I did not.
“As if the church were some kind of ship and we were far from land! She would stop me in the middle of a movement and shout my name. ‘Thomas! Do you hear? Ludwig called that C minor chord Fate knocking on the door!’ She referred to composers by first name. By the time I was fourteen, she had stopped playing the piano herself.”
“Because your skill had far exceeded hers.”
“Yes. But she remained my teacher. She read things to me. Biographies. I was fourteen. I wanted to go home with her. She started giving me different, more powerful music. Music that held both love and grief. Primeval, we called it.”
Thomas was staring at the horizon with a bit of chicken grease shining on his chin.
“Good Lord, Thomas. You’re waxing quite poetical now.”
“I was in love with her, Ana. Surely you understand that!”
That I would know what it meant to be in love was not a fair assumption, but I kept quiet.
“She sent me away.”
“No!” I suppressed my laugh because Thomas looked so crestfallen in the retelling.
“She had written to Leopold Heinrich in London. A famous teacher. I don’t know what she did to convince him to take me. I was so much older than his other pupils. But he invited me to his school.”
“But not before you declared your love?”
Thomas shook his head. “I did not. During our last lesson she sat next to me on the bench. She said, ‘Counterpoint, Thomas, is two melodic lines diverging and intersecting. It’s how harmony is made. Think of it as a conversation of two voices, both contained by the piano.’ The way she said it to me … I can’t explain.” He was positively dreamy. “The next day I climbed into a carriage and never returned.”
“You never saw her again?” I set my wineglass down; a few crimson drops spilled onto the tablecloth. “How excruciating.”
“I spent twelve years in Europe, and then came here, to Manhattan. That was ten years ago now. But long before that, my mother told me Mrs. Corbett had moved away.” Thomas finished his tale with a flourish. “Gone.”
I did not trust myself to open my mouth; I was afraid I would mock him, and that would be cruel. I could not tell if the pianist regarded his love story as melodrama, so I commiserated while we finished our cake, and it wasn’t until I returned to my booth and subsequently heard three hours of a continuous fugue that I determined he did not.
Maud had found a fourth for the whist table in Mrs. Martinetti, eldest of the Martinetti family of acrobats. The ten-person Martinetti family, the Marvelous Monarchs of the Air, performed in the theater twice daily wearing orange-and-black winged costumes. They drew a huge crowd, mostly Italian immigrants, for every one of their shows. Out of everything in Barnum’s museum, I was sure the Martinettis made him the most money.
Though her furniture was not substantial, Maud’s room was an Aladdin’s cave of richly patterned rugs and tapestries draped upon every surface. The table was made of two stacked trunks and lit by several standing lamps pulled close.
“Ana, come in. Everyone else is here,” Maud said when I appeared. I ducked under the frame and closed the door. Mrs. Martinetti looked more like a grandmother than an acrobat, apparently proving that the two occupations were not mutually exclusive. She perched on the edge of her seat, preposterous next to Mr. Olrick, the Austrian Giant, who immediately rose to greet me.
“Miss Swift, good evening. We’ve not yet had the pleasure of acquaintance.” His voice held no trace of an accent. “I met the other giant last night, the Chinese fellow. I wondered when I would have the pleasure of meeting you.”
“Mr. Olrick,” I returned. I suppose I could not ignore him forever. “I didn’t know there was a third giant in the museum. That’s an awful lot, don’t you think?”
“No one sees him very much. He stays shut up in his room,” said Maud.
Mr. Olrick had a pleasant enough face: a softened rectangle creased at all corners. His lips were entirely obscured by a mustache of unfortunate proportions. A trademark, perhaps. He wore some kind of military uniform. I enjoyed the touch of an equal-sized hand for a moment, and even imagined what it would feel like against my cheek, gently, or else roughly clasped in passion. I could make a fortune if I married a giant publicly, of course. I despised the idea, just as I despised other giants, especially the men who must see me (as I also see them, however fleetingly) as a potential lover. Why is it assumed that I belong with others of my kind? Why double something that is already enormous? No thank you, I will stay firmly away.
