The Palace of Curiosities

by Rosie Garland

  I placed my index finger at the starting point of his Line of Life and slowly traced it to its end. It was long: a little frayed about the middle, but robust enough. I was relieved; I liked him, for he was not unkind in that general way of boys who are unlatching the door to manhood. I rubbed the spot and shivered as I saw him, much younger than now, lying on a thin mattress, gasping. Sweat oozed behind my ears.

  ‘A fever,’ I said. My mouth parched. ‘Yes. You had a fever as a child. You came through it.’

  ‘Yes,’ he gasped. ‘I did.’

  ‘Of course he did,’ scoffed my husband. ‘He’s here, isn’t he?’

  Bill’s soul flowered in my grasp, and gave up his secrets. The rest would be simple.

  ‘This is too easy,’ said my husband.

  ‘Leave her be, Arroner,’ grunted Lizzie.

  ‘Put a cloth on his hand. Make her read it through a towel, or some such.’

  ‘Oh, for the love of Jesus,’ said George.

  But a scrap of fabric was found, and laid between myself and the boy. It made no difference. His Line of Heart warmed into me; one tiny skip to the side his Line of Head rattled cheerfully – emptily.

  ‘What are you smirking about?’

  ‘Dear husband, he has happiness in his life. It would make anyone smile.’

  ‘You can tell that through the cloth?’ quivered the boy.

  ‘Hum. It is all too vague. A happy life, a long life. Rubbish. Give us something we can hold on to.’

  ‘Very well,’ I sighed.

  I pressed my finger firmly into the heart of his palm; heard his mother call him to her, felt the rush of him swept off his feet into the steaming valley of her bosom. She flicked her hair and sang, ‘“He is my lovely bonny, but he’s gone to sea …”’

  ‘Your mother had brown hair—’

  ‘As do all women,’ muttered Mr Arroner.

  ‘—which reached halfway down her back, to her apron-strings; and curled; and when the sun caught it, there were yellow lights at the tips. She was a big woman who sang to you, “He is my lovely—”’

  Bill dragged himself away.‘She’s a bloody witch!’ he squawked and my husband clapped him round the ears. ‘Ow!’

  ‘Mind your language: there’s ladies.’

  Lizzie gargled her deep laugh. ‘Ladies! Oh lah-di-dah.’

  ‘Put your hand back.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘Is this true?’ said Abel, quiet until now.

  ‘Yes,’ whimpered the boy, hugging his scalded hand to his chest. ‘My ma’s dead, isn’t she?’ he snuffled.

  ‘She said there was happiness, did she not? And that your life has happiness to come?’ Abel continued.

  There was a pause. ‘Yes, she did.’

  ‘So.’

  ‘Oh.’ Bill’s small paw grabbed at me. ‘Tell me more. Please. I’m sorry I called you a witch.’

  ‘Stop this now!’ bellowed my husband. ‘It’s all trumpery nonsense. I’ll prove it yet. The boy has no doubt whined to her about his bloody mother, and now she dresses it up and dishes it out like it’s new, when it’s left-over scraps.’ His face pulsed anger.

  ‘What shall I do then, Mr Arroner, dearest?’

  ‘You’ll wear a blindfold, that’s what you’ll do. I’ll put something over your head so you can’t bloody see who you’re reading. And then we’ll see how you fare. All fortune-tellers take their cues from people’s faces. I’ll prove it’s all a gaff.’

  ‘Yes, my love,’ I simpered. ‘I will do whatever you wish.’

  ‘I will prove you a liar,’ he growled. ‘No-one can read palms blind.’

  ‘I am not making false claims. I see it in my head. It is not mysterious.’

  ‘Not to you, perhaps.’

  ‘Mr Arroner, sir,’ said George. ‘This might be a gold-mine. Think of it. Have your picture taken with the Lion-Faced Girl. Then stay and have your palm read by her. She’s a genius. She just keeps coming up with grand ideas.’

  ‘Genius, is she?’ he rumbled, turning his wrath on to George. ‘I thought I was the genius around here. Yes, I distinctly remember that I am the only one in this sorry circus to possess such a quality.’

  ‘Arroner, George is right,’ said Lizzie. ‘The marks will pay. Do you care why?’

  He glared at her, and she shook her chin, spitting out a rough laugh.

