Carol Birch - Orphans of the Carnival

‘Vienna would suit you, Fraulein,’ Otto said, leaning forward elegantly, crossing his long legs. ‘There’s already talk of you there, do you realise? I can procure you a season. Perhaps at Carltheater.’

‘When?’ asked Theo.

‘I go home in a few days.’ Champagne sparkled in Otto’s thick moustache. ‘Soon, I’m sure, I’ll have news for you.’

‘I’m talking to Renz as well,’ said Theo.

‘Ah!’ said Otto, smiling at Julia, ‘They want to put you on a horse.’

‘I do believe,’ said Theo, ‘that Julia has the talent.’

‘I’m sure she does.’

‘I could learn one or two little tricks,’ Julia said, ‘but nothing fancy.’

‘One or two little tricks is all it would take,’ said Otto.

Miss Gossmann rose. ‘I wish I could stay longer,’ she said, ‘but I have to be at some silly party. You will come to my house in Vienna, Julia, and we’ll have time for a lovely talk.’

‘We certainly will!’ Theo, sparkly-eyed, kissed her hand.

Miss Gossmann left on the arm of Huber. Herr Otto and Theo lit cigars and laughed and talked for a long time, till her head spun and she realised she’d nearly fallen asleep in front of the mirror. ‘Can we go back to the rooms now, Theo?’ she asked. ‘I’m really tired.’

Otto set his glass down. ‘Indeed. You need your rest and I must be off. Fraulein Pastrana—’ He shook her hand avidly. ‘It’s been a great pleasure to meet you. I look forward to seeing you in Vienna.’

Theo walked Otto to the stage door.

‘So — two more weeks,’ said Otto. ‘Think she’ll hold up?’

‘She’s tireless,’ Theo said, ‘you wouldn’t believe. Strong as an ox.’

‘Strong, of course, but her mind, you know. What about her mind?’

‘There’s nothing wrong with her mind.’

‘Of course there isn’t. That’s not what I meant.’

‘What did you mean?’

‘I hardly know.’ Otto knotted his scarf and coughed. ‘Be careful, Lent. Someone’ll have her out from under your nose before you know it.’

‘No, they won’t.’ Theo smiled smoothly.

Returning, he heard the talk in the men’s dressing room. A door stood open. The clod of a milkman was transforming into a weary-faced man of about forty-five in front of a mirror.

‘Whatever they’re paying you,’ said the man next to him, ‘it’s not enough.’

‘Doesn’t bother me ,’ Stefan replied.

‘Did you see this review? The daughter of Esau. I like that. The daughter of Esau. That has a nice ring to it. It’s, you know, respectable. Yes, I like that. What do you think, Julia? Daughter of Esau?’

‘Where’s that Bible?’ she said. ‘Read it to me.’

Theo took the brown leather Bible from a drawer in the table. ‘Let’s see,’ he said, ‘if I remember my old Sunday School days, and I do—’ He looked at her. So sweet and boyish, she thought. ‘Here it is.’ He licked his lips, looked down. ‘Now the first came forth, red all over like a hairy garment; and they named him Esau. And after that came his brother out, and his hand took hold on Esau’s heel; and his name was called Jacob.’

‘I’m not red like Esau,’ she said.

He snapped the Bible shut and smiled. ‘You should get some rest.’

‘Will we really go to Vienna?’

‘Of course. We’ll take an apartment.’ He rubbed his hands together, standing at the door. ‘We can afford it. That’s the thing. Whatever we want, Julia, we can have.’

Suddenly there was money, a fat fruit low-hanging.

She turned away and yawned. ‘Whatever I want,’ she said, thinking he was really a bit of a fool. It made her feel strangely protective towards him, as if he was an over-excited child that needed calming down. ‘What do I want?’

He laughed. ‘Whatever it is, you can have it.’

‘I’d like a little house,’ she said. ‘So I could make it nice. And enough so I don’t have to worry and I can buy nice clothes and—’ but there she stopped because it didn’t seem real, and her eyes grew sad. Full of champagne and excitement, Theo felt sentimental, almost tearful.

‘You have nice eyes, Julia,’ he said.

She thought, does he want to make me cry?

‘Get some sleep,’ he said, and went out, closing the door. Yes, poor girl, a nice house. Nice clothes. Ask for more, girl, why not? He needed to walk. It was cold. He put up his collar and strode through dark windy streets. By the station he came upon a beggar wrapped in a blanket, a tiny thing with small hands like a child and a man’s pinched face. ‘Here, friend,’ he said.

The man took the money, folding it in his fist, saying nothing. His fingers were ice cold.

‘Money,’ said Theo and laughed, a fond and rueful little snort as if money was a much loved and indulged bad child. He walked on. Not a thing in my pockets, he remembered. Should have stopped to talk. I was once like you, my friend. It comes and goes. Oh, how it does. Should have sat right down with him, said let me tell you a story. A couple of days after my father died — pneumonia, double — I was clearing out the house. Do you know how many Knickerbocker Soda bottles I found? You wouldn’t believe it. Two hundred and thirty-three. And in every one, screwed up and stuffed in hard, money. Sitting on treasure like a drunk old dragon for years while everything fell apart around him and my uncles doled out charity. Like I said, it comes and goes. Life’s a joke.

The second night went even better. The cheers, the whistles, the thunder of feet and the storm of applause, everything the same except that when she came off-stage, instead of smiles and roses there were just gawping stage-hands and stony-faced policemen looking at her with veiled eyes. And Theo, wild-eyed, looking as if someone had just punched him in the stomach. ‘They’re closing us down,’ he said, white and furious. ‘Can you believe it? They’re closing us down.’

‘Why?’

‘Because — I don’t know — because they’re fools!’

The officer in charge was a heavy-jowled, world-weary man. ‘No need for that at all,’ he said in English. ‘We have to act. Simple as that. Nothing I can do.’

Everyone gabbled at once. Huber, the manager, pop-eyed and desperate, argued tensely in German with the police and with Theo. The other actors were worried about their pay.

‘I don’t understand you,’ Theo enunciated fiercely, as if to an idiot. ‘I don’t speak the language well.’

‘There have been complaints,’ the man said, ‘more than a few. We have to act.’

‘You see?’ said Huber in English, rounding on Theo, ‘What am I to do?’

‘What am I to do?’

She didn’t like these professionally careful stares. She, the consummate gatherer of stares. She dropped her eyes.

‘Please, gentlemen,’ Huber said, ‘this way.’

Everyone trailed into his office, forgetting her. A rearguard of stony official men remained with her in the corridor. Their eyes never left her, and she wondered if she was under arrest. But why?

‘I have permission from the authorities to stage this show,’ Theo was saying in Huber’s office, his voice loud but unsteady. ‘We’ve been through all this. It’s a play. A play, not a monster show. Miss Pastrana is a legitimate performer. Have you even read the reviews?’

‘Don’t show me that,’ the man said, ‘there’s nothing I can do. I have orders to close you down, and I have to do it.’ The sound of papers unfolding and rustling, then a crack. Theo’s hand smacking down on Huber’s desk.

‘This is outrageous!’

The policeman was unmoved. ‘I am sorry,’ he said, ‘I have to inform you, sir, that this show is accused of obscenity and immorality and has been deemed dangerous.’