Carol Birch - Orphans of the Carnival

‘Then tell,’ she said.

‘You need to understand. The show we’ll put together must consist of more than your performance.’ He swung round and looked at her. She was plaiting her long, straight hair. ‘It must have a historical dimension. You are the sister of Julia Pastrana, don’t forget.’

‘I’ve been thinking,’ she said, ‘if I’m her sister, won’t it seem funny that I don’t speak Spanish?’

‘Oh, you can learn a few words. Enough. The point is the show must tell a story. They need to see her. They need to see the real Julia, her child, they need a story. They see her and wonder, then see — you, the living breathing continuation of her presence and talent…’

‘I don’t quite see…’

‘Marie, when she died…’ He stopped, and she saw that he was struggling. His manner alarmed her.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘There was a doctor,’ he said. ‘Sokolov. At the university. A scientist. I’ll give you something to read about it, you’ll see how important it was. They were working on a new method of preservation, it was very important, a huge leap forward—’

He had crossed the room and was sitting on the bed staring at her. His eyes were uncertain, slightly beseeching, but as he continued to speak they toughened and steadied. ‘I really need you to understand this, Marie. She was embalmed. And the baby. It was some — some method — something incredible, and the university was so delighted to have them. It wasn’t…’

‘They were embalmed?’ she said flatly. She’d stopped playing with her hair and the plait, slowly loosening, looked as if it was exhaling.

‘Yes.’

There was a silence.

‘What are you saying?’

‘Marie,’ he said. ‘You’re going to hear people say bad things about me. Some people. Oh you know me, you know I’m not a monster, just read these—’

He jumped up, went to the drawer where he kept his papers, his correspondence with theatre people, agents, that sort of thing, and pulled out a handful of journals and playbills. ‘Here,’ he said, thrusting them at her, ‘just read them. I’m going for a walk.’

When he got back two hours later she was up, sitting on the balcony in her gown. The papers lay scattered on the bed, the Lancet , the reviews, the advertisements. Big blue letters. The Embalmed Female Nondescript. She came in when she heard him, closing the balcony door. ‘Give me one of your cigars,’ she said. He tried to read her face. ‘Here.’ He passed her one and she looked at it, frowning. ‘Mummies,’ she said.

‘Yes.’

She met his eyes with a strong intelligent look that never wavered. ‘Did you love her?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ he said it in a suave, clipped way.

She didn’t blink for a long time and looked at him with an unreadable expression.

‘Let us talk,’ she said.

‘Let us,’ he agreed, lighting their cigars.

‘Where are they?’

‘Vienna.’

‘Ah, I see.’

‘Marie,’ he said, ‘there’s nothing distasteful about it, I promise you. The mummies are displayed in a glass case very respectably. You wouldn’t have anything to do with them, they’ll really just be a backdrop to your show. The people will come to see them , then they’ll see you and your talent, and you’ll…’

Nothing fazed her.

‘Tell me,’ she said. ‘Why are we married?’

‘I told you. So you can’t go running off with any old fly-by-night that takes your fancy. This business is full of crooks. Secondly, because your old man would never have let you go otherwise. And thirdly, why do you think?’

She stepped back and said wryly, ‘Oh, my dear, don’t tell me. You peeped over my garden wall and fell in love with me at first sight.’

I have her. Another hurdle flown over, whoosh, there it goes.

‘I understand completely,’ he said, ‘if you find this disturbing. I realise I’m at fault for not telling you straight away, but I was a coward, I didn’t want to scare you away. You’re a free woman, Marie. If you want me to take you back home, I will.’

Of course she didn’t.

‘Oh, I’m not going back there,’ she said decisively. ‘I might visit sometimes, but I’m not going to live there ever again.’

Relief flooded him. He started babbling about how wonderful she was, how mature, enlightened, understanding, but she cut him off. ‘If you stuff me,’ she said, ‘I swear to God I’ll come back and haunt you.’

When she first saw the mummies, she was just like everyone else, transfixed. Round and round them she went, round and round, saying nothing, then stood still with her attention fixed on the baby.

‘He has the sweetest little chin,’ she said.

After that she took charge of them. First thing she did was demand new boots for Julia. Those ankle boots were all wrong apparently. ‘Look at her dumpy little legs,’ she said, ‘those boots make her look like a washerwoman.’ She veiled up and insisted on him accompanying her at once to Scheers, where she picked out a pair of knee-high lace-ups that he had to admit did look much better.

Of course a woman knew more about that sort of thing. He watched, oddly moved, as Marie brushed and combed Julia’s hair, rearranged the paper flowers, the pearls, the feathers.

‘There now,’ she said, standing back and admiring her handiwork. ‘You look lovely. Sister.’

‘And how does it feel to be back in Saint Petersburg, Mr Lent?’

‘Wonderful. Julia was very fond of Saint Petersburg.’

Theo had been out drinking with a bunch of hardened old circus cronies, and the reporter was drunk too, though neither would have admitted it. They were in a corner of the vast parlour of the hotel, beneath a pompous portrait of some bewigged nobleman, and the sound of revelry drifted in from the lobby whenever someone opened the door.

‘Twenty-one years,’ Theo said, ‘maybe a little more, since she last performed in this city. Hard to believe.’ To be honest, he was losing track. Years, years, many many many.

‘And yet the memory of those spectacular shows remains strong.’ The reporter squiggled in his book. He was a big bull of a man who looked as if he should be digging a road.

‘Of course,’ said Theo. ‘Who could ever forget Julia? Many of those coming through the doors now weren’t even born when we last played Saint Petersburg, but they grew up hearing stories from their parents about the time the most remarkable woman in the world sang and danced for them. She has become a legend.’

‘And your wife, Mr Lent?’ The reporter looked up, ‘The equally remarkable Zenora. One can’t help but wonder how she feels performing nightly alongside her predecessor. Particularly as that predecessor is her own sister.’

‘My wife and I are of one mind,’ Theo replied smoothly. ‘Five years we’ve been together as a family — the four of us — my wife and I, Julia and, of course, her son. And a very happy family at that. In a sense Julia is still with us. We feel that our show is a tribute to a wonderful woman.’

The reporter smiled. Sceptically, Theo thought. ‘I’m sure you realise — many women who marry a widower shy away from any mention of their husband’s previous spouse.’

‘That’s true.’ Theo nodded. ‘But my wife is a woman of sound good sense. Perhaps the fact that she is Julia’s sister makes a difference. They were very close.’

‘I’ve heard,’ said the reporter, ‘that some people think Zenora is Julia.’

Theo smiled. Let them think it. Never hurts to keep the rubes guessing.

‘It’s unusual,’ the reporter said, ‘for a man to marry his deceased wife’s sister.’

‘It is.’ Out with the spiel. ‘But as soon as she arrived in Europe to attend the commemoration service, I think we both realised it had to be. Our grief united us, and in time that feeling changed to something more profound. We feel that our arrangement, unusual as it may seem to other people, is a source of constant joy.’