Lucía Zárate: The odyssey of the world’s smallest woman

by Cecilia Velástegui

  Although no one had yet seen Lucía in person, everyone seemed to be talking about her. The Creoles queued enthusiastically to buy tickets to see her at the Academy of Music, telling each other that “dat petite Lucía is sure boo-coo charman.” It took Zoila a while to realize they meant beaucoup charmante, or simply enchanting.

  The first in line were the snotty rich girls and their overworked nannies. In this city, pampered girls demanded that their life-size dolls, their Bébé Jumeau, be sent from Paris along with an expensive trousseau of velvet dresses, hats embellished with fur and feathers, not to mention parasols and purses. These coddled little girls were not satisfied with just one or two changes of clothing for their dolls; soon they were demanding that their local seamstresses sew outfits for their dolls that matched their own expertly tailored outfits. To them, Lucía seemed like a doll come to life.

  Some of the pre-teen girls even demanded that their daddies buy them an automaton doll from the Jaquet-Droz* family in Switzerland: they wanted to be the first to own an organ-playing doll or a doll that wrote up to forty letters with a fine goose feather and ink. If their fathers could be seen at the Pickwick Club, they reasoned, trotting out their pocket watches and bragging about their exacting Swiss movements, then surely their daughters deserved to have dolls with equal Swiss precision.

  Ultimately, being the first girl in upper-class New Orleans to show-off her daddy’s wealth with a bisque-headed doll with a skin tone as creamy as hers, and whose clothing was as sublimely tailored as hers, was simply not enough. The rich girls coveted more. They’d give an eye-tooth to feast their eyes on Lucía in action, to twirl her long brown ringlets around their gloved hands, to pinch her scrawny arm and hear her cry.

  Within this entitled milieu, among all these spoiled-brats, Lucía appeared to be a flawless foreign doll into which a master toymaker had blown an extra amount of energy—and magic. Her implausible size stunned everyone, as though they’d been struck by lightning, but it was Lucía’s instinctive vivaciousness that truly impressed all. On June 2 of 1876, the New Orleans Republican newspaper published an effusive article describing Lucía’s star quality:

  One of the most remarkable human beings ever seen in this country, or perhaps in any other, arrived in this city last week, and is stopping at the St. Charles Hotel. She is twenty inches high, and is said to weigh scarcely more than five pounds. Imagine a French doll walking and talking to you, and some idea of her appearance can be had. Standing on a parlor floor her head reaches about the seat of an ordinary chair, and yet her limbs and body are in all respects well proportioned. She has bright, black eyes, and is intelligent. She runs and plays about in the room as if she enjoyed her little life.

  When Lucía heard the review, she bounced for joy around her hotel room. “Is that it? Is there any more?” she asked, and Zoila hesitated for a moment. The journalist had made some catty comments—The only thing out of line with her size is her nose; that was evidently made for a larger girl, but it will do—that Zoila had chosen not to read aloud. She knew, first-hand, the negative impact of hearing mean-spirited comments about her girth, and she wanted Lucía’s first public appearance to be a joyful happy event.

  “That’s all, I’m afraid,” she told Lucía, and her charge flashed her a broad grin, demanding to hear the newspaper’s words of praise again. After reading the article for the third time to Lucía, Zoila asked, “Can you point to the word that spells out your name?

  Lucía was an eager learner. She’d taken to Zoila’s reading and writing lessons on the voyage from Veracruz, and she insisted on continuing her daily lessons. She was quick to spot her name in the heading of the newspaper article, and to point to a word she recognized if the print size was large.

  “That word says ‘French’!” she exclaimed, and Zoila smiled.

  “You’re very good at finding words that begin with capital letters, but that’s not all there is to reading. We’ll continue our lesson later today, OK? Now let’s get ready for your fitting at the dressmakers.”

  “I hope the dressmaker found the tiny feathers I wanted.” Lucía was desperate to get little feathers for her pink-velvet crown hat. She gazed at her reflection in the mirror that Zoila had placed on top of the steamer trunk, but she was far-sighted and couldn’t make out her face clearly.

  “Am I comely?” she asked Zoila.