“We were discussing this rain,” said Maud. She gestured me toward a less-than-substantial chair. “But now we can dispense with trivialities and get down to the business at hand. Mr. Olrick has limited experience —”
Mr. Olrick huffed. “I’m sure I can hold my own, my dear.”
“Ana, I’ve paired you with Mrs. Martinetti, whose skills we have not yet determined, as she does not have English.”
“Fine.” I rested gingerly on the seat across from Mrs. Martinetti.
“Ana, will you oblige us with the first deal?” Maud picked up the deck, which was emblazoned with a gold-and-scarlet coat of arms. The cards gave a satisfying snap and hiss as I shuffled. Mrs. Martinetti cut the deck and I dealt out the hands, turning the last card face up.
“Diamonds trump,” I announced and the game began. Maud led with the queen. Mrs. Martinetti followed with a three, and Olrick quickly played the king.
“Mr. Olrick!” Maud gasped. “Have you played this game before?”
“Well, yes,” he sputtered, reddening. “But it has been some time.”
“You do realize that I am your partner?”
“Yes, of course. Ah, I see my mistake now. I apologize.”
I finished the trick with a five. Olrick led the next with a nine.
“Actually I haven’t played since my convalescence.” He directed this remark to me as I won the trick with the ten. “My mother and I had eleven months together, while I waited for my bones to strengthen.”
Of course he had to bring up his convalescence.
“We played all kinds of card games, and then in the evening when my brother and father were home, we played whist.”
“You were ill?” Maud played the ten of hearts.
“Some giants” — I interjected, with a clear inflection of boredom — “have a period of time, usually around the age of twelve, when the skeleton grows faster than the body can support. I’m surprised you haven’t heard this story before, Maud.”
Olrick continued to prattle about his virtuous mother nursing him into Monsterhood, and of course I remembered my own bed rest, but I would die before mentioning it aloud. A full year flat on my back was nothing to share with others, a full year longing to peel myself out of the thick skin coat that fit less and less as the weeks marched on. People from town sent crate after crate of books, and I read them all and asked for more. One day my mother came home with a set of three volumes wrapped carefully in a sackcloth with the corners folded like an envelope. She handed them over and stood there, her eyes boring holes into me with an expression I didn’t want to understand.
The Giant in History and Literature. I never did find out from whom those books came or what it took to procure them. But for good or ill, the Titans became my great-grandfathers, roaming the earth to make war with the gods. Goliath. Gilgamesh. From behind the misty curtain, Ohya and Hahya stepped out of the centuries as my distant sisters. But in the second volume, on page one hundred and seventeen, a hateful prophecy was delivered: Through time it has been observed that Giants seldom, if ever, live to see their fortieth year. Earthly forces pull their organs to premature deterioration; their frames, though massive, are brittle and precarious, not meant to bear the weight with which they have been endowed.
At first, still trapped in bed, I masked my horror with noble thoughts: As an example of this ancient and powerful race, I must gracefully bear this strange sentence. Rise above, so to speak, th
e inevitability of this verdict.
But when you came into the room, Mother, with a cup of broth steaming in your hand, you rushed to me. What ails you, daughter? My thin veil of dignity instantly dissolved to tears. You pulled the book from my hand. You took the whole set away, as if that could erase what I had already read. As if my aching bones, each throbbing step, each time I massaged a leg or shoulder or saw myself reflected in a window was not a reminder that my body is nothing but a death cage.
Mrs. Martinetti proved an attentive player but not much of a partner, since she barely looked up from her hand and never uttered a sound. We played on, with Maud and Olrick taking the next two tricks.
“Which war was it, where you fought, Mr. Olrick?” I couldn’t help myself, though I knew it was cruel. “I see a nice row of medals on your lapel.”
“Well.” Olrick reddened again. “The truth is, none.” He paused to play the four of clubs. “This is a costume.”
“Ah, a costume,” I agreed.
“You see, my clothes, and all of my belongings, were lost somewhere en route from Chicago. If it had happened in the past, my manager would have taken care of the arrangements for a tailor. But Mr. Barnum has been unresponsive to my predicament. It was only yesterday I found the name of a tailor, so it will be another week, he said, at least, before I have something else to wear. Until then, I’ll just have to feel silly in this.” He was clearly embarrassed. I let him take the next trick, as reparation.
