward again but this time more casually, swinging one arm over his knee in a movement of practiced ease that managed to be all wrong. “Let’s not beat about the bush,” he said. “Have you considered Europe?”
She drew back, surprised. “Europe?”
“London. Paris. Rome.” He tossed the words like winning cards. “Did you know Tom Thumb played for the Queen of England? The Emperor Napoleon turned out for Maximo and Bartola. They’ve dined with every duke and duchess from St. Petersburg to Madrid.” He stared fanatically into her eyes. “Why not you, Miss Pastrana?”
“I haven’t thought about it,” she said.
“Then do, Miss Pastrana. Do.”
She looked into the fire. He talked as if he was acting. “Europe,” she said softly. Far away, grand, sophisticated, old. Where Cato was going. Where they all came from, the Poles, the Italians, the Irish, the Germans, all the different accents and faces of the cities she dipped in and out of.
“Five times now I’ve watched you perform,” he said. “Five times I’ve been amazed. You have great talent. Great talent.”
“I don’t,”
she said. “I do have some talent, it’s true, but I wouldn’t call it great.”
“I would.”
She glanced at him. “You’re very kind, Mr. Lent.”
“No,” he said, leaning toward her again, “I’m not a particularly kind man. But I do know my business. Miss Pastrana—”
The future had seemed as far away as the past till now, but somewhere deep in her mind it began to take shape.
“Don’t you know how rare you are?” He laughed, a sudden boyish undisciplined giggle. “How wonderful?”
Julia turned away and smiled. She wasn’t usually the one who looked away first, but now she’d done it twice. His zeal was embarrassing.
“I was born into this business,” he said. “I cut my teeth on it. I promise you, I will make you rich and famous. I promise you.”
She looked back at him seriously. “Have you spoken to Mr. Beach?” she asked.
“I have.” He had the tone of a man for whom everything is simple, worked out like a tricky equation. “I’ll pay him whatever he wants.”
She looked away.
“I have money, Julia,” he said quietly. She was a little taken aback by his easy use of her first name. She’d been saving a bit. She hadn’t thought about making more. “Money is no object,” he said. “Whatever you’re getting now, I’ll double it in a year. I’ll triple it. The future’s not here, it’s over there. And I have contacts.”
Yes, she thought. This is it. The future. It’s over there.
“Julia,” he said. “You’ll dine with kings.”
In a flash, it came back again: home, Solana, her room, the stone seat, the steps. Glowworms hovering in the dark outside the gate, the fig tree dropping fruit on the cobbles. But this time she knew beyond doubt that she’d never go back. Oh, St. Jude, is this your doing? I promise to forever remember your great favor, forever increase devotion to you…
“Kings,” she said thoughtfully. “I wonder if they’re nice?”
Mr. Lent laughed.
It was Theo and Julia, not Mr. Lent and Miss Pastrana. From the very first, he insisted. She was his sole client. She was all he needed, he said.