  “Of course you are,” Zoila reassured her, “but remember what I told you. Sometimes journalists write nice things about you and sometimes they don’t. They only want to sell newspapers so—”

  “So I shouldn’t focus on my imperfections, on the darkness of this mirror” Lucía turned her back to the mirror and pointed up to the ceiling. “I should focus on the goodness of the light. Isn’t that right, Zoila?”

  Lucía’s maturity astonished Zoila. How could she express these deep thoughts so eloquently? One would have thought that the venomous hothouse of small village life, with its many tormentors browbeating her for being so tiny, a mythical chaneque, would have crushed Lucía’s self-image. The bullies should have stomped on the frail petals of this precious orchid. Instead, Lucía had blossomed. She understood human frailties, and accepted her own uniqueness.

  This resilience had become evident to Zoila a few days earlier, when she and Lucía arrived at the St. Charles Hotel. The Greek Revival building, rebuilt after a massive fire in 1851 that destroyed it opulent cupola, was impressive and imposing, its monumental Corinthian columns dwarfing its guests. For a big woman, Zoila felt insignificant within all this splendor; for the first hour she lost her bluster and confidence. But Lucía, fearless as ever, wanted to run up and down the hallways of the elegant hotel. She smiled and waved at all the guests.

  Zoila soon regained her footing. She reminded herself that this was only a large building on a very busy commercial street, and her father had instilled her with self-reliance—no matter where she traveled.

  When she noticed that the hotel bellboys and staff kowtowed to her because of the money the Yankee agent must have paid for the room, she realized that this New Orleans hotel served the mercantile class. That meant it was no different from any of the trading houses in Paplanta. There was nothing to fear. Her father’s motto of cherchez l’argent seemed to apply to any potentially profitable transaction, and that was exactly what Lucía represented to all her handlers—a big, fat profit. And Zoila was one of those handlers; interested in the money she could make— as much as she didn’t want to admit it.

  Once they were settled inside their small room, Lucía clambered onto the furniture in order to peek out toward Canal Street. She pointed at the Clio streetcar traveling from Canal Street onto St. Charles Avenue.

  “Zoila,” she said, “do you remember what my brother said about me and streetcars?”

  “No, I don’t,” Zoila said, folding one of Lucía’s tiny nightgowns. “But we won’t be riding any streetcars here. You’re supposed to stay indoors until your appearance at the theatre later this week.”

  “Oh, phooey,” Lucía said. “I just want to prove Sebastián wrong. I am not a rat and I will not get run over by a streetcar.”

  Lucía reached up and hugged Zoila. She was laughing, but tears welled up in her almond-shaped eyes.

  “New Orleans is a very busy city,” she said. “You won’t let anything happen to me, will you?”

  “I promise to stay very close to you and protect you.”

  Lucía pouted. “But on the ship you did leave me alone and the brujo came up to me and told me to give you a message.”

  Zoila’s blood boiled at the mention of a sorcerer. “What brujo?” she demanded.

  “The one who boarded the ship in Veracruz. He knew your name…that’s why I talked to him.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me sooner? What did he say to you?” Zoila’s heart was thumping.

  Lucía was playing, hiding behind the thick damask curtains, so her voice was muffled.

  “The brujo said: ‘Beware of those closest to you, my pu
ny chaneque.’ Lucía was imitating the sorcerer’s deep voice and lilting cadence. “Then I told him, ‘On this boat, I’m only close to Zoila…and now you.’ And he laughed at me and said, ‘Precisely, chaneque!’ Then he disappeared.”

  Zoila was angry with herself: she should never have left Lucía alone for a moment on board. She’d exposed her to this sorcerer, who had the nerve to insult Lucía by calling her chaneque.

  “What do you mean that the brujo disappeared?” she asked. Lucía twirled the curtain around her body.

  “He disappeared just like this.” Lucía’s body was now completely hidden by the damask drapes. “He went poof! I never saw him again.”

  Zoila wasn’t convinced. “Now don’t be a silly girl. Where did the brujo go?”

  “Brujos can disappear or change shapes, but chaneques can take your soul away. Did you know that?”

  Lucía’s smothered voice was so startling, that Zoila hurried over to untangle the drape and lift her tiny charge free of its folds. Lucía’s ringlets were tangled and the collar of her gown was wrinkled. Her eyes had glazed over again.