“You know what I’ve been wondering.” Maud leaned in and lowered her voice. “Ever since I saw them — or him — I’ve been suspicious. The conjoined twins. Have you met them yet?” We hadn’t.
“They live next door.” Maud nodded in the direction. “Ever since I saw them, something has rubbed me the wrong way. A certain awkwardness in their movement.”
“Well,” said Olrick. “Given their condition that’s hardly surprising, isn’t it? Are they conjoined at the usual place?”
“Yes, but that’s just it. Usually conjoined twins are quite graceful. They move as naturally as we do. They don’t know any different. But these two, they seem … clumsy. And they fight.”
“What’s wrong with that?” said Olrick
“I’m just saying, it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve seen a gaff.”
“A gaff couldn’t have made it past Barnum’s scouts, Maud.” I had seen two or three instances of a relatively ordinary person impersonating an oddity over the years, and I’d always wondered at their motivation. There had been a dog-faced boy who actually attached his fur with epoxy. My mind always drew a blank when I considered what might drive a normal person into the life of a performer of that sort. “And one of them would have to be deformed already. How could they move like that if each of them had two normal legs?”
“It wouldn’t be the first time, is all I’m saying.” Maud took the next trick with the ace of diamonds. “That makes a game. I believe Mr. Olrick and I have made two points.”
Mrs. Martinetti silently and sternly dealt the next hand, and we had taken two tricks before Charity Barnum glided into the room without knocking.
I hadn’t seen Mrs. Barnum since I visited her apartment. She wore the same dark dress with a thick lace collar, and her pale hands clasped at her waist. She walked to the center of the room and stopped, swiveling her smooth and oddly boneless-looking face toward each of us, one after another. She even opened her mouth slightly, and a frightened look came over her, as if she had just realized she did not know how to speak. She bore a striking resemblance to the automaton on the fourth floor.
“Mrs. Barnum!” Maud rose. “I thought you would never accept my invitation, so I filled the fourth seat.” She gestured helplessly at Mrs. Martinetti.
Olrick jumped up, looking vaguely relieved. “Madame, please. Please, sit. You may take my place.”
Mrs. Barnum glided to the chair and sat down. She picked up Olrick’s discarded hand. Her hands shook terribly.
“Mrs. Barnum, is something the matter?”
“Are you unwell?” Maud leaned forward.
Mrs. Barnum put down the cards and tried to steady one hand with the trembling other. “I’m afraid …” She looked into the eyes of Mrs. Martinetti. “She’s been so ill, my daughter. I thought it would be all right, but” — Mrs. Barnum turned in her chair to look at the hallway, now shaking uncontrollably — “I think she’s not. She appears to be …” Her jaw hung open as if she were waiting for the last word to emerge of its own accord. She pointed out the door. “She’s in there.”
Olrick went to find a watchman while we followed Mrs. Barnum to her apartment. The rain pounded against the windows. Mrs. Barnum led us into the small nook of a room behind the kitchen. Helen lay on the narrow bed, her blankets flung back as if she’d dreamed her way out of them. Damp tangles were stuck to her forehead, and Mrs. Martinetti went to the bed and peered into the girl’s half-closed eyes. I expected her to still be alive. Mrs. Martinetti felt the girl’s forehead, then her wrist. I waited for Helen to cringe, to flick her hand away from the old woman’s grasp. Instead Mrs. Martinetti snatched her hand away from the child. “Morto.”
Maud put an arm around Mrs. Barnum.
“I didn’t think it would be so fast,” Mrs. Barnum said, her voice high, piercing. “I thought I could call the doctor in the morning.”
“You couldn’t have known,” Maud whispered. Mrs. Martinetti pulled the blanket up over the child, and Mrs. Barnum leaned heavily against Maud. I watched the lump of Helen’s covered head for a toss, an awakening. She was dead, though, of course.
“Mrs. Barnum?” A watchman in a dripping overcoat appeared in the doorway with Olrick behind him. When she saw this man, Mrs. Barnum jerked herself away from Maud and nearly tumbled into his arms. “Thank God someone has arrived. Have you found a doctor?”
“We’ve sent two men out, ma’am. They should be back shortly.”
