Jenny and Barnum (42 page)

“The country is falling apart, Jenny,” Charlie explained. They were in a carriage, leaving a restaurant where the food had been just awful.

“I don't believe in revolutions,” she said.

Charlie started giggling.

“What's funny, mouse?”

“I thought you two had already had one of your own.”

“You're an evil-minded midget, Charlie,” Barnum said.

But Jenny put her head on his shoulder. “It's true, Barnum. They know I am in love with you.” And she turned her head for him to kiss her, while the two little people gaped in wonder and joy.

It was midsummer when they reached Savannah, and from there they set sail for Cuba on a ninety-foot schooner Barnum had chartered for the purpose. What had seemed like the grand gesture turned to be quite a bit less—squalls at sea made the ship seem too small, even unsafe. Jenny sailed well, and so did Barnum, but most of the others were unable to leave their cabins. And just as well: Barnum had reports of political trouble brewing in Havana, and he wanted to keep hysteria-inducing gossip and prattle-mouth to a minimum.

As his European traveling companions were about to learn, Cubans were a far cry from their lisping cousins from Iberia. After contracting to accept a fair portion of the expenses of the journey from Savannah and then to New Orleans, the swarthy little brutes were complaining about the prices they were going to have to charge their people to make any money on the venture. Having done business with the Cubans before, Barnum knew what would come next. They would go to their own newspapers and complain that it was the greed of Barnum and Lind that raised the cost of tickets. As he explained to Jenny—after going over facts and figures, producing communications and contracts; no, Barnum wasn't going to get caught in
that
mess again—the Cubans clearly understood their own best interests. Barnum and Lind were here today, gone tomorrow, regardless of the contracts; what their Cuban partners understood best was that their first relationship was with their own community, with which they had to stay on good terms. Add to that the inevitable corruptibility of the press, and they had the ingredients of a very bad hoedown in Havana.

“Hoedown?” she asked.

“A rural festival. When the men are drunk enough, they punch and kick each other.”

“We have that in Sweden, but never at concerts.”

“I was speaking metaphorically, I hope.” He put his arms around her, for when she chose to play the naïve, brave princess, she was simply irresistible. “But these people are emotional, and you never know what they're liable to do. In any event, you won't miss it. I'm sorry.”

“Thank you for telling me.”

“I love you, Jenny Lind.”

“P. T. Barnum.” She kissed him. “In Europe, you would be in a cage, on exhibit.”

She had such pink, full, beautiful lips. She had no idea how marvelously desirable she was. “Here in America I sell the tickets before I get in the cage.”

“Madman. Werewolf. Bluebeard,” she said, kissing him. “God help me, I think I would die for you.”

He held her close, her head back, so they could see each other in their desire for what was next. “Better you die
after
me, Jenny.” He saw her eyes darkening; their conversation soared and dove, like hawks careening before a New England thunderstorm. “
Please
see that I get my way in this, my Nordic priestess.”

She fell back and laughed. “Fat old stupid man, don't you always have your way?”

“I'm a madman.”

“Bluebeard,” she whispered in his ear, finally. “Werewolf.”

“I love you, Jenny Lind,” he said, confessing.

Off the coast of Florida, with the seas running twelve feet and a full moon over his shoulder, Barnum was joined on deck by Otto the piano player. While he'd made a couple of appearances in the saloon, Otto was not doing all that well in semi-tropical seas.

“What's that out there?”

Barnum told him. “Beaches and jungle, inhabited by savages, lizards, and giant insects. Full of fatal disease. We fought a war to get it.”

“War is on your mind, old fellow.”

Old fellow? As second-best, Otto could call him anything he wanted, Barnum supposed. “It's a new continent, Otto, a new experience. Until now, war hasn't amounted to much here. A few shots fired, a mule killed, and everyone hides under the covers. Our problem this time, I'm afraid, is that we have white men facing white men, just as in Europe. We're a dangerous breed, Otto. We have no sense of humor. Take it from an American who has had his fair share of contact with the other races. We white people don't know how to laugh at ourselves.”