  ‘I care that my wife is taking me for a fool.’

  ‘None of us thinks you a fool,’ said Lizzie quickly. ‘Do we, lads?’

  George and Bill said no, with much shaking of their heads, Abel a short step behind.

  ‘I will be proved right.’

  He stamped out of the room. I folded my hands on my lap and dropped my chin until the point of my beard brushed the buttons of my dress. Bill goggled fish eyes at me.

  ‘Can’t you tell me no more?’

  ‘Not just now, Bill.’ I thought of his foolish Line of Head and wondered if it would undo his happiness. I hoped not. ‘See how angry Mr Arroner is? Let us not vex him.’

  ‘Oh. Yes.’

  The door flew open and my husband reappeared, carrying a severed head.

  ‘He’s killed a man!’ shouted the lad. ‘We’ll be for it, now.’

  ‘It’s a mask, you idiot,’ hissed Lizzie. ‘The one used for John the Baptist.’

  ‘I will not put that on,’ I said. ‘I shall stifle.’

  ‘You will not.’

  ‘Why is a simple scarf not enough for you?’ said Lizzie.

  ‘She could see through it.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Arroner, you’re torturing her.’

  ‘I am a man of science, and this is my experiment. She is my wife. I shall do as I please, you will find, just as I should if you were mine.’

  He bunched his fist and Lizzie laughed till her belly wobbled.

  ‘Fat chance. You’d lose that in here.’ She pointed at the expanse of her stomach and slitted her eyes. ‘Swallow you up, I could.’

  ‘Please, please,’ said George. ‘Let us be civil. We are become very serious all of a sudden.’

  ‘I have spoken,’ said my husband. ‘She’ll put this over her head.’

  He ground the papier mâché down over my eyes. It stank of rotten rabbit skin: the smell of dirty words breathed into a child’s ear.

  ‘We are ready. Shall we start?’

  ‘I have sinned!’ cried Bill. His giggle was snapped off by the sound of a smack. ‘I only said “sin”. Like Lizzie does. In her act,’ he whined.

  ‘Now, turn her round.’

  I knew this voice was my husband, but he was far off, muffled by the stink of fish glue. I was spun round until I thought I might indeed lose all chance of breath. At last they stopped, and a hand guided me gently into the chair. Gradually head and body stopped swimming against the tide of the other.

  ‘Now she will read a hand and not know whose it is. It might be George, Abel, or even Bill or Lizzie thrown in again to confound her.’

  Someone grasped my wrist and hauled me forward. My fingers patted air for a few moments until I touched leather. It was a glove of heavy cow-hide, the kind used by barrow-men. I gritted my teeth at this fresh attempt to thwart my efforts. I would not be so easily shaken; it would simply take a little more concentration. I weighed the ballast of the hand, cupped in the cradle of my own palm. As I hoped, I could read through the leather. Here was a tense hand that only feigned repose.

  ‘You find it hard to seek rest,’ I began.

  ‘Louder,’ said a voice. ‘Can’t hear you.’

  I thought it George, but through the stifling paper head it was hard to be sure.

  ‘You do not sleep easily!’ I yelled, and was met with laughter.

  ‘It seems that is wrong,’ said a man’s voice.

  ‘Unless you are lullabied with drink,’ I added, and the snorting fell away.

  ‘We all of us drink,’ a man muttered, the ill humour betraying the voice of my master.

  It was time to begin, properly. I
spidered my fingers delicately across the dish of the palm before me. The lines glowed their heat into my fingertips, showering constellations into the tar-scented night sky of the mask. I took in a deep breath. The lines were clear before me, as though I was looking at them directly. This was almost like cheating, it was so easy.

  I smiled at the wicked pleasure of opening this person’s most intimate treasure box, sliding my hands between the folded linen of their dreams and truths. I might not be able to see, but my finger could sense its way. My fur seethed in circles over my belly, tiny lightning bolts crackling up my arm as I danced over the Lines of Heart and Head.

  I saw a blue sea shot with silver: upon it bobbed jolly-boats cut from red and white paper. The waves sparkled, and above all smiled a sun taken straight from the pages of a child’s book. To my right, the chirp of a sailor’s pipe; to my left, the gentle lapping of water; before me, a stretch of vermilion sand, soft and welcoming. Brightly painted beach-huts necklaced the horizon. I stretched out my foot, aching to run and dive into the water. My shoulders unloosed, and I laughed at such a pretty sight.

