“Please Mr. Francis, we must call a doctor, please.”
“Nope.”
Zoila wanted to strike General Mite for his stony heart, but he made a gesture as if he was drinking out of a liquor bottle and added, “Tequila!”
“Are you saying that Lucía drank alcohol?” Zoila couldn’t believe it. Lucía leaned her head on Zoila’s shoulder, her eyes closed. “Is that what happened? Lucía is drunk?
“Yep.”
Mrs. Uffner walked by and started to laugh. “What, you didn’t know our little star likes a little hooch, a little nightcap?
“No, Madam. I did not know. I watch every move she makes. How can this have happened?”
“You can’t be everywhere, now can you?”
“But I am always next to her. She sleeps right next to me.” She stroked Lucía’s sticky hair. How could she have been unaware that Lucía had been drinking alcohol in the evenings? Lucía wrapped her arms around Zoila and let out a soft snore. Mrs. Uffner guffawed.
“She’s a sneaky little skunk, ain’t she?”
Zoila sat motionless. She heard Mrs. Uffner laugh louder and slap her own knee. “I done guess she overdid it tonight, didn’t she? Best get her to bed. She needs to be alert and happy when she meets President Hayes* tomorrow mornin.”
Frank Uffner’s thunderous voice rattled the guest house where the troupe was staying in Washington D.C.
“Zoila, you lazy cow! Why didn’t you keep an eye on Lucía?”
He stormed into the breakfast room, but the hungry little people didn’t stop munching their somewhat soft biscuits. They just kept dipping the crusty biscuit flakes along with their stubby fingers into a communal gravy bowl— and pretended they didn’t hear or see Frank Uffner fuming in their midst.
Frank Uffner struck his hand on the table top, spilling the sour milk that no one had drunk.
“What’s wrong with you people? Why didn’t you all stop Lucía from getting tight?”
The little people licked the gravy off their fingers, refusing to make eye contact with Frank Uffner. They didn’t want their gleeful eyes to give them away as the co-conspirators they all were. In town after town, one or another had slipped a thimble full of hooch to Lucía to make her drowsy enough to crawl into bed and leave them alone. Then they would revel in their own drunken naughtiness without the prying eyes of Zoila or the egotistical screeches Lucía made whenever she took over their cramped living space.
Frank Uffner grabbed the gravy bowl and swiped the remaining biscuits onto the floor.
“You little ingrates! The missus and I take care of yous like family and now you don’t show no respect. Who’s been giving Lucía the hooch?”
The little people kept their heads down in case a guilty giggle escaped from their mouths and revealed the revengeful satisfaction they all felt. For once, they all felt like a real family, a troupe of like-bodied friends who had accomplished a small victory against the queen bee, the prima donna, and Frank Uffner’s pet. Relishing their triumph over Lucía, not to mention temporarily humbling Frank Uffner, they silently colluded to keep their mouths shut, knowing full well that Frank Uffner’s hands were tied.
He wouldn’t strike them because it would be tantamount to scarring your medal-winning pointer or setter at the Chicago Dog Show. They recalled how joyous Frank Uffner had been when he read the first issue of Field and Stream magazine aloud to the troupe.
Back then he’d rejoiced and said, “Well, ain’t that somethin’? Somes have their award-winning bird dogs while I’ve got me my kennel full of midgets. Them others win their gold, silver and blue ribbons, while I rake in the greenbacks. Who’s more quick on the trigger, ya’ll?”
They had ignored him then, and they ignored him now. As if they’d all just telepathically communicated this memory of Frank Uffner gloating at stealing from them, insulting their intelligence and puncturing another hole in their already deflating egos, they refused to incriminate themselves by answering his questions. But Frank Uffner persisted.
“Which one of you wee morons told the newspaper about Lucía and the hooch? Here’s what the Daily Globe wrote: Lucía Zaráte drinks beer and champagne, and occasionally get tight.”
They remained tight lipped, studying General Mite’s composure and mimicking his morose nature. Frank Uffner caught them glancing at him, and grasped the General by the collar.
“Was it you who gave Lucía the hooch?” he demanded. “Is that why theys all looking at you?”
“Nope.”
