The Palace of Curiosities

by Rosie Garland

  I pressed his hand with great gentleness and smiled. He gave a small one in return, his shining lips struggling to stretch into the shape.

  ‘More,’ he rasped.

  ‘Before that, you were in Italy, and were a student at a school of anatomy. I see you standing next to a man who looks on you with an air of mastery. But he cannot tell you what you ache to know. It makes you confused.’

  ‘Ah, yes. I recall him.’ His eyes swam, and he closed the lids over them. ‘As you tell me, I remember. It seems that through every one of my lives I have been nothing but a blank canvas on to which all have painted their need.’

  ‘Blank? My dearest Abel, nothing could be further than the truth. You burst with stories. If your lives were painted they would fill every gallery in every city and still men would have to build more to fit you in.’

  ‘Yet I have forgotten.’

  ‘Forgetting you have done something is not the same as not having done it.’

  ‘Please.’ He cleared his throat and nodded. ‘I am ready.’

  So I held his newborn hand and read his stories one by one as they surfaced like slow fish from the pond of his being. I told him the secret of himself, and very simple it was too: he had lived a hundred and one lives, and a hundred and one more. I was his Scheherazade and might never be done. He listened, and it seemed that with my telling he grew a little calmer, that his mind began to heal up its great breaches just as his body did.

  Gradually we settled into our new home, a room under the eaves of a quiet house with a window that opened out on to roof-tops. I liked to lean on the sill and contemplate their slate expanse stretching into the distance. When it rained they looked like so many whales surfacing from the ocean of the city, and our home was a small boat making its way on that heaving sea.

  I scrubbed the floors and windows, beat the rugs like any other wife and bore the stares of our neighbours as I went back and forth to the privy, or the pump, or the laundry. By and by they shouted, ‘Hey missus!’ and halloa as they passed and I said halloa back. One Sunday afternoon a woman from the room beneath us tied up my hair in blue and red ribbons and the whole household laughed, but it was kind laughter. By small degrees I became their ‘kitty-cat’ and they grew quite proud of me, letting me know how the whole of London was jealous because they alone laid claim to the residence of the one and only Pretty Kitty of Stepney.

  Lizzie paid us visits when she was not too busy; and busy she was for she had a string of gentleman friends in thrall to her particular charms and they demanded a great deal of her attention. She told us how George had moved to Birmingham or somewhere equally far off.

  ‘But don’t you worry about him. He’ll get into one fight too many some day. Lizzie’s got friends in more places than you imagine,’ she said darkly.

  I did not enquire too closely what she meant.

  ‘How is Bill?’ I asked, to change the subject.

  ‘He’s quite the young gent.’ She grinned with affection. ‘Working the halls now. Got himself a nice little act with a dog. You know how everyone likes a dog.’

  ‘We should catch him some evening.’

  So she amused us with tales of her amorous admirers, each one more intent than the last on seeing her comfortably settled.

  One night, some months later, I heard Abel crying out, and took his hand to soothe him. The orbs of his eyes flickered back and forth beneath the closed lids. I stroked my free hand up and down the inner side of his forearm where the muscles flexed; I felt them straining urgently against some great force.

  But I did not see more of his lives: this time I was assaulted with the vision of his attempted escapes into death. I saw him hurl his body into rivers and plague pits blistering with quicklime, devouring rotten meat and bread blue with blight, hanging from ropes which would not strangle away his breath, falling upon swords and spears and knives of every variety, seeking poisoned oblivion that swam like honey through his veins, and, over and over, throwing himself into tumbling falls from the highest buildings.

  I tasted his need to break himself, and his desperation when each time his body renewed. Falling and broken, injured and healing, without end. The frantic quivering of his frame continued for many minutes, and I wondered whether I should try to rouse him; but at last the fit ceased, and he let out a gasp of breath. I echoed the breath, for I had been holding mine also. He opened his eyes.

  ‘Is it time to go to work?’ he hissed, blinking in the gaslight. ‘Oh. It’s you, Eve.’

  ‘You were crying out.’

  He lifted his hand, clasped in mine.

