The Palace of Curiosities

by Rosie Garland

  ‘Would you hear more?’

  They rumble approval.

  ‘Then, gentlefolk all, you may view me in greater detail, and hear even saucier tales each night as one of Professor Arroner’s Anatomical Marvels on Cockspur Street. Not just me. You will have heard, of course, of the infamous Stomach-Dance of Salome, to which no ladies of a nervous disposition are admitted? Oh, sirs, a treat for the eye, and the body also!’ He guffaws, flashing bright teeth.

  He hands out the playbills, crying out their merits as he does so.

  ‘And that is not all! See the India-Rubber Boy, brought lately from the Malay plantations! View the most true and genuine Lion-Faced Woman! What does she hide beneath her hair? What indeed!’

  As he speaks, he holds out his cap.

  ‘Thirsty work, kind sirs. Thirsty work indeed.’

  Farthings and halfpennies tumble into his hat, and he nods at each small generosity; smiling as broadly at those who shrug and give nothing, muttering, ‘Purely voluntary, sirs, purely donatory.’ When he is satisfied that all forthcoming monies have been gathered in, he stands at my side once more and struggles back into his shirt.

  ‘Does it hurt?’ I ask.

  ‘Hurt?’

  ‘The tattoos.’

  ‘Every one of them!’ He laughs. ‘It is a manly sport. The pain is not for weaklings.’

  ‘I would have one. Like this.’ I point to the word ‘Mother’, near-hidden in the flashier illustrations on his arm.

  ‘I shall take you. This is indeed my lucky day: my prodigal friend returned; money in my pocket; and business to conduct.’

  He leads me to a modest tent in the midst of the fair. The tattooist greets George warmly, enquiring how the latest piece of work has settled. George rolls up his trouser leg and points to a dragon looped around his ankle, and they hem and haw over the alacrity of its healing and the particularly fine detailing on the drops of venom trickling across its scales. I amuse myself looking about the booth at the neatly drawn designs pinned to the canvas of anchors, snakes and ships.

  ‘So, what is it for you, sir?’ enquires Ivan smiling, for we are introduced to each other. ‘This is your first?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then you are in the right place. More than your standard ritz.’

  ‘I want something like this,’ I say.

  George’s arm is covered, so I point to a design of a curling ribbon bearing the legend ‘Your word here’.

  ‘A nice banner. A fine choice, if I may say so. Nice fine work, and easy on the body.’

  ‘And not too expensive,’ adds George.

  ‘Of course! Hygienic and good prices. What size shall the banner be?’

  ‘I just want words,’ I say.

  ‘No ribbon?’

  ‘Just words.’

  ‘Please yourself. Names, are they? Lady friends? Any name you like. Priced by the letter.’

  I turn over the coins in my pocket, and wonder where to start. I get out my paper and take a peep at it.

  ‘Slaughter-man,’ I say.

  The tattooist glances at George, who shrugs.

  ‘It’s a long word,’ says Ivan. ‘It’ll cost you.’

  ‘That is of no concern.’

  ‘Each to their own. Let’s be started, then.’

  He selects a needle from the cabinet at his side and waves it at me.

  ‘Sharpened and cleaned fresh this morning,’ he says proudly, and begins.

  He holds the skin of my arm tightly stretched out; inks the needle-tip; lowers it into my skin and scratches; wipes; sits back. Scratches once more, poking and hammering the colour into my shoulder. I listen to the clock of needle striking bone.

  Pain wells in my arm, as though a thousand inquisitive teeth are edging questions into my body. I find myself sliding into a drowse. I know the feeling, know that in this swim of pain I grow closer to a bright understanding. It is something I have always known, yet lost the knowledge of, and the pricking brings me back to it. I close my eyes and drift on the delicious feeling, when suddenly it is cut short by a muttered curse.

  ‘I do not understand. What’s wrong with you?’ says Ivan.

  I blink at him.

  ‘What’s up?’ says George.

  ‘The ink won’t stick,’ Ivan replies. ‘Look.’

  I feel the stab of the needle and its withdrawal. I look at my arm and see the shape of an S in dark blue.

  ‘I’m needling him; I’m writing it. I get through the skin and the ink comes straight back out. Look.’