“You’d best tell me, boy, if you know what’s good for you. Do you hear me?”
“Yep.”
“By golly, you’d best say more than just nope and yep.”
General Mite pulled away from Frank Uffer’s clutches.
“Gonna meet the President,” he said, and walked away. The rest of the troupe understood his clue and scrambled to get ready for the big day at the White House.
In their room, Zoila was struggling to curl Lucía’s brown tresses into the ringlets that she’d learn to toss around the stage like Medusa in a rage.
“Please sit still so I can curl your hair. I’m burning my fingertips on this hot curling rod.”
“It’s your job to make me look pretty, so do it.”
“Lucía, why are you behaving so cruelly?”
“Because I’m a chaneque, after all. People fear me here just like they used to fear me in Mexico.”
“I don’t fear you,” Zoila said with a sigh. She finished curling Lucía’s last tendril so it hung perfectly curled on her forehead.
“General Mite fears me,” Lucía complained. “Everyone says we are to be married soon, but he’s afraid of me and avoids me.”
“I think he feels embarrassed when you flirt with him so shamelessly. Besides, your father will not allow you to marry anyone at your young age.”
“I’m fifteen years old, and I will marry General Mite. I want to go live with him on the farm he’s planning to buy for his sweetheart. That’s going to be me—one way or another.”
Zoila pointed her index finger at Lucía. “That is exactly the type of remark that puts off others. Why don’t we just wait and see what happens between you and General Mite?”
“Phooey! Look at all the waiting you did and now you’re just an old-maid!”
“I’m losing my patience with you.” Zoila hated it when Lucía was rude to her. “Let’s finish dressing you and let’s talk about the proper comportment today when you meet the president of the United States.”
Lucía wiggled her toes before slipping her feet into her old leather shoes. “I’ve already met a president and a governor, so who cares?”
Zoila ignored Lucía’s insolence and attempted to review with her the proper way to curtsy in front of President Hayes. “This is how you lean forward with your left foot while at the same time you bend your right knee.” Zoila demonstrated it for her. “Can you do that?”
“I told you already,” Lucía said, twisting her face into a scowl. “I know what to do and what to say in front of presidents. Back in Veracruz, Governor Teodoro Dehesa asked to see me. He took one look at me, picked me up like bunch of ripe bananas and said that he wanted me to meet Porfirio Díaz, so I did.”
Zoila knelt down to slip on Lucía’s foot into her shoe. “Please don’t lie to me about meeting Don Díaz.”
“I did too meet Don Díaz!” Lucía kicked Zoila’s shoulder. “He’s the one who told Don Dehesa and my papá to introduce me to the Yankee agent at the port in Veracruz. Everyone wants a bite out of me. What’s your mordida? How much does Mr. Uffner pay you out of my own earnings?”
Lucía’s eyes teared up. Zoila tried to comfort her, but Lucía pushed her away. She ordered Zoila to slip her gold bracelets onto her wrists. Frank Uffner had purchased one genuine 14-carat bracelet for her and then later he’d rewarded her with additional gold-plated ones. He prided himself on instinctively knowing how to cheer her up, and he was correct. Lucía’s face lit up with each additiona
l shimmer of gold dangling from her wrists. The bracelets made her feel successful and grown-up, ready to marry General Mite.
Zoila coaxed Lucía into her bonnet with its pristine pheasant feather, but nothing seemed to shake Lucía out of her gloom. When Lucía whistled a forlorn tune familiar to Zoila, it stopped her dead in her tracks. Lucía was whistling the Totonac warning shrill, the same tune Felipe and his men whistled across deep ravines to warn of impending doom. It was their secret warning sign that poachers had arrived to steal their prized vanilla beans still drooping from their pale-yellow orchid vines.
“How did you remember the ancient Totonac whistle?” Zoila wanted to know, her voice quivering.
“You always whistle this tune before something bad happens.”
Zoila cleared her throat as if dislodging a fish bone. “I’m here to protect you, so nothing bad will happen. Now, you must cheer up! You’re off to meet the President of the United States, Don Hayes. What have you got to fear?”
“The brujo. Who else?”