“And from that you deduce that the war will be long and bloody? Barnum, I must say, you're a man of original opinions.”

“I could explain to you how I arrived at this one, Otto, but it would take too long. Suffice it to say, whatever the appearance, whatever conclusion you may jump to, I did not waste my time in the process of getting to be forty-six years old.”

“Ah. Well. From your tone with me, I can see that you've come to your conclusion, although I haven't come to mine—I mean our conclusions about each other, Barnum. I'm not really a man to mince words—”

Barnum looked over to him and grinned. “Otto, do I deserve this?”

“You may be shrouded in mystery, Barnum, but enough has been revealed to allow me to reach a conclusion on that question.” He smiled. “Of course you deserve it. You deserve every bit of it.”

A rogue wave, and Barnum had to grab the rail. “I don't think the reasons for your conclusion are any of your business, Otto.”

“I love her. I have always loved her. Long after she's forgotten you, I will love her, and I will
be
there.”

Barnum put his back against the rail so he could look at Otto directly. “Tell me, Otto, do you take me seriously?”

“I'm not sure. You're a buffoon, of course—but you choose to play the clown. I freely admit, I do not understand you. If you mean, do I think you love Jenny, how can I tell? Barnum, I do know she's not strong, and this is taking a toll on her. Even if the lunatics working on recording machines are ever successful, they will not be in time to record her voice—!”

Another one for art—just the thought of it, and he was steered away from the most important business of his life. Jenny said he was a brilliant musician, which merely added to Barnum's own despair. Music was at the center of Jenny's life, and there was no place for him in it. “Otto, if it's any consolation to you, I am suffering grievously with this.”

“It's no consolation. Everybody is suffering grievously—” Now another rogue wave, more violent than the one that struck the schooner before. Barnum's legs went out from under him, and he felt his weight going over the rail. Otto grabbed his vest and pulled him back aboard.

“Thank you,” Barnum said. “I think you just saved my life.”

“Don't mention it—please. I don't want the responsibility.”

Barnum stared. “Be assured, I won't put the moral burden on you again.”

Otto brushed at Barnum's vest. “Just as well. Now that I've had a chance to think, I'm not sure I'll act the same way again.”

Barnum bowed. He'd been bested, and while it made him like Otto more, it made him feel profoundly uneasy, too. He'd been telling himself right along that Otto was some kind of weak sister, but patently that was not true. Time, traditions, and talent all were on Otto's side and he knew it. He knew what he was doing. He was an intelligent, educated, cultivated man. And he was handsome enough, in a frail, unhealthy sort of way. Jenny liked good-looking men, no matter how she laughed the subject off. Not a handsome man by any means, Barnum had never had trouble attracting the ladies. But now he was forty-six, balder, fatter, shorter of breath and weaker of limb—symptoms of a disease that held no hope of remission. Barnum was thinking—he was thinking all the time.

On the other side of the balance was the sole fact that he was more in love with her than he would have thought possible, and that one fact alone outweighed all the others—when he allowed it.

Havana was in turmoil when they arrived. Civil unrest outside the city, a fire burning down a slum—these events were in progress as the company marched up the dock to the carriages waiting to take them to their hotel. By nightfall gunfire was to be heard in nearby streets, and Barnum listened to the glass breaking, as well as an occasional scream. And Americans wanted war. Barnum was thinking that he would lock the doors of the American Museum and spend the duration in Europe. Even if people wanted his brand of entertainment when the bodies started coming home, he might not be in the mood to give it to them. He had to think of Europe anyway. If he started over and succeeded there, what did it mean? And just as he didn't know if the public would want entertainment in wartime, he didn't know how the public would react to a divorce and marriage to a woman who ranked, in people's hearts, with Joan of Arc and the Virgin Mary. He knew what some people thought of him. The worst possibility made him laugh aloud: some people wouldn't want him to live past the first sundown.…

It seemed that most of them had bought tickets to Jenny's first Havana concert. They booed Otto, they booed Minelli. They were booing the price of the tickets, which cost five times what Havana's citizens were accustomed to paying. Barnum was getting all of the blame, in spite of the fact that his gross, from which he had to deduct the thousand he had already paid Jenny, was less than thirty-five hundred dollars! He had come down to this pestilential hellhole for less than two thousand dollars a night—and
they
were complaining!

