Jack O'Connell - The Resurrectionist

And by the second sentence, his tongue had swollen and his mouth had gone dry. He was perspiring desperately.

“See the human mule and the lobster girl,” he cried. “See the skeleton and the fat lady. See Vasco and Marcel, the Siamese twins.”

But it came out as if he were reading from a laundry list. And the marks just gave him a suspicious or angry look and walked right by. Inside, the freaks waited, not so patiently, to hear the familiar noise of bodies filing into the sideshow annex, the voices of braggadocio and wonder, the nervous quips and laughter. Now, all they heard was Bruno’s muffled and mangled attempts to bark up some business.

“The show starts in ten minutes,” the strongman called. “One price buys you eleven freaks. See the human torso. See the pinhead. See the chicken boy.”

But there were no takers. And this was a first. Bruno had traveled with circuses and carnivals all of his life. The freak show was the closest thing to a sure bet he’d ever encountered, through cities and villages, in good times and bad. The Goldfaden Freaks had drawn sell-out crowds all across Old Bohemia. Why weren’t they drawing them in at the Jubilee?

The answer was provided with gleeful hostility by Chief Shawnee, the Jubilee’s resident strongman. He approached Bruno minutes before showtime, peeked into the empty annex, and laughed, “Now that’s a damn shame,” though it was obvious that he relished the sight of the empty tent.

He held out a bottle to Bruno, who declined. The Chief shrugged and took his own swig, wiped his mouth with his forearm, and said, “You’re the worst talker I’ve ever seen.”

“It’s not my specialty,” Bruno agreed.

“Oh, that’s right,” said the Chief, “you’re with the shovel brigade, aren’t you?”

“I’m a strongman,” Bruno said, “just like you.”

“That right?” Micmac said, arching his brows and pulling down his jaw. “I heard you were a dung shoveler. I heard you were a lowlife, shitslinging gazonie.”

The sweat was pouring down Bruno’s face and he could feel the muscles in his neck starting to pulse. He took a breath and said, “You heard wrong, Chief,” throwing all the accent onto the last word and turning it into a mocking insult.

The Chief took a drink and gave a half laugh. “No need to be ashamed,” he said. “Every circus needs its dung slingers. Hell,” a pause to belch, “I’d even say it’s a step up from trying to sell a bunch of sham freaks.”

“They’re not shams,” Bruno snapped, too quickly. “They’re the real things.”

The Chief nodded condescendingly. “’Course they’re shams. Everyone knows they’re shams. Why do you think no one’s buying a ticket? They all remember the last time the Jubilee offered up some freaks. They were all bogus. Every one of them. Frauds, fakers, and phonies.”

Bruno stepped out from behind the ticket booth.

“My freaks,” he said, “are genuine.”

“Well, then,” the Chief said, “you won’t mind showing them to me.” And he lifted the flap and strolled into the annex.

Bruno followed him inside, unsure of what to do. It was showtime, even if there was no audience. And if he refused to display the freaks, it would seem as if he were afraid of exposing their fraudulence.

“C’mon,” the Chief said. “Bring up the curtains and let’s have a look at your needle and thread monsters.”

Conflicted and annoyed, Bruno stomped over to the riggings and took hold of all the tie-lines at once. Instead of bringing one curtain up at a time, the way the show was supposed to unfold, he yanked all of them up simultaneously. And the freaks were revealed together, in eleven dioramas: Chick behind pen fencing, Kitty among oversized furniture, Nadja laid out with conch shells and sea stones, Fatos next to a cardboard cactus, and so on.

The Chief was taken aback at first. He’d been hitting the bottle when the curtains went up and he spilled liquor down his chest at the sight of them. Bruno watched him bite his bottom lip and stare. Then he took a step closer and leaned his head forward and muttered something unintelligible. He moved over to the first stage, where Antoinette was posed on a wooden stool before a classroom backdrop. The Chief studied the pinhead for awhile, then began to walk from stage to stage.

He took his time, stroking his chin as he gaped, sometimes scratching at his head. The last stage belonged to Milena, who was posed on a loveseat, lounging in an elaborate costume that was half white silk nightgown and half black pajama shirt and pants.

The hecklers and the rowdies always saved their strength for the hermaphrodite. It had been the same back home. Milena had heard every comment and developed several standard responses. So when the Chief said, “You gonna’ show them to me?” Milena didn’t even think before s/he said, “Not till you show me yours first.”

“I’m not the freak,” said the Chief.

“We won’t know that,” said Milena, “until I get a good look.”

Bruno was ready to launch himself if the Chief made a move toward the stage. But it wasn’t necessary. Shawnee glared at Milena, threw a hand dismissively in the hermaphrodite’s direction and uttered a single, disgusted syllable.

“Bwah,” he said.

Then he turned to Bruno and smiled.

“There’s only one thing,” he said, “more humiliating than a strongman playing wet nurse to a freak troupe.”

Bruno waited for it silently. The Chief allowed himself a belt from the bottle before he continued.

“A fake strongman,” he said at last, “playing wet nurse to a troupe of fake freaks.”

Satisfied with himself, Micmac Shawnee began to exit the annex tent.

Bruno could have let it go at that. And, perhaps, on another night, in another town, he would have. But the feel of the bow tie at his neck and the boater, too tight, on his head, had abbreviated his capacity to suffer fools gladly. And as the Chief bent to push through the tent flap, Bruno lowered a hand onto his rival’s shoulder and stopped Micmac’s progress.

The Chief turned slowly.

“I’ll say it again,” Bruno said. “They’re not fakes.”

The Chief looked at Bruno and then beyond him to the freaks, who were still frozen on their stages, several of them wishing their curtains would fall.

“And I’ll say it again,” said the Chief. “They’re the saddest bunch of frauds and imposters I’ve ever laid eyes on. It’s so obvious, I can only think that the ringmaster took them on out of pity.”

“Let me tell you what I pity,” said Bruno. “I pity the paying customer who has to watch a drunken tub of lard like yourself dress up like a real man.”

The Chief responded with a wild and off-balance roundhouse, telegraphed so far in advance of its arrival that none of the freaks even bothered to shout a warning. Bruno sidestepped the punch, pivoted and threw two shots to the Chief’s kidneys. Shawnee went down on a knee, stunned, but only for a second. And when he bounced upright, he barreled into Bruno with an enraged tackle. Both men went to the ground this time, rolling in the dirt and weeds, each trying to squeeze the other into surrender.

The freaks dashed to the lips of their stages to watch the spectacle, except for Antoinette who ran, sobbing, back to the trailer. Chick wondered if he should fetch someone but decided against it, unsure of whom he could trust.

The rolling and groaning and grunting continued for several minutes, each of the giants trying to break the other’s hold with a sudden twist or turn. But for a while, the two appeared well matched.

As it turned out, however, Bruno had youth and cunning on his side. He let the Chief tire himself, let the alcohol in the man’s blood go to work. And as the Chief’s strength began to ebb just slightly, the Bohemian Behemoth sensed his advantage and threw his opponent onto his back.