Carol Birch - Orphans of the Carnival

‘No question about it. Shake then.’ They stood and shook hands. Beach towered over Rates. ‘Time of her life’s coming,’ he said. ‘This time next month she’ll be drinking champagne.’

They went down to see her straight away. She was alone. She knew what they’d been talking about. Twice Beach had visited her backstage after the show, filling the dressing room with his bulky self-made air.

‘My dear Julia,’ Rates said, taking small steps towards her and clasping both her hands in his, ‘I can’t tell you how privileged I feel to have been a party to your great success.’

Beach smiled over Rates’s shoulder, his eyes an eerie pale blue.

‘And now,’ said Rates, ‘I feel a parting of the ways is nigh.’

She looked Beach in the eye.

‘Mr Beach has a proposition,’ said Rates.

‘I thought so,’ she said.

Her eyes made Beach shiver, she could tell, but he showed no sign of disquiet. What to make of him? Caramel-coloured coat. Gold cravat. Carrying his hat. Only thing she could do was trust instinct. He came forward. His cheekbones were shiny ridges, his grin made him look like Punch. ‘Cleveland,’ he said. ‘Buffalo. Chicago. Lenox, Massachusetts. Milwaukee. Cincinnati. I have these lined up for you already.’

She laughed nervously. ‘I don’t know where they are.’

‘Want me to show you a map?’ He patted his pockets comically. ‘Don’t have one on me right now, but I sure will next time I see you.’

‘And the contract?’ she said.

The girls would have been proud of her.

On the steps Beach lit a cigar, shaking his head in wonder. A light rain began falling on the steaming pavement, and a breeze blew up from the river. ‘The strangest thing,’ he said, gazing down the street to the carriages waiting in line. ‘The face, the face…’

‘The face indeed,’ Rates echoed, scratching his smooth bulby chin.

‘Impossible to comprehend.’ Beach put his collar up and hunched his shoulders. ‘There’s a kind of — no, the word wonder isn’t right — she is so — completely—’ He shook his head again.

Rates completed the sentence. ‘Inhuman.’ The rain was turning to sleet. ‘Went down a charm in New Orleans,’ he said, ‘thought she was the rougarou .’

‘As if the head of a wolf or a boar—’ said Beach.

‘I know.’

For a moment they stood in silence.

‘Beggars belief,’ said Beach. ‘I tell you, gives you the shivers. Puts the fear in people. And then she opens her mouth — the mouth of Cerberus! — and this sweet little voice comes out!’

Rates gave a short laugh. ‘And her English is perfect. She’s not at all bad, is she?’

‘She’s a sensation,’ said Beach, ‘that’s what she is. She’s a good girl, I can work with her.’

All gone on the night train. The goodbyes said. Good luck, sweetheart, we’ll no doubt see you again, that’s the way of it.

New place, new people. They were going to Cleveland on the train, and after that a long tour. They’d ride in wagons. She’d have one of her own, Beach said. He paid better than Rates. The contract ran till Christmas when they would return to New York, and after that, well…

‘I plan on making you a famous lady,’ Beach said, ‘yes I do. I will get the best deal going for you every single time, nothing more, nothing less.’

And all in writing.

‘Before we leave New York,’ she told Beach, ‘I want to ride the streetcar. And I want to go to church.’

‘I don’t think there’s time, Julia,’ he said. He was dashing off somewhere.

‘Why not? I’m not doing anything.’

‘Yes, you are,’ he said. ‘You’re guarding your mystery.’ He’d picked the phrase up from Rates. ‘If you go out just any old time people get used to seeing you. They stop paying. Simple as that. Think about it. It’s your livelihood, Julia. You’ll never want for anything as long as you live, but there’s this one over-riding rule. Keep ’em hungry.’

‘I’ll wear my veil and gloves,’ she said.

‘You can’t go out on your own, Julia.’ His big red face was worried. ‘You’ll get lost.’

‘I know where the streetcar stops,’ she said. ‘Why would I get lost?’

His face was pained. ‘It’s not that simple. Anything could happen. This is a dangerous city, Julia.’

Pointless to talk. That’s how it was. Delia and Jonsy had never gone out. Some people just couldn’t do as other people did. Even in Culiacán she couldn’t.

Only one day more in New York. She sat behind the curtain looking out of the window, thinking of home, wondering if she should send a letter. Who would she send it to? Solana was dead. She couldn’t have read it anyway. And the others? What could she say? Perhaps write to Don Pedro. Doing fine. Hope all well. But then after all — after all, she thought, what am I? A servant who moved on. Dear Don Pedro, you were wrong. You said I’d fall flat. My dresses are prettier than Marta’s. When she’d told him she was leaving he’d frowned, steepling his fingers and looking at her steadily over the top of them as if deeply disappointed in her, and she’d gabbled about being grateful for all he’d done for her. Then he’d got up and walked about the room, staring at the floor. ‘What do you think it will be like,’ he’d said, ‘out there in the world? I am your guardian, you are my responsibility. I mean to continue in that role. Tell me, have you any idea quite how your Mr Rates intends to present you? Hm?’

‘Señor,’ she’d said, ‘you know that I can sing and dance, you yourself made sure of it.’

‘Indeed! That does not answer my question. You’re not a fool. Have we kept you prisoner here? There are no bars on the doors or the windows. Why don’t you go out then, freely, brazenly? Why?’

She said nothing, because her eyes were filling up and she was realising that Don Pedro was the one she’d miss the most, even though he hardly ever spoke to her.

‘You know why.’

Nothing.

‘Do you think you’ll see any more of the world out there than in this safe home we gave you? Here, where you’re known? However far you go, do you think you’ll ever be able to walk down the street like any other young woman?’

‘Señor,’ she said, ‘I can’t tell you how grateful I will always be to you.’

‘You’ll sing and you’ll dance and you’ll play your guitar, and they’ll applaud, of course they will. Do you think they care about your talent? Such as it is.’

Such as it is, she repeated in her mind. Such as it is. Something about the phrase and the way he said it, as if he was throwing it away, hardened her resolve.

‘They don’t care about your talent, Julia,’ he’d said, stopping in front of her and speaking gently, ‘they only want to see the freak.’

‘Señor,’ she said, ‘I know. I want to be independent. Mr Rates has sent me my fare.’

And then of course he’d become sentimental, as was his way, sat down in his chair and gazed at her with moist aching eyes and told her once more how he’d first seen her in the orphanage. ‘In you came with that old lump of wood in a dress, a little ape but not quite an ape, and it was the most curious thing.’ Shaking his head. Impossible . ‘You were so hideous but you were just like a puppy. You were sucking your fingers. So unaware of what you were. And I tickled you under the chin and scratched behind your ears. I asked you what you liked to eat and you said “Porridge, Señor”, in the most ordinary little voice. I was surprised you could talk.’

‘And then the old nun said, “Oh, she has a voice, Señor. Would you like to hear her sing?” And you sang that silly little song, “Sana Sana Colita de Rana”.’