Wild Rover No More: Being the Last Recorded Account of the Life & Times of Jacky Faber

by L. A. Meyer

  “While it is amusing to think of, I think that it is neither a particularly healthy nor profitable line of thought, Miss.”

  “Perhaps not, but the idea of Clarissa and Lord Richard Allen making like monkeys in her bedroom, with a cadre of howlers at the window laughing and hooting away at the amorous pair, is most satisfying to my vindictive mind.”

  “Perhaps it is lucky you cannot act upon that bit of vengeance.”

  “A pity, yes, but anyway, dear Higgins, back to next season: I think we’ll add some more dramatics, such as short plays with Polly Von and the Emerald Players. We’ll put on my Villain Pursues Constant Maiden, or Fair Virtue in Peril . . .”

  “Good Lord, no,” whispers Higgins in horror, his fingers slackening at their work.

  Knowing in what low regard Higgins holds my past literary efforts, I press on with wicked delight. “. . . and I have started work on a new one. It’s called The Midshipman Stood on the Burning Deck. Would you like to hear of it?”

  Before he can reply, there is a scratching at the tent flap.

  Higgins glances over and says, “I believe your ardent admirer, Marcello Grimaldi, requests admittance. Shall I send him away?”

  “No, bid him come in, John. In light of recent developments, I need to talk to him.” The water is murky enough due to soap and my recently sloughed off layer of crud, so I sink down to my chin into its still-warm embrace, leaving my right foot hanging over the edge of the tub, as Marcello enters. He stares astounded at the scene before him, but his tongue does not fail him.

  “Ah, behold! The Volga Princess in her fabled bath of the milk of many minks!” he exults, sinking to his knees tubside, mustache all a-quiver. “My eyes shall fall from my unworthy head.”

  He glances uncomprehendingly at Higgins placidly stropping his razor and preparing to relieve my lower limbs of the unsightly fur that persists in growing there. Higgins says nothing to relieve his mind, but I do say something that I hope will mollify the lad. Pointing a finger up at Higgins, I say, “You vill, of course, recall zee very jealous Count Yakov Petrovsky. Heem of zee horrible impalements?” I point to Higgins and draw my finger across my throat. “Meester Hee-gans here ees his man. Capiche?” Higgins nods in sage agreement to this. Marcello scowls, unmollified, as I continue. “Vee shall not dance zee flamenco tonight, Marcello.”

  “No, my sweet Russian wolfhound?” he says, still looking curiously from Higgins to me and not liking it much. “I was beginning to enjoy it.”

  He actually does a good job at it. Hey, stick the two of us in the proper garb, put a rose in my teeth and castanets on my fingers, and with the Shantyman strumming away on his guitar and Mairead beating on tambourine, you’ve got flamenco, rural-America style. All seem to enjoy it.

  “No, sveet fool. Tonight my poob-blick demands zat Princess Natasha Annasova Romanoff dance her Famous Fan Dance, and she must bend as zee vill-ow and bow to zeir demands.”

  Marcello gasps and sucks in his breath.

  “So you mus’ prepare zee tent, caro mio,” I continue. “Mairead and zee De Graff sisters vill assist me ven I am onstage. And Higgins, too.”

  “And your loving and faithful Marcello? What of him? Must he stand outside like a kicked dog?” He looks wounded.

  “No, dear one, you shall sell tickets at zee entrance, and ven zee audience ees seated, my brave Marcello vill stand by to see zat no crude ruffian should rise up and give offense to my fragile self during zee performance.”

  At that, I lower the lashes and give him the big eyes. “You vill give protections to your poor Slavic rabbit, vill you not, my fine young acrobato?”

  I guess that nails him, for he gets to his feet and bows, grasping my wet foot and lifting it to his lips.

  “Yes, I shall. I swear by the ice water flowing through these lovely blue veins traced on this, the purest of white skin!” he exults as he places hot kisses on the heretofore quite unremarkable appendage, adding to the steam in the tent. “Yes, fear not, Princess. I shall defend you with my unworthy life! I live only for the coming of the night! Addio!”

  “Zat ees possibly zee worst Russian accent I have ever heard,” says Higgins after Marcello leaves, exhibiting a bit of uncharacteristic sarcasm.

