Carol Birch - Orphans of the Carnival

The bodies of these two individuals — one of whom has been the subject of general curiosity — well deserved a place amongst the rarities in this museum, and wherever they may be they have a claim upon the scientific world.

(Sokolov, The Lancet , 3 May 1862)

‘Do you want to know what he did? You won’t believe it. He’s had her stuffed, her and the baby.’

‘What kind of a man would do that? Puts them in a glass case and carts them around in a big box and charges a nice price to look at them. They’re flocking in. Got it made, he has. Not one embalmed freak but two. Mother and child.’

‘Good God! — I saw her. It was her, Julia Pastrana, it really was. Standing there like a tart with her hands on her hips in a red dress. Can you believe?’

‘You know, I saw her in Munich once. Good little singer, and she had some lovely dance steps. But the face though! Meet that in a back alley of a dark night and you’d know it—’

‘Buckland saw him in London. Cool as a cucumber, the man walks up to him and says, d’you want a private view? Costs him, of course. Well, it would. Said he never saw anything like it. Had this cove from the museum with him, one that stuffs the animals, says he couldn’t work out how they’d done it. Stupendous job! But what kind of a man does that? Got to ask yourself.’

‘Kind of man that marries someone like that in the first place, I s’pose.’

‘Still. Not her fault, is it?’

‘No, but you can’t say it’s natural, can you? I mean, would you ? — Thought not.’

‘Nice girl, by all accounts.’

‘I knew her—’

‘Poor Julia—’

‘There’s something totally abhorrent about the man. There was always something suspect, looking back, but we gave him the benefit of the doubt. More fool us for being fooled, and she was charming. Really. Liliya took to her tremendously. You know Liliya, ever the romantic. Why can’t they be truly in love? That’s what she said. But when he did that — well, she couldn’t see how he could do it, I think it made us all uneasy. She wouldn’t go and see them when they were here. None of us did. Oh yes, my girl Polina went. Didn’t say much. That he could do a thing like that—’

‘He’s made.’

‘A rich man.’

‘She signed my picture. She was quite shy—’

‘But that’s just gruesome, that is! Having that poor baby nailed up there on its perch like a bloody monkey on a stick. Such a funny little face. You expect it to turn its head.’

‘The embalmed Female Nondescript—’

‘You can see the handouts blowing up and down Piccadilly. The most life-like embalming anyone’s ever seen. A Moscow doctor, some sort of secret formula, you’d think she was alive — to be honest, it’s scary. I don’t like it.’

‘I don’t suppose any normal woman would look at him.’

‘No fool actually. Got himself covered. Sells the bodies then gets them back. Sees how good a job they’d done on them so wants them back — oh sure, knows a mother lode when he sees it. All of a sudden he’s asserting his rights. Goes down to the American consul, crafty beggar, shows them the marriage certificate and all. My wife and son. Didn’t think of that first time, when the money changed hands, did he? Made a loss, mind you, getting them back — but who cares? Makes it up in a week. All that work, thinking they’re getting two nice prime specimens for their museum, and up he comes and waltzes her off to somewhere, Vienna I think—’

‘But of course she’s from Mexico, isn’t she? They do all that sort of thing there, so I suppose it’s not as bad as if they did it to one of ours—’

‘You know, in a funny sort of way, she’s strangely beautiful. Something to do with her expression. I don’t know — she’s very hard to forget. I will say — you should go, go see her.’

‘I mean, she was something in life.’

‘That is not Julia,’ Theo explained to the reporter. ‘That is not the boy. That is mere matter. It doesn’t matter. There is no significance. It’s just words in the head, that’s all it is, words in the head.’

‘Mr Lent, I’m not quite sure what you mean.’

‘Why not? It’s absolutely clear.’

‘Perhaps not to our readers. Of course, they are all fascinated by the exhibition, but you must admit there’s a personal side to this story.’

‘Of course. What has that to do with anything?’

‘Some may find it strange that you travel with the embalmed bodies of your wife and son.’

‘Would you find it strange if I travelled with a portrait of them?’ Theo had practised all this. There was no flaw in the logic. ‘A keepsake? Perhaps a strand of hair in a locket. What’s the difference?’

‘The difference,’ said the man, who was smarmy and impish, a little like himself, ‘is that these are actual — corpses.’

‘Actually, no,’ said Theo smoothly. ‘They’re mummies. Just as I said — that is not Julia. That is not the boy. That is mere matter and it doesn’t matter . There is no significance.’ He leaned forward, eager to make his point. ‘Is it wrong for people to look at the mummies in the museum? Go to Italy. The churches are full of relics. Corpses, mummies, dead bodies, cadavers—’

Theo realised he was gesturing too extravagantly. ‘Just words in the head,’ he concluded. ‘That’s all it is, words in the head.’

‘Tell me, Mr Lent.’ The man addressed his notepad. His eyes were amused. ‘How long have you been touring with your wife and child?’

Theo sat back and smiled, scratched his ear. ‘Oh now, let me think. Seven years — let me think. Yes, getting on for eight possibly.’

‘Remarkable. And you’ve shown them all over Europe.’

‘Oh, all over. First in London, that must have been, yes, seven years ago, but we’ve been all over Europe and Scandinavia. The Swedes love her. And now here we are again.’

‘And they’re still pulling the crowds!’

‘They’re still pulling the crowds.’

‘And where to after this, Mr Lent? What does the future hold?’

‘We’re going back to Vienna,’ Theo said, ‘she always liked Vienna.’

Once more to the elegant white town.

Julia stood among the show-booths at Prauscher’s Volksmuseum, her baby in a sailor suit by her side. In life Theo Junior had never stood, but now he did, sturdy on two booted legs, nailed to the stand.

Before the doors opened, Theo Senior stood in front of his exhibit and gazed into its wide sightless eyes. Glass, of course, but so real. People said they followed you about the room. The doors opened and in came the floods. She was making as much as she ever had. He slipped behind a screen, walked down a dim passageway and pushed open the door of a room at the end. It had the look of an abandoned office that someone had shoved a pile of boxes into, along with an old broken-down piano with gaping teeth and a soft saggy chair covered in a brown blanket. A bottle of whisky, three empty glasses and his silver cigar box were neatly arranged on a small table next to the chair, which sank as he lowered himself into it so that he felt as if he was sitting on the floor.

‘Ridiculous,’ he muttered to himself, pulling himself forward and out of it, pouring himself a drink. He knocked it back, poured another, knocked that back, poured another, lit a cigar and lay back with his eyes closed. For a good ten minutes he lay perfectly still, stirring only to raise the cigar to his lips from time to time. The stiller he lay, the more his mind tumbled like an acrobat. The thoughts seemed not to be his own. It was as if inside his head was air as big as the air surrounding him, an echo chamber reaching as far in as the heavens reached out. In that air, the broken off and wandering fragments of the thoughts of millions twined and twined in and around each other in passage. Some meandered by. Others were comets or bright shooting stars. None of them lasted.