  Then the beach rippled, yawned; the beach-huts lifted up their wheels and began to roll towards me, doors flapping open and gaping wide maws into a darkness that swallowed up the gay pictures. I tried to pull my hand away, but could not move.

  A chasm opened in the sea and twisted itself into a maelstrom; out of the gurgling hole whiplashed a long tongue which wrapped itself around my wrist, dark blood pumping through the jellied-eel rope of it. It licked me, sucked me, gnawed the flesh of my arm to the bone until I was pulled apart with the shrivelled snap of a wishbone.

  ‘You are trembling,’ said a distant voice, and I flew back into the safe home of the mask.

  ‘I am hot beneath this thing,’ I snapped – quickly, so no-one would hear the terrified quake of my answer.

  ‘Get on with it.’ This was my husband speaking, surely.

  ‘You have a long life ahead of you,’ I lied, my arm still stinging with the slather of that horrible tongue.

  This hand I was reading was sticky with death and would drag down others with it. Be sure you are not one of them, spoke my mind quietly.

  ‘You are cleverer than men take you for,’ I lied again, scraping my nail across the slimy palm.

  The hand twitched in the sunshine of my flattery. So, he was stupid as well as self-opinionated. I knew it must be a man: it was certainly not Lizzie.

  ‘You have a secret wish to go to sea,’ I hazarded, remembering the little ships and praying he might one day drown himself in the whirlpool of his hatred, a fearful thing that would never be quenched, however many souls it drained.

  My voice grew a little steadier.

  ‘And, of course, you are loved and admired.’

  I waited for the answering wriggle of self-satisfaction, and when I had it I added, ‘So should you love more generously in return.’

  I had to say something to avert this nightmarish vision. The hand stiffened: so be it. I could not work miracles. Still, the owner of the hand was not satisfied, and waited for more. I prodded it and continued spooning out untruths.

  ‘There is success written here,’ I said, knowing the terrain was blank. ‘If you will trust others.’

  I knew he would not.

  ‘You will travel far,’ I continued.

  It was a safe guess, knowing what I did of all our histories and desires. I fought not to gabble, for I ached to drop this paw and wash myself in the hottest water in the house. I was a fool for thinking this new-found skill would be easy. A wicked pleasure? Far from it.

  ‘Enough,’ I panted. ‘I shall burst.’

  I withdrew, and managed not to wipe myself clean upon my skirts. I sat meekly as the mask was lifted away. Sitting opposite me, and unsheathing his hand from the leather glove, was my husband.

  I arranged my mouth into a grin, made pretty jokes about the brightness of the light and the smell of the mask, and of course that was why my eyes were running with water, and I sneezed and twisted my nose daintily, and stroked my moustaches until everyone laughed.

  ‘So, you are not false, my love!’ he chuckled, tugging at my beard.

  I patted his arm with great affection.

  ‘Did I not tell you so? Can I not read you true?’ I simpered.

  He called me his special little pet, and how we should straightway make the mask a part of the show, and what a clever idea it was, so original, so indicative of greatness.

  I took my hand away from him as slowly as I dared and waited for the easy knack of breathing to come again. I looked at him sideways, at his slick chin, the strangle of his cravat, the fatness of his fingers when he waggled them in time to the nonsense of his pronouncements. I swallowed a sour clot in my throat, there being nowhere to spit.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he announced, thumbing the pockets of his waistcoat. ‘I believe that good luck has smiled broadly upon our company. Did I not tell you what a genius you have for an impresario? What we have here is a new attraction. Think of it. The Mystical Lioness! She’ll tell your fortune blindfold!’

  We nodded our heads carefully, each one of us. Even Abel.

  All I desired was to be alone, and after the night’s show that came soon enough. The men were gone to their downstairs room, my husband and I to our separate chambers in the upper part of the house, and Lizzie no-one knew where. I ached behind my eyes.

  I undressed and climbed into bed, but could not bear the weight of the blankets on my arm, for I could still not shake off the fancy that the foul tongue I saw in the palm-reading still slabbered over me from wrist to elbow. When I could stand it no longer, I swung my feet over the side of the mattress and pattered my toes about in search of the rug. I got up and stalked up and down until the prickling on my skin ebbed somewhat.