  Zoila hadn’t had much choice when she left Lucía alone on the boat: she needed to track down the Yankee, who was on another deck. When she ran up the rickety stairs to find him, she heard that he’d just strolled downstairs. Zoila was sure he was avoiding her because she had again demanded payment of her six month’s salary as soon as their doctored boarding documents had passed inspection in Veracruz. The master of the vessel had produced more bogus documents once the ship arrived in New Orleans, and shortly thereafter the Yankee agent had taken Zoila and Lucía to the St. Charles Hotel—without giving Zoila her full salary.

  Before he left the hotel, Zoila had tried again.

  “Sir, can you please tell me our schedule in New Orleans so I can prepare Lucía?”

  “I’ll tell you on a need-to-know basis, woman,” he snapped. “You’re here to make sure that Lucía has the finest clothes for her shows. I don’t care if you teach her to read or write like you promised her whining mother.”

  He flung a scrap of paper at Zoila.

  “Here’s the name of a Frenchy seamstress that sews doll’s clothes up near the cathedral on Royal Street.”

  Zoila glanced at the scribbled notes. “It appears that we will be interviewed by journalists in a couple of days. Shall I tell them that I am Lucía’s governess?”

  The Yankee agent picked his front teeth with his long pinkie fingernail. “Hell, no one gives a hoot about a whale of a woman like you. Just you be her mouthpiece ‘till she learns American.”

  He scratched Lucía’s head with his dirty pinkie

  “They’re only interested in Lucía, ain’t that right, girl?” He whistled at Lucía as if she were his hound and they were heading out to hunt.

  His words stung Zoila. She was working for the worse kind of human, cruel and uncouth. She felt the cheap shot, both on Lucía’s behalf and her own: he’d insulted them with one scratch of his filthy pinky. Once again Zoila felt ostracized because of her girth, and not even Felipe’s consoling palpitation assuaged her hurt. The Yankee agent’s hateful dart wounded her, penetrating her armadillo armor, but it also fortified her sharp-as-a-tack intellect. If Lucía’s future success was significant to the agent’s pocketbook, then it was up to Zoila to take advantage of his weakness. She resolved to continue to pick his pocket as slyly as possible. Her fingers, much stouter and stronger than his pinkies, knew how to strike back.

  The Yankee was talking on and on. “I hired you to make my life simple. All you have to do is take care of my gold mine, make her look good, and teach her a few tricks—”

  “Lucía is a very bright girl, sir, not a circus dog act, and—”

  The Yankee grasped Zoila by her generous double-chin and shook it hard. “You watch your tongue, woman, or I’ll assign the care of this here lil’ gal to one of my men. They ain’t as hoity-toity as you, they don’t speak no Spanish or Fran-say, but they’ll get her to dance and act real nice-like to the folks who pay to see her.”

  He tried to pat Lucía’s head again, but she’d burrowed under the fluffy pillows of the sofa, out of reach. Zoila smiled at him as if his insulting pinch was a friendly pat.

  “Oh, I do understand you, sir. You can count on me to have Lucía ready for her audiences. In fact, we have her final fitting at the seamstress in two days.” Zoila widened her smile. “Will you be giving me the money to pay for the seamstress and the cobbler, sir?”

  “Money, money, money. Is that all you talk about, woman?”

  Zoila shook her head. “I only want to follow your instructions. And since you want the very best for Lucía, then I shall need to pay for these services.”

  “Fine.” He turned his back on Zoila, and counted his money, then turned back to hand her the wad. “Make it last, you hear?”

  In the hectic days after their arrival, a group of journalists, civic leaders, and society ladies had arrived at the hotel to interview Lucía. A certain Mrs. Belknap had attempted to fit her sweaty big toe in one of Lucía’s shoes. A reporter announced that the size of his fist was larger than Lucía’s entire head. But Lucía’s sense of humor won the crowd over. The New Orleans Republican reported:

  She runs and plays about in the room as if she enjoyed her little life, and salutes and bids adieu to her guests with evident propriety. In the way of a joke she offered to carry a fat reported on her back, and stooping over asked to climb on her shoulders.