“But we left the sorcerer back in New Orleans,” Zoila reminded her. “I’m sure the port authorities put him on a ship back to Veracruz by now. Don’t be silly.”
“You’re wrong, Zoila. The brujo whistles this same tune and I’ve been hearing it on the streets of all the cities we visit. He won’t be happy until he takes me with him. He needs his own chaneque to do his evil deeds for him.”
“But you’re always with me. I carry you in the market basket, all wrapped up, so no one sees you unless they pay Mr. Uffner to see you. How come I haven’t heard the whistle or seen the brujo?”
“But you did hear it,” Lucía insisted. “When we were in the photographer’s studio in New York City, you must have heard the non-stop whistle. Don’t lie to me. I’m not a child anymore.”
Zoila coughed loudly in an attempt to muffle her pounding chest and camouflage her own unease. Lucía was right. Zoila had heard whistling in the distance while she read a newspaper clipping that praised Julia Pastrana for her talent in chirping bird whistles to accompany her jaunty dances. Audiences worldwide clamored to hear her whistled tunes since they believed they were listening to all the animal sounds of the forests, the primal sounds this woman-beast must have retained in her brutish brain. Julia’s whistles added veracity to the many outrageous headlines describing her as a cross between a forest orangutan and a human. But on that ominous day at Eisenmann’s studio Zoila had not heard any jubilant tunes, only the anguished tune of Julia’s very human lament.
Within twenty-four hours of Lucía and General Mite’s visit to the White House, the newspapers printed Lucía’s every move; they even described her whereabouts in places she’d never been. The Evening Star’s January 27, 1879 coverage of her arrival to the White House, however, was spot on:
General Mite and Miss Lucía Zárate, the midgets, paid a visit to the White House to-day done up in shawls. They were taken to the room of Col. Rogers, the President’s private secretary. After being put down, and having their wraps removed, the General stalked in a dignified manner about the room shaking hands with all. Miss Lucía in a long train switched petulantly around and didn’t seem to care to have any attention paid her or to pay any attention to anyone. The President and Mrs. Hayes, Mrs. Skillman, Mr. Dudley, Miss McCook and Miss MCrary came in to see the two pigmies. The President’s younger children and most of the household also took a look at the little ones. Gen. Mite was very free in his hand shaking, but his companion after putting her morsel of a hand in those of the President and Mrs. Hayes seemed to think that she had done all that was required of her, and took to stamping her feet like a very small and a very cross baby. Gen. Mite like other men of prominence wants to set himself right before the public, so he took the opportunity to deny emphatically to The Star reporter the printed statement that he would not call at the White House because President Hayes was “fraudulently elected.” He wanted The Star man to make the denial strong. Before coming to the White House he sent word to the President that the statement that had been attributed to him was false, and that he would like to call and put himself right.
After hearing Frank Uffner read the newspaper account aloud, Zoila realized something with the utmost certainty. It had been General Mite who had contacted the newspapers and informed them about Lucía’s drinking, and by deductive reasoning she concluded that he was also the one who initiated the offering of hooch to Lucía. His treacherous hypocrisy started to eat at her. The more he smiled at Lucía or put on his gentlemanly airs, the more Zoila scrutinized him. Her father had been right on the topic of traitors— himself included. He often paraphrased Cicero’s flawless maxim by saying: I can survive fools, and even the ambitious, but I cannot survive treason from within. Zoila beware!
Zoila intended to heed her father’s words. She became hypervigilant of Lucía as if she had opened a pair of additional eyes on the back of her head, and devised new routes to take to the rented halls where other levées where held across town. She held on tight to the handle of the straw basket in which Lucía lay covered as if she were being shipped overseas and not simply crossing a few city blocks. Zoila even had her dagger sharpened, and spent her hard-earned money on a protective leather sheath for the razor-sharp dagger that nuzzled between her ample bosoms.
After the remaining full-capacity performances in Washing D.C. concluded, the troupe headed back to New York City exhausted from three years on the road. Instead of growing accustomed to city noises, Lucía was still startled by any loud sound, and she cocked her head with panic at any high-pitched noise. Zoila’s wave of uneasiness swelled along with Lucía’s despair. Soon Zoila thought she saw the brujo peeking through a dirty window from a hotel across the troupe’s rooming house. The anxiety lingered for months, and by the end of 1880, an exhausted and anxious Zoila finally came down with a fever.