  I laugh. “It makes my jaw ache doing it. I’ll be glad to stop after this is all over.”

  “Do you enjoy playing with him, Miss?”

  “Oh, yes, he is ever so much fun, and cute—and handy, too. By letting it appear that he is my consort, the others stay away, and after all, I am promised in marriage to JamesEmerson Fletcher, and though Jaimy is nowhere nearly as ferocious as the fictional Count Petrovsky, I still think he’d be rather miffed if he returned from London only to find me knee-deep in amorous Italian males.”

  “I think Lieutenant Fletcher should be rather used to that by now.”

  That gets him a look, but I must admit the truth of what he says. Poor Jaimy. I lie back as Higgins’s magic fingers continue to massage my scalp. Ummmm. But, eventually, it is over.

  “Stand, please . . .”

  Chapter 29

  “Le trick in le striptease, Jac-qui,” my good friend Zoe and fellow member of Les Petite Gamines de Paris dance troupe had said, “is never show them too much too quickly. And as for le fan dance, if the dancer is skillful, she never shows them anything at all, the fans covering her up just enough, at just the right time. The men will come together afterward and compare what they saw of her and her parts, and what they think they saw. Oui, ma petite, men are silly and stupid, but still we love them, no? Give them a bit of leg, a flash of derrière, they enjoy, so what’s the harm?”

  She and the other Gamines had been most kind in welcoming me into their company, teaching me the moves I would need for the performances, and I thoroughly enjoyed my time with them. What we did was what is generally known as the cancan. Not the classical ballet by any stretch, but still it was a lot of fun. Hey, ruffles shaking on the tail, or the bare tail shaking by itself, what’s the difference?

  Zoe had given me some advanced advice on the art of showing skin as we enjoyed a very fine aperitif at Café des Deux Chats, my favorite restaurant during my stay in the City of Light.

  “Come, little one,” she said, dabbing her lips and rising, “to my place and I will show you. I have the proper fans.”

  Say, I wonder what Zoe and Giselle and the rest of the gang are doing now? Maybe they’d like a tour of America with the Montessori and Mattucci Circus in the spring. Oh, it would be so good to see them all! I shall write to MadamePelletier posthaste, but right now Tondalayo must practice her night moves.

  We have turned my wagon around such that the door faces into the back lot, allowing us to set up the stage and canvas right against it. That way, I can duck into the safety of my quarters between shows.

  The stage has been constructed—about twenty feet wide and six feet deep—and along the front there hangs a red curtain. It will part to show me, standing, wearing nothing but my two strategically placed fans and a smile. There are benches in front to seat about thirty patrons of the arts. The bottom of the canvas tent is fastened down tightly to make sure no randy boys are peeking underneath. Don’t mind ’em peeking; but not payin’? Nay, it goes against my nature.

  We will have whale-oil torches for light . . . but not too much light—I don’t want ’em countin’ my ribs, that’s for sure. If they could see what they were actually getting in the way of female pulchritude, well, they just might pass on it.

  We have a dress rehearsal, where I do my bit in fans and underclothes, and it goes well, with laughter and giggles all around. Eliza regards me, and Mairead and the De Graffsisters—them all decked out in feathers, tights, and net stockings—and offers the opinion, “Sometimes, it is good that my husband is blind, lest his attention wander.”

  Mairead laughs, then says, “Don’t worry, Eliza, our Enoch may be blind, but he can see us in his mind’s eye, clear as day.” The Shantyman says nothing to that but merely smiles and tun
es up his fiddle.

  So the stage is built and the posters are tacked on every tree in town. We are all excited and ready to go—except, perhaps, for the cowardly star of the show. Oh well, I’ve faced tougher crowds. We shall see. The worst that could happen is that I’d be laughed off the stage and people would demand their dollars back. Shudder . . .

  “Come all ye good gentlemen who appreciate the finest in the art of dance! The Montessori and Mattucci GrandCircus presents Tondalayo, the Queen of the Naked Nile! She walks, she talks, she wiggles on her belly like a snake! All in the best of artistic taste! Just one dollar, gents. Step right up! Do not be shy! There are still a few seats available. Thank you, Sir! I promise you won’t regret it! Step right up!”