  He takes a rag and wipes his work. The ink comes away, leaving a faint half-moon of pinpricks. As we watch, they heal.

  ‘What in damnation is that?’

  ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘I heal quickly.’

  ‘You’re telling me. You should be leaking blood and water. There’s nothing. Not a drop.’

  ‘Can you try again? Perhaps faster? A larger needle?’

  ‘It’ll hurt.’

  ‘Please?’ I say, and he lifts his eyebrows.

  ‘You’re the boss.’

  He digs into me, hard. As fast as he inks me, my body matches him for speed of healing. After many attempts, he throws down his tools.

  ‘I can’t do anything with you. No man should knit up like that.’

  ‘He’s a queer one,’ remarks George, his eyes taking on a strange light.

  ‘I’ve seen something like it before,’ says Ivan.

  ‘You have?’ I sit forward, eager to hear if there are other men like me.

  ‘A Negro. Said he wanted a lion. I told him it wouldn’t show up on skin as dark as his, but he said he knew it would be there, and that was the important thing. Couldn’t do a bloody thing with him. Wherever I stuck my needle, his flesh came up in lumps, like I’d stuck peas under his skin. He didn’t mind. Said his grandfather had a row of them across his forehead, so he’d have a band of them round his arm. You’ll be like him, I expect.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say. I sit back. It is not like me at all.

  ‘Some men have strange skin.’

  ‘Can’t you try again?’

  ‘I’ve tried enough. I’m not blunting my points on you.’

  ‘Come on,’ says George, taking my wrist and drawing me out of the chair. ‘Pay Ivan for his trouble. Then let us go for a walk.’

  The tattooist is happy enough to take my money, and George seems in a hurry to bundle me out on to the street.

  ‘Yes, you’re a queer one indeed,’ he says.

  ‘Am I? It is something that happens to me. I am used to it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I cut,’ I say in a dull voice. ‘I heal. No blood.’

  I want to be in my cellar, with the man I once called friend. His name dangles just out of reach.

  ‘What – like with a knife?’

  I shrug. ‘Knife, blade, anything.’

  ‘And you heal up, quick as you did just then?’

  I shrug once more, waiting for the exclamation of disgust. It does not come.

  ‘I knew you were special, first time I clapped eyes on you.’

  ‘The first time?’

  ‘On the river-bank. You were dead. Or should of been. Fished you out, I did. That makes us mates, right?’

  I want to be away from this inquisitive man walking beside me, from the troublesome questions he keeps asking. I do not know these streets, for they are not recorded on my document.

  ‘I must get back to my lodgings,’ I say, keeping my voice as calm as possible. ‘Will you walk me there?’

  ‘Of course, of course. Plenty of time for all that. But first I must introduce you to a good friend of mine. A man of fine discrimination who would be most interested to make your acquaintance.’

  ‘Why would he wish to meet me?’

  ‘He is interested in marvels, and it seems that is what you are.’

  I think of my comfortable bed. ‘I am very tired.’

  ‘It will take the briefest of moments. Today is not just my lucky day. I believe it is yours,
too.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Listen. Do you fancy some easy work?’

  ‘I have easy work.’

  ‘No, listen. Real easy. Like me.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘All I need do is take off my shirt, show off my pictures, and that is the extent of my labours.’

  ‘Men pay you for this?’

  ‘They do. I am a marvel of ink and needles. But you are far more marvellous.’

  ‘I am?’

  ‘When I am pricked, I bleed. You do not. Your body is as coy as a virgin. It will not open its holes for any man.’

  He chuckles, and I echo the sound, for it is expected.

  ‘I saw an Indian like you. He danced on nails, and I swear he was not injured. Are you a Moghul? You look as dark.’

  ‘No. I am from Holland. Or Italy. They say.’

  I do not want to say, I do not know.

  ‘Ah, well,’ he shrugs. ‘That is a shame. They love a bit of the exotic.’

  George walks us through a maze of looming buildings, leading us down so many alleyways and up so many flights of steps that I declare even a man with the keenest recollection would become lost. After what seems like a half-day we find ourselves in a neighbourhood I do not recognise. The streets are swept clean of the smallest speck of dirt; the gutters do not run with filth. Tall houses with gleaming white faces regard me haughtily.