  ‘Ah,’ he nodded. ‘If you have been reading what is in my mind, then you will know why. That I wish to die. That I have wished to die in every life. You will also have seen the countless times I have attempted it.’

  He looked away from me.

  ‘Abel, why?’

  He grabbed my shoulders in an extremity of despair, greater than I had seen in him previously. ‘I want to finish myself,’ he cried. ‘I want to stop, to rest. I have had lifetimes of restlessness. You have seen them, Eve. I am exhausted: I want to lie down and pull the earth up over me, to snuff myself out and be nothing. But my body will not let me.’

  ‘But it is wonderful. You are wonderful.’

  As I looked upon him, I realised I spoke the truth. He was all I wanted. It was so clear, so plain. With him, my difference was neither ignored nor made important. I was simply Eve. Furry, undoubtedly; a reader of hands, certainly. But, primarily, Eve. I had always been defined by my queerness. Until now. He groaned.

  ‘Tell me this: if there was a cure for your condition? If you could be made smooth and hairless? What would you do?’

  ‘I would smash the bottle containing the elixir,’ I said with a passion.

  He held me at arm’s length.

  ‘Then we are truly different, for I would drink it. Sincerely, I would leap at it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I wish to be the same as every other man. To bleed, to sicken, grow old and die. I give up.’

  ‘Are you so unhappy?’

  ‘I am so very tired.’

  That night I lay in bed listening to the shuffle of his quiet feet across the floor, the hiccough of the gas as he turned off the tap. As he stretched up, his nightshirt lifted and I glimpsed his thighs, twined with dark hair; I glimpsed also that masculine part of him which never stirred. For all that we had shared a bed since our escape from the fire, we were as chaste as babes. The mattress eased under his weight as he lay down beside me.

  ‘Abel?’ I murmured. ‘Are you sleepy?’

  ‘Eve,’ he answered quietly.

  I leaned across and kissed his mouth. His eyes swam, and with his forefinger he traced the downy curve of my cheek.

  ‘Eve—’

  ‘Abel, I spent one life being coy with a man who did not love me. I will not be such a fool in this my second life.’

  I pushed up his shirt, skimmed my hand across his chest, delighting in the snag of hair circling his nipples and streaming downwards to his navel, swirling thickly around that sweet cave; the dark arrow leading downwards further still into the thatch of crisp hair nesting – limpness. I palmed the flesh, rolled my hand around, under, hefting the weight of him, but he remained unmoved.

  He sighed. ‘Your touch pleasures me, but I cannot – I would like to—’

  He ran out of words. I could think of none to fill the space between us. My boldness shrivelled and I took back my hand. Although I was ashamed to admit it to myself, I resented this lack of vitality, which left me empty of the fulfilment I sought.

  ‘It is not important, Abel,’ I said, and it was almost true.

  ‘Do you think I wish this softness? Do you think it is because I do not desire you?’

  ‘I am used to it. Why should any man desire me?’

  ‘Eve, you do not understand.’

  But I did. It was no great surprise. My romantic dreams had died during my brief marriage, that fortress of u
nhappiness. I was determined not to be deluded by frivolous dreams with Abel. Here was the only man to delight in my difference. He was my dear friend, and a companion I needed more than I did any physical communing. If he did not lust after me, then so be it. I would not allow myself to be disappointed.

  The following morning I found him searching through our meagre store of possessions.

  ‘What do you need, Abel?’ I asked, still sleepy.

  He grunted in reply. I thought of how he used to need reminding of the smallest things each day. How he used to cling to that paper of his, reading it assiduously. Even though he now had me, perhaps he still needed its security.

  ‘Do you need pen and ink?’

  His arms fell to his side.

  ‘I can get paper if you wish, so you may begin a fresh document of your lives.’

  ‘No,’ he croaked. ‘Not that.’

  ‘What is it? What ails you?’

  I got out of bed and padded across the little rug, placed my hand over his where it gripped the table-edge and I felt the roiling of his distress.

  ‘I need knives,’ he gasped.

  I took a step back, and our hands separated.

  ‘No, Abel. No more cutting. That was another world. You don’t need to display yourself to an audience for sixpences.’