  For my part, in my wagon, I have stripped down to my skin with Higgins’s help and then emerge covered in his heavy opera cloak. It has a high collar and a single button at the neck. I position myself in the center of the stage behind the closed curtain and listen to Rigger O’Rourke’s patter and the murmur of the crowd. I know the skimpily dressed De Graff sisters are standing to either side of him while he is giving his spiel outside the tent, to get the randy gents in the proper mood, like. An excited Mairead stands next to me, offering encouragement.

  “It’ll be just fine, Jacky, you’ll see.”

  “Easy for you to say, Mairead. I’m the one who’s standing here all starkers. Prolly fall on my face and disgrace myself.” I am teetering on a pair of high-heeled shoes. I thought they might lend me a little in the way of leggy grace, but I dunno . . .

  “Nonsense. You’ll do fine. Here, let me fix your headdress,” she says as she fiddles with the feathered thing that I wear upon my head, causing the hanging beads attached to it to brush my face. “There. Oops. There’s my cue . . .”

  We hear the deep throb of Eliza on the big drum—boom chucka boom, boom chucka boom—over and over.

  “Break a leg, Jacky.”

  With that, she exits through the curtain, and presently I hear her short opening remarks . . .

  “Good evening, gentlemen. I hope you are comfortable and will enjoy our little show . . .”

  I just know the shameless hussy is out there prancing back and forth in her own skimpy costume. Somehow that calms me, though, and I have to smile.

  “Fresh from the cold steppes of Russia to the hot harems of Morocco, from performing before the crowned heads of Europe to dancing before you tonight . . .”

  C’mon, Mairead, let’s get on with it.

  “Without further ado, I give you Tondalayo, Queen of the Naked Nile!”

  Mairead puts pennywhistle to lips and warbles that timeless snake-charmer tune. Yes, it’s that same old “There’s a place in France where the women wear no pants” song, but it works for this sort of thing in any language, in any land. The Shantyman picks up the sinuous tune on his fiddle, while Eliza continues the relentless jungle rhythm on the drum.

  That’s my cue. Higgins removes the cloak and I get down on my knees and sit back on my haunches, and cover my forward-facing self with my fans. It will be my theme—an opening flower, like. It’s best if a performance has a theme, I figure.

  The De Graffs pull the curtain aside, and a hush falls over the crowd as I am revealed, kneeling, in the torch light.

  With my heart in my throat, I bow my head behind my top fan, eyes peering over it. The torches are not so bright that I cannot see the audience, and what I see in their shining eyes is pure male lust. Well, all right. I can handle that.

  Slowly, slowly, I begin to rise, coming off my haunches to rest fully onto my knees, my hips and shoulders swaying in time to the music, my kohl-lined eyes still looking over the top of my upper fan. I try to make them smolder with unspoken promise, but I don’t know if I succeed. Still, I hear a few gasps and one magnifico!, which has to come from Marcello, but he’s a pushover and doesn’t count.

  I continue working my sensuous way up till I am standing on my feet. Making sure that my right hand’s fan covers me from chin to crotch, I put the left hand’s fan behind me. Then I begin Right Fan’s slow descent till its top edge gets close to revealing my chest. At the very last moment, I quickly whip around and reverse the position of the fans such that Left Fan now covers my bum, but not my bare back. I turn my head enough to smile wickedly at the audience. Then slowly, ever so slowly, I lower Left Fan, till I sense that the tops of the feathers are just about to drop below the crack of my bum, when I turn around quickly and reverse again the fans in a blur of white fluff.

  The audience draws in a common breath.

  See anything, fellas? I think not. But if you did, then you have something to dream on, and I wish you the joy of it.

  It is then that I loudly whisper-sing, all hot and sultry. . .

  There’s a place in France

  Ver zee vicked ladies dance,

  And zee dance vee do

  Vill make a man out of you!

  I snake out a white arm from behind the wall of feathers and point a finger at various faces glowing in the torch light, saying . . . and you . . . and you . . . and you!

  They seem to appreciate the gesture, so I sing on . . .