  Lucía also charmed the French seamstress and her staff who measured her and cooed over her. But today, the morning of her final fitting, Zoila couldn’t get Lucía to budge from the beneath the downy sofa pillows.

  “Lucía, we have to go. You have your first performance at the Academy of Music in two days, and you need to have something beautiful to wear. Come on, up you go!”

  Lucía’s eyes were open but curiously vacant, as though she was in some kind of trance. Zoila had noticed this same far-away countenance on the voyage, and again, in their hotel room, on other occasions. Lucía seemed to be able to transport her mind elsewhere, particularly at times when the people around her talked as if she wasn’t present. For the first time since meeting Lucía, Zoila felt a pang of compassion for the challenges her small charge faced. Seeing her expressionless face, her eyes as glassy and inert as the famous Parisienne dolls arriving by the box load in New Orleans from Paris, Zoila began to understand that Lucía’s luminous personality also had its obsidian mirror image. Dull and dark and bottomless.

  This worried Zoila. What if she couldn’t train Lucía to be her sparkling self during her performance—her levée, as the assembly was known—in two days’ time? What if Lucía’s detachment from her surroundings was an ominous sign, proof of the true evil nature of a chaneque? Would the Yankee fire Zoila on the spot if she could not guarantee Lucía’s success?

  The tug of war inside Zoila’s chest had to stop. One side urged her to stay and be softhearted with Lucía, while the other side reminded her to be self-serving. She’d once promised Felipe to always take care of him, and she failed. Now her father’s strong palpitations told her to flee.

  “Take the money and run,’ she could hear him mock her. “You’re not getting any younger or thinner. Leave the little shrimp in New Orleans. Set yourself up somewhere else, like New York. Did I bring you up to be a hummingbird or a fox?”

  Zoila allowed Lucía to rest on the sofa. She walked over the window and leaned out, looking over the hectic street below. In her anxious state she thought for a moment that she saw the brujo and his malicious owl staring up at her window across the street. When she saw the streetcar, she thought she saw the Yankee agent glaring at her. When the streetcar continued on its turn up Canal Street, she was certain it crushed a rat.

  In the distance, beyond the levee, she could see the river, moving fast with a strong wind rippling the surface. She couldn’t focus on thoughts of traveling onwards to New York: her nerves were too rattled. The impendin
g storm reminded her of the recent hurricane-induced shipwreck that drowned an entire French opera company and its wealthy impresario, Charles Alhaiza*, en route to New Orleans.

  In her overwrought state, Zoila didn’t hear Lucía walk up behind her. She felt a tug at her skirt.

  “Come on, Zoila!” cried a high pitched voice. “Let’s go to the seamstress. Laissez les bons temps rouler! Is that the correct way of saying it?

  With just one clever sentence, her wee charge filled the room with joy. Zoila couldn’t help smiling.

  “That’s right, Lucía,” she said. “ Laissez les bons temps rouler—let the good times roll. That’s exactly what we should do. We’re in New Orleans, after all.”

  Lucía’s sudden spark of vivacity did not come out of the blue, as Zoila presumed. It smoldered at all times, febrile and fumy, within Lucía’s own internal kiln, and lay dormant until reignited by the crosswind of other people’s reactions and expectations. If others reacted with delight at the sight of Lucía, then she reciprocated with equal charm. Other times, her internal spark was inflamed by the raucous laughter and ridicule of strangers. Hearing taunts of “teensy troll” or “evil chaneque” made Lucía react with equal rudeness, even though it was precisely this short-fused, surly behavior that had frightened people in her village.

  Whenever Lucía transformed from a pleasant little fairy to an ill-mannered troll, she confirmed the villagers’ perception of her as a reckless chaneque. This is why her mother attempted to keep her indoors and away from strangers. Señora Zárate instinctively knew that any time Lucía reacted badly, her hostile behavior would be perceived as a curse upon the person who’d provoked her, and after that any bad event that occurred in the village would be attributed to Lucía’s chaneque temperament, to her retaliatory evil eye.

  Many strangers gasped with fear or shock when first confronted with Lucía’s minute form. These reactions made Lucía withdraw deeper into herself. She was, in every way, their equal, with the exception of her vastly reduced height and weight, but other people’s suspended breaths of fear almost knocked the wind out of her.