They were terrifying. Jenny was trembling before she stepped out on stage. He did not tell her not to do it, nor did she so much as hint she was unwilling—if she did not appear on stage at all, a deadly riot would certainly ensue. All the same, Barnum moved to the edge of the stage, where he could be seen by the audience on the other side of the house, and he had the attention of Otto, who was prepared to move quickly if the situation turned even uglier.

No need. She sang, and they quieted down like dumb beasts. She faltered—perhaps out of astonishment—and to a man they leaned forward as if a show of their concern could somehow aid her. She resumed, as beautiful as ever, and looked over to Barnum with a smile. He
adored
her!

Every man did. Every man believed that, given the chance, he could win her heart. She still projected that peculiar poignancy, but Barnum did not know—as he did not know so many things—if audiences would accept her in the same way if they knew she was married, and a mother—that, too. Although she did not know it, Jenny wanted children. In every way, she was ready for motherhood. The audiences loving her now could not possibly understand the source of their love, their Nightingale's swan song, if that was appropriate. Even if Barnum had not existed, it would have gone this way—somehow: she was thirty years old, sick of herself, brave at last, afraid she was too late with her newly found, or newly won, bravery. Oh, she loved
him
—she would love him even if she understood herself, because understanding did not change her basic, wonderful, difficult nature. Was she disloyal? Dishonest? No, no, and not stupid, vain, or self-deceiving, either.
Barnum, do you like the way I look?
Looking at her on a stage enchanting thousands, Barnum could only listen to his answer, echoing through time and his own developed understanding:
Yes, angel. I love the way you look
. When she looked, smiling and vulnerable, from center stage to him, standing in the wings, he was helpless.…
Yes, sweet angel, I love the way you look at me
. If he died then, he would have died happy.

During intermission, he told her that they had to make a quick stop before going on to the governor's reception at his palace after the performance.

“Will it take long?”

“A minute—nothing at all.” He raised his hand, as if taking an oath. “I swear.” She loved royalty, even representatives of royalty, as much as she loved handsome, young men—army officers, musicians, a stranger in a restaurant. Charlie had the same deep-seated curiosity, the blind belief that life was more vivid or exciting at a royal court, or if not, then perhaps at the next table.

Outside, the progress of their carriage was halted by the passage of a company of government cavalry. Evidently they were returning from battle, for the last four horses bore their riders slung belly-down over their saddles, wrists tied to ankles to keep the corpses in place.

“Otto says I have war on my mind.”

“Babies! Twenty years old!”

He put his arm around her. “A fellow who used to work for me has fallen on bad days down here and he asked me if it would be possible to meet you.”

“Couldn't he come to the theater?”

“He has a cancer,” Baraum said. “Seeing you will lift his spirits.”

“He's going to die? Barnum, you have no emotions!”

“Oh, I don't know him all that well. He had a season or two with one of my traveling shows.”

“Barnum, why do you deny it when you do a Christian duty—like this, visiting the sick?”

“Because I am a humbug.”

“You
pretend!
You don't want people to know how sensitive and understanding you are. Why?”

“Oh, I wouldn't be able to make a living. I wouldn't be able to make a damned dime.”

“That's not the real reason,” she said. The carriage started forward, and as it crossed the street she turned to look at the cavalry trotting away.

Barnum's friend's name was Vivalla. An Italian, he had worked for Barnum years ago, before Charlie, when the main competition was the “mechanical” chess player, containing the bitter, deformed individual who made the mechanical arms move. Vivalla danced on plates and other crockery—without breaking them, of course—and for a while he was in vogue and made a lot of money when Barnum needed it. According to his note, he and his trained dog, which had supported him these last few years, had taken a room in a Chinese household. Until the last month, Vivalla had been able to eke out a living having the dog do his tricks on street corners; but now, Vivalla wrote, he was in a bad way.