  I come from Mandalay-o

  And I have a leetle mango!

  Eef you like congo mumbo jumbo

  Zen listen to zee bongos,

  Eef you vant to see my mango

  Zen watch your Tondalayo . . .

  And I stretch out the Tonda-laaaaaaay-oh! to good effect, I think, as I hear some cheers and whistles from the mob. So, warming to my task, I give a little hip bump on each oh! Be good now, boys.

  A big lascivious wink, and then I do a reversal of the routine, fans flying about and my bare self in the middle of it all, which ends with me back on my knees again, enveloped in my faithful fans, like any frail flower surrounded by the purest of white petals . . . and then, with a final roll of the drum, it is done.

  The curtain closes and Higgins emerges from the wings and wraps me once again in his big, black opera cloak. He takes my fans and retreats as the curtain parts again and I take my bows, being careful to hold the front of the cloak shut as I am enveloped by the applause.

  And Lord help me, I love it so!

  Then the curtain falls again, and I retreat through my wagon’s door, to collapse onto my bed, gasping.

  “Well done, Miss,” says Higgins. “A credit to the art of erotic dance—high in promise but low in actual delivery. Very crafty. A glass of wine for your surely dry throat?”

  “It is, indeed, Higgins, and thank you,” I answer, rising to a sitting position and taking the glass. As I raise it to my lips, I hear Rigger O’Rourke outside, taking up the chant yet again “. . . she walks, she talks, she crawls on her belly . . .” and I groan and stand.

  “Break a leg, Miss? I believe that is the term.”

  “Tell ’em she died with her fans on, Higgins,” I say, and head back out.

  We had a decent crowd for that first performance, a full house for the second, and standing-room only for the third and subsequent shows.

  The word does get around.

  Chapter 30

  We go to five shows a night, and the public comes from all around. We are a success!

  The principals of the Montessori and Mattucci FinancialDivision are in my wagon, as is our usual habit after we close down for the night, all sitting around gloating over the take—three solid nights, five shows a night! To say nothing of the regular take from the circus acts and midway attractions. There must be two thousand dollars on the table, in coin or in paper money. Higgins, of course, counts the take and enters the amount into his ledger. Rigger O’Rourke sits by the door, a large pistol on his lap, taking some refreshment, his boots up on the frame of my bed, where Mairead and I sit in a state of high girlish hilarity. I have ceased putting on the Russian accent with Rigger, but not with dear Marcello, as it amuses me to do it, and he is not one to trust with a secret.

  We are going to turn south, and Higgins will be heading no
rth in the morning, taking Mairead with him. I will hate to see her go, so I am enjoying my last night with my wild Irish Sister.

  I sit with cloak fastened at neck, hands clutching the front tightly closed, both of us giggling.

  “I really think you enjoy doing that dance, Jacky,” she teases.

  “Well, I do like giving one hundred percent when in performance,” I reply primly. “Besides, you don’t seem to mind prancin’ around on the wings, shaking your bum. Hey, maybe I’ll have you do it next time, see how you like it. Surely you know the routine by now.”

  “Sure, and I know I’d do it better than you if I did.”

  I give her a shove. “You’re too fat. They’d see too much. You’d get arrested.”

  “Aye, and you’re skinny as a stick. They don’t see enough. Don’t know why they even bother squintin’ at your scrawny tail.”

  “Ah, but if you trotted yourself out there and did your duty to this fine circus, then husband Ian would surely beat the living hell out of you when he discovered that his lovely wife had been doin’ a little hoochy-koochy dancing on the side. Hmmm?”

  “My Ian’s never laid nothing but a lovin’ hand on me,” she says, shaking her red mop. “But my father would just as surely do the job for him. Right after he killed you for getting me into it in the first place.”

  “Ha! That he would! I can feel Liam Delaney’s strong hand on my poor bottom right now! Him roaring ‘I should have never had nothin’ to do with that Jacky Faber back on that damned Dolphin! Nothin’ but big sorrowful eyes and a whole pack of trouble!’”

  I collapse backward, choking with laughter.

  “Och, but wouldn’t it’ve been Mr. James Fletcher’s hand that would be comin’ down on that well-deserving British tail?” says Mairead.