Angel of Brooklyn (24 page)

‘We’ll sit in the park if you like. Brooklyn’s emerald. That’s what Miss Flood calls it.’

‘I’d like to work with jewellery,’ said Beatrice as they reached Prospect Park where the grass looked nothing like an emerald. It was dry, and yellow and brown.

‘Who wouldn’t?’

‘No, really. I’d like to work in a jeweller’s store.’

‘You want to get yourself over to the diamond district. Mind you, they usually employ their own, so I wouldn’t be getting your hopes up.’

‘I want to work at Tiffany & Co.,’ said Beatrice, looking at her fingernails which were already in need of some repair.

‘Oh, I’ve heard of that place right enough,’ said Lydia, waving to a woman selling pancakes. ‘I’ve heard they won’t let you in through the door unless you’ve got at least a thousand dollars in your purse.’

‘Really?’ said Beatrice. ‘How do they know?’

‘Oh,’ she said, with a shrug, ‘they can tell just by looking at you.’

They sat with the grass prickling under their hands.

‘It’s been a long few days,’ said Beatrice.

‘What are you going to do?’

‘Look for a job. I’ll have to.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ said Lydia. ‘I like jewellery stores. Not that I’ve ever put a foot inside one.’

‘Did you see Tiffany & Co. when you were in Manhattan? They have a new store at Fifth Avenue and 37th Street.’

‘No. Jewels weren’t exactly on my mind. I did see Macy’s,’ she said. ‘Now that store really is something else. It sells everything under the sun.’

Beatrice fell back onto her arms, until she was lying down. The park was busy. She could feel a rumbling, the stamping of children’s boots begging for taffy and ice cream, the wheels of the perambulators as drowsy-eyed babies sucked in the air. She was so tired now,
she
was drifting and the ground was opening up, taking her in and wrapping her, while the sky above her head sat on her face like cotton.

‘You look like something glowing,’ said Elliot Price.

The next morning, Beatrice was wearing her smartest and cleanest summer dress. She’d washed her hair in the basin. Her skin smelled of cheap lemon soap.

‘I’m looking for employment,’ she told him.

‘I know the girl who washes dishes at Carson’s. They might need more help. I could always ask.’

Beatrice shook her head. ‘I’d like to work in a jewellery store,’ she said, looking at her hands.

Miss Stanley appeared. ‘Jewels? Jewels are expensive and frivolous; the world does not need jewels.’

‘The world does not need a lot of things,’ said Elliot, ‘but having them helps us through the day.’

‘Like alcohol.’

‘No,’ he told her, ‘like books, paintings, and sticks of cotton candy.’

‘Useless things,’ she said, turning and walking away. ‘And the only books I own are religious or instructional.’

‘I need a job,’ said Beatrice. ‘I’ll try the jewellery stores first, because I’ve kind of set my heart on it, but if nothing happens then I’ll have to look elsewhere.’

‘Good idea. I’m sure the only thing that will stop you getting work in a jeweller’s is that you’ll shine brighter than the jewels they have on offer, and you are not for sale.’

Lydia put her head around the door. ‘Ready?’

‘Are you looking for a job as well?’ asked Elliot.

‘No chance. Pops will be here tomorrow, and I’ll be heading back to Missouri where I can sleep all day and dream of my Prince Charming.’ She winked at him. ‘But you’ll know all about that,’ she said.

‘What on earth are you talking about? The girl talks in riddles.’

She took Beatrice’s arm. ‘Come on, kid, those diamonds won’t sell themselves. You could have sold at least a dozen rings by now.’

‘I’m nervous.’

‘Nervous? What for? It’s only a jeweller’s,’ said Lydia. ‘It isn’t life or death, it’s just a store.’

*

Tiffany & Co. was sitting in the place where the buildings shone, though the sidewalks were jammed with so many people and it was hard to breathe in the heat, let alone stop and look up at the shine.

‘This city must have more glass than any other city in the world.’

‘We’re here,’ said Beatrice, her throat a little tight. ‘We’re at Tiffany’s.’

‘That’s what it says on the sign.’ They stood gazing into its wide bow-shaped windows. Lydia whistled softly. ‘They just don’t look real,’ she said. ‘See those diamonds? They look like clumps of glass.’

Beatrice could feel her hands sweating. She’d reshaped her nails with an emery board. Hands were important in the jewellery business. Even if you were selling a necklace, it was the hands that clicked the clasp into place.

‘Are you going in?’ asked Lydia. There were men on the door with stiff waxed moustaches and braid around their collars.