While Zoila rested in bed, Mrs. Uffner decided to take the troupe on an impromptu outing to Brighton Beach. No one looked particularly pleased to be out in the September heat, but they slogged along. Within minutes of arriving, Lucía was robbed of her jewelry and by the next morning all the newspaper’s nationwide covered the story. The Cincinnati Daily Star wrote:
Miss Lucía Zárate, one of the Midgets, had a ring worth $250 stolen at Brighton Beach the other day. Admiral Dot recognized the thief, but the man got away.
Although not yet fully recovered from her fever, Zoila asked Admiral Dot*, whose given name was Leonard, to describe the thief.
“Why, I think he looked like all thieves, swarthy and mean. I yelled at him to stop but he ran awful fast.”
“But how did he remove the ring from Lucía’s finger?” Zoila croaked. “I thought Mrs. Uffner kept Lucía in the basket.”
“What basket?”
Zoila was inclined to believe Admiral Dot. As a young boy he’d been profoundly traumatized after his mother had tried to drown his younger brother, and ever since that day, Admiral Dot maintained an older brother’s sense of responsibility for the younger troupe members.
“Mr. Leonard, do you think that this thief is someone from show business or perhaps even a reporter who knows all our whereabouts?”
“Darling, I don’t know. I don’t trust anyone. Period. Take my advice and don’t let Lucía out of your sight again.”
Zoila had always known Mrs. Uffner as a selfish and mean woman, but she suspected that she and General Mite might somehow be connected to the robbery. General Mite had proven himself a traitor before, and perhaps all the rumors printed daily about his impending marriage to Lucía had unhinged his treacherous nature. The Evening Star even claimed:
The nuptials are to take place at the Masonic Temple in New York. Elaborate preparations have been made for the ceremonies, which will be celebrated with great formality. The parents of the bride and groom will settle $10,000 upon each of them and they will sail for Europe on their wedding trip.
Frank Uffner laughed at the preposterous events reported by the newspapers, but neither Gen
eral Mite nor Lucía found any humor in what they heard: General Mite because he had grown to hate Lucía, and Lucía because the newspapers described her face as bright but not prepossessing. She couldn’t face General Mite’s total rejection of her and she felt preyed upon by thieves and haunted by a foul air and eerie whistle that could only emanate from the brujo. The more newspaper articles Frank Uffner read aloud about the marriage that would never take place, the more Zoila detested his callousness.
“Come on now, why not laugh at the details these news men describe? We all know the wedding ain’t gonna take place, don’t we? Listen here, to what The New Orleans Daily Democrat writes. ‘Since the dwarfs belong to different families, it is best to bind them by ties that cannot be broken by show managers or disagreeing parents.’ Ain’t that a howl, they’re writing about me now!”
“Not funny,” General Mite shot back.
Frank Uffner reprimanded the three of them. “Quit your whining. In show business, all publicity is good publicity, so get used to it.”
Zoila didn’t pay much attention to what Frank Uffner said since she was more interested in how he said it. She was trying to figure out a way to break Lucía’s contract and return to Mexico. In her heart she didn’t believe that Lucía could endure yet another year of hard labor under the Uffners’ steely management, the pain of which was now compounded by General Mite’s rejection of her, and by her growing fear of people wanting to do her harm.
Within days of being robbed, Lucía suffered a much graver attempted assault. A man skulked into the rooming house and attempted to kidnap her, only to be chased by Zoila and her shimmering dagger. The troupe had just returned from a late afternoon levée and they were all dozing with fatigue, waiting for another one of Mrs. Uffner’s meager meals to be served. Lucía’s large market basket rested near the door containing the shawls Zoila employed to cover Lucía from any curious onlookers to and from the levées, Lucía swaddled mummy-style. Within a matter of moments, the kidnapper eyeballed the runty mummy wrap, decided Lucía was inside the wraps, and made a break with the basket.
Lucía Zárate: The odyssey of the world’s smallest woman Page 12