Carol Birch - Orphans of the Carnival

‘I’m so glad you could come,’ she said. Her plucked, eager face was overwhelmed by the tremendous froth of her costume.

‘Thank you,’ Julia said. ‘It’s lovely to be here.’

When everyone sat, the band struck up something jolly, and the waiters poured champagne. The table was beautifully adorned with flowers and silver and starched white linen. Julia was very careful, sipping slowly. The music calmed her down. She didn’t know the tune, but it was so spirited that her head began to sway and her ankle to jog, and the Major leaned down towards her.

‘You like the music?’ he asked.

‘It’s wonderful,’ she said.

The Major’s eyes were sad and wet and drooped down at the outer corners. He smiled. Leaning across her, he struck up a conversation with Beach about the antiquity of the band and all the great occasions it had graced. Julia drank. The bubbles went up her nose, half stung, half tickled. How terrible if she sneezed. But her control was perfect. Since that horrible time with the children she’d been practising dignity every day, diligently and persistently as if it was a musical instrument she was learning. The little wife, still eagerly smiling, was nodding at her very quickly like an inquisitive parrot. Tight-corseted, erect, Julia smiled back. The dancers lined up.

‘My dear, this Charlotte Russe is simply delicious,’ said a hawk-nosed officer, ‘may I help you to some?’

She declined politely. She was too excited to eat.

‘I’ve never seen such beautiful dresses,’ she blurted out.

‘And your own, Miss Pastrana.’ The Major’s wife reached across and laid her hand on Julia’s arm. ‘It’s very charming. A little bird told me you made it yourself. Is that so?’

‘I’ve always made my own clothes,’ Julia said.

‘Very skilful! Such lovely embroidery.’

‘Thank you.’

She felt like laughing. It just all seemed so funny, these polished people wanting her as their guest of honour, all wanting to touch her, say they’ve met her, yes, she actually spoke to them. And all because of her face. But inside her face she felt ordinary, and there was nothing she could tell any of them. She drank. Careful. Not too much. The second cotillion was announced. A young officer with silky hair and smooth face approached the table, saluted smartly and bowed low.

‘Miss Pastrana,’ he said, blushing deeply, ‘Will you honour me with your hand for this dance?’

‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, ‘I’m afraid I don’t know this dance at all. I really must decline.’ She wasn’t going to make a fool of herself getting it wrong. When she danced it would be something she was sure of. The officer bowed and departed. One more glass of champagne, she thought, and she’d be ready. She wouldn’t drink after that. She politely refused three more dances, waiting for the waltz, but when it came the old Major got in first, rising gallantly, taking her hand and leading her on to the floor, right out into the centre. From the corners of her eyes she was aware of the other couples, so much taller and surer than she was. The band played ‘Wild Roses’, and they swept into the dance. Of course, once they started, she was fine. This she could do as well as any, better than most. So around the floor they swirled and swirled, her dress one more petal among the rest, to the dignified sweep of the waltz. The old boy was a good dancer. He looked into her eyes as they danced, smiling. He was close to death, she thought. Already his eyes were far away, fading out as if they’d been left too long in a window and the sun had bleached them.

‘Are you enjoying this evening?’ he asked.

‘Very much,’ she replied. And she was.

‘You are very graceful, my dear,’ he said when the dance ended, and he led her back to her seat.

They were queuing up after that. First she danced the schottische with a bright young lieutenant with red hair and a cock-eyed grin. When they got on the dance floor she saw him lose his nerve for a second, saw him truly see her for the first time up close, face to face. His own face changed from pink to white to red in the space of a few seconds. Poor boy, she thought. If I smile now so close to his face it’ll scare him witless. So she tried to keep the smile to the eyes only, and said gently, ‘Don’t worry. It’s not for very long.’

‘Oh no. No no no no no, Miss Pastrana,’ he stammered, ‘you are mistaken—’

The music began.

‘It’s perfectly all right,’ she said. ‘I won’t bite you.’

He plastered a smile across his face, took a deep breath and steeled himself. But as they danced his smile became real, and soon he was laughing as they hopped about. ‘You can certainly dance!’ he called above the noise. ‘You never miss!’

‘Of course not!’ She laughed too. It was like being at home dancing with one of the boys on the patio after everyone had had one drink too many.

He brought his face close to hers as they turned. He’ll tell this story over and over, she thought. ‘This is a real schottische,’ he said. ‘One two three jump, one two…’

‘Yes!’ she said, keeping time perfectly.

‘I enjoyed that so much,’ he said when it was over, and kissed her hand before he led her back to the table. Bowing, he backed away with a besotted smile as if she was royalty. Another came at once. Another waited. Beach was grinning like a fool.

‘I’m having such a good time,’ she said, and everyone laughed as if she’d said something hilarious and very clever.

Another came. Another. She danced over and over again. Some of the men were young; some were handsome. And there was one, serious and pale, unsure of his feet, who counted under his breath and shot quick awkward smiles at her when he wasn’t looking down at the floor. His lips were childish, his hair long, and the touch of his palm against hers was unlike anything she’d known or imagined. The strangest thing, a sensation in her skin and bones, a sweet tearfulness in the breast, the kind she got from the songs she sang. The feeling lingered when the incident had flown.

As they were leaving, a beautiful young girl in a lavender gown ran up to her. ‘Oh, Miss Pastrana!’ she cried, bouncing on the balls of her feet, ‘I’m so happy you could come — may I kiss you?’

‘Of course.’

The girl gave a smothered little shriek of delight, stooped and placed a kiss on Julia’s cheek. ‘Oh my my!’ she said, ‘I am so happy,’ and danced away back to her admiring friends while the onlookers chuckled and tinkled applause, though for whom was unclear.

Back at the hotel she lay with her head spinning, the memories already taking form. She imagined them old and precious, finding words for the story she’d tell herself again and again the further away they got. The Ball. The Night of the Ball. When she danced again and again, and some of the men were young, and some handsome. And everyone loved her because she made them so glad they were themselves and not her. She held onto Yatzi and smiled in the dark. And that boy, she thought. That boy. When I’m old I’ll remember him. In another place he thinks of me. She sees his face clear, not special but somehow wonderful. He waits in the entrance to the hotel, in the shadows, and, when she comes down, steps forward. He sees her soul. That’s when her imagination gives way.

Rose liked to sleep in the afternoon when it rained, stretched full out on the red sofa, head on the cushion, whisper of wet leaves just beyond the window, gurgle of a drain. In one hand she clutched a plastic horse, in the other a dirty leopard Beanie Baby. Tattoo was cradled in the nook of her arm under the thin Indian bedspread. She was not really asleep but not awake either. The gas fire hummed.