‘Do I look like I have a thousand dollars?’

‘I’d believe you.’

Lydia stepped back. She said she’d wait for her in a nearby coffee house. ‘It doesn’t look like my kind of place after all,’ she shrugged. ‘It looks more like a museum than a place that’s selling things.’

Beatrice took a deep breath. Why should she be nervous? She could always say she was browsing, looking at the jewels, which were there to be looked at under their glass domes and cages, because if you didn’t look, then how could you buy?

The men on the door nodded her inside.

I’ve made it
, she thought.
I look a thousand dollars
.

The room was wide, it smelled of limes and the fans above her head droned, she could feel her hair moving; the glass glittered, and under the glass, diamonds had been set into gold and shaped into flowers, birds, faces. Octagonal boxes were inlaid with ivory and pearls the size of pigeon eggs sat with icy strips of sapphires.

‘Can I be of any assistance?’ A man with yellow-coloured eyes appeared. He was the smartest-looking salesman that she had ever seen. ‘Would miss like to see something special?’

‘No thank you,’ she told him. He nodded and turned on his smooth-sounding heels. A clock shaped like an owl began to chime in the corner. She was sure its head was moving.

*

‘What do you mean you didn’t ask about a job?’ said Lydia. ‘I can’t believe you didn’t ask about a job.’

Beatrice looked into her coffee cup. ‘Job or no job, I wouldn’t be happy there, even with all the jewellery. It felt cold,’ she said. ‘Cold enough to snap you.’

‘So what are you going to do now? Try another store?’

She shrugged. ‘I’m rethinking the jewellery business altogether,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t how I thought it would be.’

‘It was only one store. One big store. Don’t give up. There are plenty of other places selling diamonds.’

She shrugged. She’d lost all of her enthusiasm. The man with the yellow eyes had said everything here is hollow.

‘Don’t look so worried,’ said Lydia, licking her finger and dipping it into the sugar bowl. ‘New York is full of employment. Granted, it’s also full of people looking for it, but half of them can’t speak English yet, and the rest aren’t as pretty as you.’

‘You don’t have to be pretty to get yourself employed.’

‘You’re new to this,’ said Lydia. ‘You’ll learn.’

This was the New York that she’d imagined, but it wasn’t as clean as the place in her magazines, where the air was full of window shine, scent of Araby and the occasional glimpse of an Astor. A man stood in a doorway with a toothpick and a board saying BUY UNION CIGARS. People rubbed against each other. Lips sparkled. Plumes of steam spouted from the underworld. The stores sold everything. Antiques. Devilled crabs. Fading yellow roses.

‘I know,’ said Lydia. ‘Let’s go where the air is fresh. I was there on Saturday. You don’t need any money, once you get to it, the whole place is one big sideshow and you can see it all for nothing.’

‘You can?’

‘It’s called Coney Island,’ she said. ‘You ever heard of Coney Island? It’s back over Brooklyn way, so we won’t be late for dinner, and Miss Flood won’t lock us out.’

‘She locks you out?’

‘Only happened once,’ said Lydia. ‘And it wasn’t my fault I was late, I got lost, I’m new to New York, so what does she expect?’

‘You seem to know your way around.’

‘What else have I got to do all day? It’s best to get away from the others and their banners,’ she said. ‘I really can’t face walking up and down with “Prepare to Meet Thy God” above my head.’

*

The air was sharper at Coney. It was like another country as they stood looking at the water, where the ferry boats were sounding their whistles and the tramp steamers moved through the haze.

‘Come on,’ said Lydia, pulling on her arm. ‘Come and be amazed.’

The boardwalk was busy. Children screamed, men tipped their hats and Beatrice felt her face burning. Girls in stockings and ballet shoes wore fancy white collars, crisp as pastry frills, and a man beside them shouted, ‘Come and join us for the five o’clock show! These girls can dance! They can sing! They can perform acrobatic miracles for you to swoon and sway over!’ Painted boards advertised Mermaids, Elephant Boys, Corn on the Cob. A tattooist from Scotland was hitching up his round pot belly and smoking a cigar. His assistant had his shirt wide open to show the strings of bluebirds that flew around his neck. He had anchors and small dripping hearts stabbed with jewelled daggers. A blue-grey galleon had pride of place on his flat solar plexus.

‘Oh my,’ giggled Lydia. ‘Just look at him will you, he’s a living piece of chintz.’