  He leads me boldly up steps I would not dare to climb on my own account, down a broad hallway and through a pair of polished doors into the grandest room I have ever seen. I scrape off my cap and hug it to my breast. His gaffer is a short man with a sticky hat pulled tightly on to his head. He looks me up and down.

  ‘So, George. What can this one do? Seems less than nothing to me,’ he sniffs.

  ‘Just you wait. Go on,’ George says to me. ‘Show the miserable old bastard what you can do.’

  ‘Watch it,’ says the greasy man, but without anger. ‘Let us be civil.’

  George hisses ‘Cut yourself’ in my ear. I roll up my sleeve and take out my pocket-knife. I rub the handle with my thumb. It is so long since I marked myself with this sign of horror and shame. I have shied away from its strangeness. I taunt myself with the hope that I might bleed like any normal man, but I know the truth. My hand hovers. George digs me in the ribs. I snap awake.

  ‘Who is this ruddy fool?’ cries the short man.

  ‘Wait; he is ready now,’ says George and widens his eyes at me.

  I place the blade on my forearm and make a shallow cut. The skin prickles with anticipation.

  ‘Is that it, George? You have brought me a man can take a knife to himself and not scream like a baby?’

  ‘Watch.’

  The wound heals slowly. The little man sighs impatiently.

  ‘Still, I say, is that all?’

  George waggles his hands at me.

  ‘Come on, Abel. Make an effort,’ he says urgently.

  I press the knife until the skin opens; I draw the sharp point towards the crook of my elbow, revealing the tangle of veins, the dark crimson of my inner surfaces. I smile at their welcoming familiarity.

  ‘Fuck me,’ shouts the man. ‘Fucking fuck me.’

  ‘You see? Told you he was special.’

  ‘He’s not special; he’s a bloody lunatic. He’s killing himself, and me a part of it. Get him out of here,’ he shouts.

  ‘Wait,’ shouts George. ‘Look, he’s not done.’

  I close up my knife and gaze at my arm. My skin is beginning its graceful reconnection; my head swims with the fleeting delight I have experienced. It takes only a moment, and my body has sewn itself back together.

  ‘Christ,’ breathes the man.

  ‘Now do you believe me? Have you ever seen the like?’

  ‘George, you are right. A marvel. A true marvel.’ He rubs his palms up and down the front of his waistcoat.

  ‘How about a finder’s fee then, Mr Arroner?’

  ‘How about I kick you in the balls, George?’

  ‘How about I take him away again, and myself too? I could start my own company with someone as extraordinary as him.’

  I let them argue, drowsing in the comfortable numbness of myself knitted up, of their exclamations of approval rather than rejection; revelling in the momentary respite it brings me. I pull down my cuff and feel the crackle of my document in my armpit. All is well.

  ‘Well, Abel, if that is the name you wish me to call you by …?’ The gaffer winks at me.

  ‘It is my name,’ I say.

  ‘Ha! Good man, good man.’

  He slaps my shoulder, with a little stretching on to the tips of his toes.

  ‘So, tell me about yourself, Mr Anatomy.’ He squeezes his chin between thumb and forefinger. ‘No, that is not right. There is no poetry to it. Tell me, sir, would you like better lodgings?’

  I think of the cellar, the warm press of bodies. ‘I am happy enough,’ I say.

  ‘Ha ha! You are a clever man.’

  ‘I do not think myself overly clever, Mr Arroner. Though I can mend watches.’

  ‘Can you indeed? Well, well. I can offer you food, sir. You eat food, do you not?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Arroner.’

  ‘Like beef, do you?’

  ‘I do, sir. I can cut it, too.’

  He does not seem very interested in my skills, and dashes on.

  ‘Then beef you shall eat, if you work for me. Beef and bread and beer, every day, till you beg me to stop.’

  ‘Why should I wish you to stop?’ I ask, and George nudges me in the ribs again.

  ‘Fine lodgings. Good company. And money, too. Do you wish to make your fortune, see your name painted in letters two feet tall? I can do that for you. You shall want for nothing. Just like George here. Don’t you agree, George?’

  ‘Indeed, Mr Arroner.’ My new companion coughs. ‘We eat well, and live well. Though it would be a benefit to see more money, Mr Arroner, sir.’