  ‘If you want me, I must have blades,’ he whispered.

  ‘Abel, no—’

  He regarded me with sad eyes. ‘Don’t you understand why?’

  ‘No. You don’t need to hurt yourself.’

  ‘It is not hurt.’

  ‘It is!’

  There was a pause.

  ‘So, you will not help me?’

  ‘Not with this.’

  ‘I thought you understood. But no-one does. Not even you.’ He put on his cap and boots.

  ‘Abel?’

  ‘I am going to find work. Your husband’s money will not last for ever.’

  His feet thumped down the stairs. I swept the room, turned the mattress and scrubbed the floor. Then I sat at the table by the window and continued writing the story of my life. I was resolved to join the throng of brave folk who set out the narrative of their lives; I had been much inspired by the Life of Olaudah Equiano and hoped that my story might have just as eager a reception. However much tastes might change, there was still curiosity even if such tales were dressed up in fancy words like ‘autobiography’.

  Then I finished the sewing, cleaned the window and peeled the potatoes with the tiny knife I kept tucked in my bodice. I did not understand why Abel still sought to cut himself now that he was free of Mr Arroner and the Freak Show. I could tell him his history any time he wanted: I should be enough for him. He was mine.

  The room was quiet.

  I sat down, heavy with the weight of my shameful thoughts. He was mine? I was no better than my husband if I considered Abel to be my possession. Very well. If he needed blades, then I would let him have them, and would strive to understand. I laid the potato knife on the board, where he would see it, and when I heard his unmistakable tread upon the stairs I raced to open the door. He was smeared with blood, and I started back.

  ‘There is a new slaughter-yard at Bethnal Green. They need a man like me. I have not misplaced my skill, it seems. I will earn my keep, Eve.’ He laid a small brown-paper packet on the table. ‘A piece of liver,’ he said. ‘It will taste good.’

  ‘Abel …’ All my breath flew out in a rush. ‘About this morning. I am sorry.’

  ‘Sorry?’ His gaze flickered briefly. ‘Oh. It is no matter.’

  ‘It is,’ I said, my chin pushed out. ‘I did not listen to you.’

  ‘No. You did not.’ He said the words without anger, but still they stung me.

  ‘Let me listen now.’

  He began to unlace his boots. I watched his lips work up and down as though bursting with words. As he pulled the boots off he seemed to reach a decision.

  ‘You think I do not desire you?’ he said. ‘Let me show you.’

  ‘Yes.’ I swallowed.

  He stood and folded his arms. ‘Loosen your stays.’

  ‘My—’

  ‘Do it.’

  I was silenced. I began to undo the buttons at my breast but I had only managed two before he took a step forward and gently pushed my hands aside. He unlooped the remaining buttons, releasing each from its tightly sewn hole in so leisurely a fashion that I cried out with the pain of wanting him to release me more swiftly. He paused, breathing on my neck just below the ear, stirring the long curl.

  ‘There is no need for haste, Eve,’ he said.

  I was stilled. He shrugged the blouse from my shoulders, reached round and loosened my corset-laces, unleashing caught breath. The hair on my back flustered in moist swirls.

  ‘That is better,’ he said, his voice the brushing of a soft broom. ‘Now, take off that corset.’

  I obeyed, leaving only my chemise. He regarded me most intently, and I could not look away.

  ‘And your chemise. All of it.’

  I unpeeled damp cloth until I stood naked. He took my hand, and I felt a rough sweep of command surge into my body, swelling my longing. I tried to draw my paw away for I wished to compose myself, and not suffer the torture of this darting arousal between my legs. He held on fast.

  ‘Lie down.’

  I stretched out on the bed in the full light of the sun slanting through our high window. With great care, he unbound my braided hair, smoothing his fingers through the weave till I was quite undone. I had never felt so stripped, even when I had been shaved. I trembled beneath his hands.

  ‘I have a gift for you,’ he said, and reached into the pocket of his jacket, for he was still fully clothed.