  I lit the gas and thrust my hand into the pool of light, thinking that if I could make sense of others’ hands, surely I could make some sense of my own. I closed my eyes and pressed my palms together, waiting for the surge of bright pictures, but my skin stayed blank and cool, however fiercely I rubbed. Nothing. No great insights. So much for my magical talent.

  Any thought of sleep was impossible. Candlestick in hand, I tiptoed out of my room and towards my husband’s. I wanted to see him in all his wobbling humanity: his moist pate, thinning hair, short and dimpled fingers, bulbous nose and stomach, and thereby reduced to a mere creature of flesh and bone, not the ravening beast I had spied within. His room was empty, the door standing wide open. Why I chose to enter and not return to my safe bed I do not know. But enter I did.

  I was drawn to the tall-boy whereupon stood a small box of dark blue velvet. I opened it to find a ring resting upon the satin lining, a gold band set with a ruby flanked by two pearls. My heart leaped. I believe a herd of cows could have been driven through the house at that moment and I would have noticed nothing. I thought my husband lost to me. I thought him a Bluebeard. I cringed with shame for imagining such terrible things about him. Here was his first gift for a very long time. I did not count the dresses made for my performances. This was an intimate offering for my eyes alone.

  A tiny scrap of folded paper was tucked into the lid. I paused. I should let him deliver this treasure to me with some of its secrets intact. But I ached to soothe myself with affectionate words; I had been so starved, and for so long. I told myself I could unfold and refold it so that no-one would guess it had been read. The paper shook as I opened it. There were seven words, and they changed everything.

  To my Bet, from her naughty JoeJoe.

  My fingers were as deft as I thought. They closed the billet-doux into precisely the same shape, and pressed it back into the lid. It looked exactly the same as a minute previously. I do not know how many moments I stood there, transfixed by the sparkling gems until they blurred.

  However much I tried to put off the dawning of truth, I knew there was only one fortune for me: fool. I was a fool, for my husband would never take me in his ar
ms, whatever I had dreamed of. I was his Golden Goose, and as long as I was careful to remain so, I would suffer neither the mistreatment nor the harsh words he dealt out to my odd companions. He would continue to laugh and call me his little kitten, for to him I was no more than an interesting pet who would bring fortune his way with my freakish talents, a helpless creature who would stray or be lost if it were not for his strong right hand.

  I thought of the way he smiled when I wore a new pair of gloves, how he lifted his eyebrow at a new dress, a new hat, or a fresh determination to walk from one end of the street to the other. How he had slowly seeped away my will, watered down my confidence with his kindly glance. How could I have not noticed it?

  I had been led astray by hats, and fans, and dresses. Blinded by my desire to escape from my cramped beginnings into a better life. Dazzled by the word ‘husband’ and all I thought it could mean. It was as brittle as the vision I had seen when I read my dear sweet husband’s palm, and as false. Most of all, I had fooled myself with the stubborn hope that he might love me.

  I took the jewel-box and raced back to my own room where I hauled open the door to the press, pulled out my show costumes and threw them on the bed. The green satin, so short it came barely halfway to the knee; the lilac stripe, trimmed with cheap lace and beaded edging on the bodice: glass, not jet. I had sold myself for a necklace of glass beads. I tossed the ring after them.

  I hated them all with their feminine fussiness. I wanted long plain skirts and no corset to push my breasts up to my chin. I had had enough. No more pandering to his huckstering shouts: ‘See how her natural daintiness is cursed! How her natural femininity is thwarted!’

  It was long after midnight. I sat on the edge of bed and listened to the mattress sighing with me. Everything I owned was spread-eagled on the coverlet. I was decided: I would go. I would take away nothing of our married life. I pushed the dresses as far from me as I could and they slid into a rustling hill on the floor.

  I was left with very little; only the mirror, small enough to fit my hand, but large enough to remind me that once I believed I was the fairest of them all. There was also the money I had saved, hidden when my husband was too busy being boastful: six sovereigns and the folded sheet of a five-pound note. I think I would have remained sitting there until the end of the world, staring at the heap of my life, if Lizzie had not passed by the door. I came out of my daze to the sound of her tossing coins from one hand to the other.