  The short man laughs. ‘Then we must attract Abel into our circle, must we not? Is he not prodigious?’

  ‘He is.’

  ‘Is he not new? Never seen before?’

  ‘He is.’

  ‘Then consider that, George, and think how the money will come.’

  ‘I do, Mr Arroner. I do think of that.’

  George scratches at the fruit inked on to his arm. Our conversation seems to have put the oily man into a very cheerful humour.

  ‘How fortunate I am!’ he cries. ‘How blessed you are also, to meet me at this juncture when I have need of men with talents such as yours.’

  He takes a step back and regards the whole of me, sliding his eyes from my toes to the crown of my head.

  ‘Yes, this is an auspicious day for you, my friend.’

  ‘Mr Lazarus, you should call him,’ says George.

  ‘Oh no, George. I fancy something far more refined. Rhetorical.’ He sweeps his hand across the air as though wiping dampness from a window-pane. ‘I see it now. I shall call him the Marsyas of Modern Times.’

  ‘Massy what?’

  ‘Marsyas, my oafish friend. Flayed alive by the god Apollo for …’ He pauses. ‘For stealing a golden apple,’ he continues quickly. ‘Now. To business, my fascinating new employee. A new suit of clothes. At my expense – I insist.’

  George winks at me over the short man’s shoulder.

  ‘Very generous, Mr Arroner.’

  ‘I know, George. I am a fool to myself.’ He wags his forefinger at my feet. ‘But those boots will not do. They will not do at all.’

  ‘But they are good,’ I say.

  ‘Good? Bless you. Hear that, George?’

  ‘I do, Mr Arroner.’

  ‘The poor wretch, that he considers such battered specimens to be worthy of the epithet “good”. See, the soles are nearly come away; the leather is almost worn through at the toe.’

  ‘New boots would be just the thing.’ George grins. ‘What luck, eh, Abel?’ He turns up his thumbs.
‘Told you he was a good gaffer, didn’t I?’

  ‘Kind words, George, kind words. I am most affected. Well, Abel, you must stay with us, I declare.’

  ‘I cannot,’ I begin. ‘I have another—’

  I want to say, I have another job, but I know it is not true.

  ‘Of course, another job,’ says the short man, waving his hand. ‘Besides, from one look at you I should imagine you lodge in a most foul and disgusting cave.’

  ‘It is a cellar,’ I say, to correct his mistake.

  He continues as though I have not spoken a word.

  ‘Dirty work. A dirtier life, wouldn’t you say so, George?’

  ‘Oh yes, Mr Arroner. All that dirt.’

  ‘Think of it, Abel. You would never have to labour so again. You would sleep on clean sheets.’

  ‘It is not so bad.’

  ‘Pah! I won’t hear of it. You shall lodge with us.’

  ‘But Mr Arroner, sir—’

  ‘Ah. I see it now. You have debts and obligations which worry you.’

  ‘No, that is not it.’

  ‘Some dear lady to whom you must bid a tearful adieu?’ George snorts and the short man shows his teeth. ‘You see it too, George, do you not? A string of disconsolate females, weeping into their handkerchiefs!’

  They laugh very loudly and I know this is one of those occasions when it is wise for me to laugh also. The short man wipes his eyes.

  ‘Enough. Well, Abel, there is no looking back. George has told me of your previous employment. There is no need for shame. I am an honest man and you will find me a fair one.’

  I look at George, astounded that he should remember my old job, when I do not. I take out my document. I am a slaughter-man. The word has been crossed out and corrected to I was a slaughter-man.

  ‘What’s this?’

  The gaffer waggles his finger at my paper.

  ‘It is mine, sir,’ I say, and push it back into my shirt.

  ‘Ah! A love letter, no doubt. I’ll not take that from you. Just your old boots.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘George! Take him downstairs this very instant. He looks set to faint away from hunger. I’ll wager you need a good dinner inside you, eh?’

  He smiles, and once again it is my turn to smile back. George pats me on the back and takes me below stairs to the kitchen, a room far cleaner than the one I was in this morning. A vast cooking-range spreads its bulk from one wall to the other. On it is a black kettle, exhaling long puffs of steam. Two women and a lad sit around the table, hovering over plates piled with food. My mouth waters.