Beatrice felt dizzy. She could taste the salt water on her lips. Stinging. The chattering voices, the long high-pitched screams droned, and in the distance the booths and curving roller coasters were hanging in the sky; a warm tickly feeling crept across her stomach.

‘Where does this place end?’ She squinted. She could see a woman with gemstones dotted in her hair, her blue cape waving, and her feet invisible as she danced along the boardwalk.

‘End? It doesn’t end,’ said Lydia. ‘It stretches. Look over there. Over there you have your Dreamland. You have your Luna Park. This place goes on and on.’

They stopped for a cheap lemonade. The long polished counter was like a busy road, with its sliding cups and tall glasses, bowls of saltines, coleslaw and spicy fried chicken.

‘If only the smell would fill you up,’ said Lydia.

‘Are we really in Brooklyn?’

Lydia smiled. ‘It’s not exactly Renton Street,’ she said, ‘but it says Brooklyn on the map.’

‘Will you miss it?’ Beatrice asked. ‘What are you going to do with yourself in Kirksville, Missouri?’

‘Stagnate. Unless of course we have to move because of our very shameful circumstances. I can’t get a job, that’s for sure,’ she said,
pulling
a chunk of ice from her glass and sucking on it. ‘Genteel ladies don’t work. Genteel ladies stay home and embroider things and play the pianoforte and so on.’

‘I can’t imagine you doing all that.’

‘Look, I might not seem all that genteel to you, but believe me, in Kirksville, Missouri, I’m more than highly refined.’

Beatrice smiled. ‘I wish you weren’t leaving.’

‘Me too, but all good things have to come to an end.
Farewell, Miss Flood and the Hotel Galilee! Farewell, Mr Price
!’ She said it in the style of a tragedian, the back of her hand pressed against her forehead. ‘Come on, it’s getting late, we’ll miss tonight’s delicacy if we’re not careful, and we’ll go to bed rumbling.’

‘Can’t we stay a little longer? I have some money; we could go and see the mermaid.’

‘All right,’ she shrugged, ‘who in their right mind would say no to meeting a mermaid?’

There was a small queue outside the booth where the large painted board showed a mermaid combing her long yellow hair, sitting on a rock. Dripping gold letters proclaimed she was
The Siren of the Sea! Stolen for Your Viewing Pleasure by the Sailors Who Fell Under Her Spell
…

‘Only two at a time,’ the man was saying as they shuffled down the line. ‘Three if you’re very, very quiet. The mermaid’s awfully sensitive, you know; she’s not used to being on dry land.’

‘What’s her name?’ asked a boy.

The man hesitated. ‘Well, we don’t rightly know,’ he said, scratching his chin. ‘Problem is, she don’t speak no American, she only speaks mermaid.’

The boy looked impressed.

‘Do you think she’s for real?’ Beatrice asked.

‘I don’t know, but this place is chock-full of mystery. When I was here last week I saw two women stuck together from the hip, they were laughing like they hadn’t a care in the world, one of them was eating a corn dog. It was a very peculiar sight.’

They held hands and squeezed them as they entered the booth, where a tight narrow space led to a room of blue light.

‘It smells like the bottom of the sea,’ whispered Lydia. Her skin was now turquoise. Beatrice held out her fingers and watched the light
ripple
. It felt eerie. From the corner of the room they could hear a splashing sound. They squeezed their hands tighter.

The Siren of the Sea was sitting in a tank, on a stool that had rocks piled around it and at least ten inches of Hudson River water. She was small and hunched, wearing a wig that covered her chest and fell down to her waist. Her face was old and drooping, and when she smiled, her teeth were like tiny yellow pearls sitting in her gums. She wore a short flouncy skirt, its fraying hem embroidered with exotic-looking seashells. Her small bony legs were joined from her sore-looking knees. There were no shiny emerald scales or a pretty flapping tail. Her feet came apart at the ankles, sticking out at right angles. Most of her toes were fused. The mermaid coughed, and her leg shot up in a spasm. Beatrice and Lydia ran.

‘She must have thought we were frightened of her,’ Beatrice said, her hands on her knees, her heart pounding.

‘But I was,’ said Lydia, catching her breath. ‘Weren’t you? That woman is a freak.’

Elliot Price was sitting on a chair by the door, reading
Let the True Light In
. There was a gravy stain on his jacket and a small shiny hole had wormed its way into his right knee. His shoes, a bright deep chestnut, were perfectly clean and glowing on his narrow crossed feet. He looked up and slipped his thumb inside the pages of his book.