  He drew out a small dandy-brush, such as those used to groom horses. At first I thought it was packed with hog’s hair bristles, but as he flourished it before my face I saw that it was set with a multitude of delicate steel tines. I took in a frightened breath, for it looked a cruel instrument. He took my wrist, laid the brush against my shoulder and with a delicious ease drew it down my arm towards the elbow.

  ‘I declare, Abel—’ I said.

  He held a finger to my lips, and continued. The tiny metal points tickled through my fur; every particle of skin was brought to quivering attention. He continued the sweep from elbow to wrist, the teeth gliding through my tangles, unknotting me so gently I did not feel the slightest tug. Donkey-Skin’s combing had never been so delectable. My flesh sparkled. He continued with my other arm, smoothing and flattening, plying the brush just as cleverly, then bade me turn on to my stomach.

  Starting at the nape of my neck he swept the length of my spine to the swell of my hips; and further still, down my thighs to my ankles. It felt as though the frailest of kittens’ teeth were grazing the skin; not harsh enough to be a scratch, more a sharp sweet caress which dissipated as soon as it passed over. All my blood rose to meet the touch in a kiss. My body sang. I stopped seeking for words and stretched out beneath the inquisitive brushing, melting into the bed until I thought I must be spread as thin as the sheet I lay upon. The whole time he held my wrist, and through our joined flesh I felt his arousal mounting to match mine.

  He stopped, and I turned to see if anything was amiss. As I watched, he began to undress himself. Snapped away his braces and undid his shirt, very slowly, from the neck down to the navel, each flip of the button revealing a thatch as dark as the boot-black hair on his head. I watched him ram his fingers into the gorsy clumps ringing his nipples, squinting at the tiny buds there, stroking his luxuriant pelt over and over. Lizzie in all her voluptuous beauty had never so entranced me.

  He unpicked the buttons of his fly, wrestling his thumbs into the waistband and pushing his trousers down, down, revealing thighs bulging with smooth fur and the sleeping flesh that nested in its bristling curls; indeed the Pan I had dreamed of, lacking only a satyr’s priapic vigour. I sighed: he was giving me more pleasure than I thought it possible to bear and I would not push him
aside again.

  ‘I am sorry,’ he said sadly, indicating his slumbering flesh. ‘I cannot.’

  ‘Am I so very ugly?’ I asked, my throat full of stones.

  ‘You are more beautiful than there are words to speak it in any of the tongues I know. This is my curse.’

  ‘Is there no way?’

  ‘There is. But you have already said you will not help.’

  Suddenly I understood what he meant when he said he needed knives. I understood what I had only glimpsed before, why he had covered his lap with a scarf, why George had made so many lewd jokes. I sat up and took his hand in mine.

  ‘Abel, I will help. I am yours.’

  He curved his lips in a half-smile, slipping his hand across my breasts, tantalising my skin until I squirmed beneath his touch. Then he withdrew for an achingly long moment, and returned with the paring knife. He took my hand, and his yearning erupted through my whole being. The air crackled, shifting like a change in the wind across a field of wheat, or the ripping snap of a sail swinging as a boat tacks to one side.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Do this.’

  He opened up the flesh of his arm. Together we gazed into the familiar wetness and waited. Then a sudden movement drew my eyes downward: that part of him I thought incapable of motion was rising in a slow journey upwards, lengthening into a glistening rod crowned with a roseate head.

  I had never seen Mr Arroner naked, only felt him the once; what Abel presented to my gaze was beautiful, and thrilled me with a fierce curiosity. My free hand rose and I touched the tip where the tiniest of slits wept tears of clear liquid, carried the finger to my tongue, tasted the sour and salt of him. His body shuddered and his need rocked through our handclasp. With a great effort, I wrenched my eyes away from the enchanting sight and looked up into his face. It only occurred to me then that I had never seen him smile before: his features were transfigured into life, vitality, comprehension.

  ‘You see,’ he said. ‘I do need this.’

  ‘You do,’ I hummed.

  ‘Please.’

  He held out the knife; I took the proffered handle and unsheathed it from his fist. He gripped the blade tightly and moaned in pleasure as it sliced his palm, hips jerking forwards.