“Thank you.” Mrs. Barnum turned from her new position, held up by the watchman, and appeared to see us for the first time. A bearded woman, two giants, an elderly acrobat, and a dead daughter.
Maud moved toward the watchman. “You won’t need a doctor, sir. She’s —”
“Get out!” Mrs. Barnum shrieked, waving her arm toward Maud. “All of you!” Only the watchman was startled by Mrs. Barnum’s outburst. We filed out of the room. As we crossed the living room, Caroline emerged bleary-eyed from the other bedroom in a wrinkled blue flannel nightgown. “What’s happening, Ana?”
“All of you … people. Just get out!” Mrs. Barnum’s voice held the slick edge of delirium. Caroline froze as she heard it.
“Well if this doesn’t get Barnum back to the museum,” hissed Maud in the hallway, “I will certainly doubt his humanity.” She paused before going into her room: “At least now he’ll finally pay us.”
Back in my room, I could not sleep. I listened to the hooves and the mostly drunken voices rising from Broadway. A child had died; the fact itself was oppressive. I considered going for a walk. What better time than now, when I would be a phantom among night-walkers: transients, nocturnal workers, people perhaps more accustomed to strange sights in the darkness. But they would flinch when they saw me, and strip me of the dark’s camouflage. And where would I go from there? The idea of leaving the museum had only a fleeting appeal that dissolved in these details. What was the point of going? Instead, I got out of bed, lit a candle, and took up my pen.
Nature seems to have no fixed standard by which to fashion and shape her works, and though we are compelled to believe in a design, to the careless observer every living thing seems to come and go by chance.
Certainly no visitor to the museum would pay money to read the words of a philosophizing giantess, especially on the subject of “careless observers” whose association with the reader would be clear. Frustration stilled my hand, as it did every time I thought of writing a True Life History. But my booth would be finished tomorrow. I had to sell something. I needed the revenue. I forced mys
elf to continue.
The truth is that Nature’s design contains every extreme and variety, and everyone must fashion intuitively in her mind a standard of comparison, based upon her own experience. When she finds something outside the limits of that standard, she at once views it as a curiosity, and her mind is chained with astonishment.
But if we follow one of these anomalies all the way back to her genesis (and I don’t mean Genesis 6:4) we do not find her breaking out of an egg, or, like a golem, bursting from the bowels of the earth. We find her kneeling by her father’s side in the village of Pictou-by-the-sea. She is a homely but spirited girl of unequivocally average stature, untangling nets in anticipation of mackerel season.
Why not? Why couldn’t the True Life History begin in Pictou?
At first my father thought my gasps were a simple ploy; the day was fragrant with blossoms and he knew I would rather be out among them instead of working on the nets. But real pain cannot be faked and it spread, filling every socket and cavity, ricocheting off the slats of my rib cage, the agony flowing down each appendage and up my neck to explode as brightly murderous rosettes in my brain.
I awoke in my bed, where I remained for the next eleven months, the pain my intimate companion. To the bewilderment of my parents, I grew at a rate of one and a half inches per month. Finally my body stabilized enough for me to stand. I looked down with exuberant joy upon my mother’s neatly parted scalp and the upturned face of my father, as if I were ascending to heaven. I reached down and lifted them both into my arms. Releasing them, I ducked under the door frame. I gulped delicious, frozen air into my huge lungs and marveled at the miracle of God’s will. I strode away from the farm, crunching through old snow, leaving monstrous footprints behind.
Exhilarated, I paused. It surely could have happened this way, if only I had cultivated that first bloom of incredulous pride that had, in fact, faded so quickly. That story had been one possibility.
Finally my body stabilized enough for me to stand. As I rose to my new height, I recognized gravity as my mortal adversary, my body as a tomb that I was forced to pilot through the years. Instead of living out my allotted time under the added weight of the world’s stare, I waited until midnight and left the farmhouse. I found the nets laid out in the field and dragged one down the hill to the sea. In my father’s boat I rowed myself to the mouth of the bay. The current then carried the boat out farther, while I wrapped myself tightly in the net and strung on as many weights as there were in the boat. My final thought was to curse the steady moonlight as it illuminated my plunge into the frigid sea.
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