The Transformation of Bartholomew Fortuno: A Novel (26 page)

In the middle of this travesty, Ricardo, who stood in the wings opposite me, began gesticulating wildly toward Emma. When Emma looked his way, he held up a pocket watch, pointing at it with an elastic finger, but Emma clearly did not understand. She shrugged her shoulders, causing the rope that tied her to fall down around her hips, much to the delight of the audience and the chagrin of poor Alley.

Ricardo called out across the stage, abandoning all discretion, “You was busy, so she came to me and changed the time. Told me to tell you.” He passed his hands down his front, miming a very long beard. “In the Lecture Room. Half an hour.”

Soon enough it was my turn to perform. All I had to do was walk across the makeshift stage two or three times, Bridgett dressed as a nurse trailing behind me, as Thaddeus nattered on about how the war had depleted us all. Missing the strength that the root might have given me, I foisted my sword up at great cost to the muscles in my arms and made some feeble stabs in the air, all the time keeping an eye on Emma, who had waded into the crowd. An irritated Fish grabbed her by the arm before she got very far and marched her back behind the curtain with the rest of the performers.

Once finished, I waited patiently for my own chance to escape. It came when Barnum entered from the other end of the exhibit room dressed as Lincoln. All eyes turned toward him as he made a great show of himself. Despite my costume and the sweat that covered my forehead, no one seemed to notice anything untoward as I walked the other way, determined to reach the Moral Lecture Room before Emma did. It occurred to me that I might even have time to run upstairs and get Iell’s package, saving me the dangerous trip outside, but I needed to be sure I spoke with her first.

A breeze hit me as I pushed through the bank of doors into the Lecture Room. No sign of Iell or anyone else. At least I hadn’t missed
her, I told myself, as I hurried down the aisle toward the pastoral set of
Rip Van Winkle,
with its oversized crags and bluffs and stunted paper trees, a woodsman’s “cottage” and a wooden bell tower off to the side. The orchestra pit in front of the stage was already full of instruments awaiting the play’s musicians.

When I climbed the side stairs and mounted the stage—one of the few times I’d ever been on the stage of such a grand theater—the cavernous space opened up in front of me. I sat down on a bench in front of the cottage and rested my elbows on my knees, gazing out across the empty seats and the balconies. What would it be like to perform in a real theater such as this? Did I have the presence to command such a stage? Would my voice carry? Would my message?

The house doors opened. Iell! I popped to my feet as she walked down the aisle, but she threw up one hand and frantically waved me away. I didn’t understand until the theater door at the rear of the house opened again, and I caught a glimpse of Emma’s bonnet. Quickly, I slipped behind the wooden tower, managing to make it to the wings before Emma entered. The last thing I wanted was anyone else to see me talking with Iell. Especially Emma, who would surely report back to Mrs. Barnum.

The heavy wing curtain was ripe and discolored from years of stage smoke, and I gagged as I folded myself behind it, finding relief only when I stuck out my head far enough to see Iell make a beeline for the stairs.

“No, dearie, stay where you are,” Emma hollered. Still dressed as a Southern belle, she lumbered up the stairs onto the stage and greeted Iell with a kiss on the cheek. Their footsteps echoed through the empty house as Emma led Iell past the cottage and the fake trees and stopped right in front of where I was hiding, as if hitting a mark onstage.

“Come,” Iell said, looking as put out as I’d ever seen her. “Let’s go down into the house. We can sit in the front row and chat.”

Was she trying to move the conversation out of my hearing range or trying to protect me? Quiet as a cat, I shifted the wing curtain until I could see their profiles.

“Right here is fine.” Emma reached out and gently touched Iell’s beard. “All I want to say is that you don’t need him. You know you don’t. The Lord giveth, my dearest, and there are other ways to get what you want.”

Him who, Barnum? She couldn’t possibly mean me. I had to step slightly forward if I had any hope of hearing Iell’s response, and the stage floor creaked. Emma glanced back. Had she seen me? I held my breath, and Emma turned back toward Iell, who was now facing away from the slumping giantess.

“I think it’s the best way, I really do,” Iell said, looking out into the empty house.

Emma grabbed hold of the back of Iell’s dress between two fingers the size of billy clubs and gave it a tug. Surprisingly compliant, Iell turned around and faced her. My chest expanded with secondary pleasure. Oh, to be that near to Iell! To touch her dress!

“But you know I can help you, my sweet. Why not let me?” Emma pulled Iell closer, a heartsick girl clinging to the waist of her beloved, and I swelled with pride at the thought of the Chinaman’s package waiting in my rooms. It was I who was helping Iell, not Emma.

“I find it hard to believe that you want to help me without any expectation.” Iell looked up at the giantess. “Do you?”

“I only want to be with you. Hold your hand, maybe a kiss or two. That wouldn’t be so bad, would it? And I know you, dearie. I really know you. You’ve no secrets from me. I love every single part of you, however strange. That should count for something, don’t you think?”

I felt a touch of pity for the woman. I knew what it was like to long for Iell’s company. But why did Emma think Iell would be interested in her? I’d heard of women who preferred their own gender; it was not outside my experience. But Emma should have known that anyone who wielded as much power over men as Iell did could not possibly be interested in another woman.

“I’m sorry,” Iell said.

Emma took a step backward, her expression inscrutable. “All right
then,” she said, “but you’d be better off with me as ally than as enemy. You should know you can’t rely on Barnum’s good favor.”

With perfect show-business timing, Ricardo flung open one of the house doors and barged in.

“A Barnum is coming down the hall!” he shouted down the long aisle. “You’d best be off.” In his arms, he held the basket. I could imagine a faint mewing from within it.

Emma took in a lungful of air, moved down the stage stairs, and all but ran for the back doors. When she reached Ricardo, she took a swipe at the basket, but he stretched it out away from her and took off at a run. The theater doors swung open and shut, and they were both gone.

“Mr. Fortuno?” Iell called. “Are you still back there? You’d best leave as quickly as you can!”

I clambered out from behind the curtains with as much dignity as I could muster, nearly stepping into a bucket of water in the wings—part of Fish’s new fire prevention protocol. My rib cage knocked about as if it held a flapping bird inside, and I willed my nerves steady. I knew I should leave, but there was no sign of Barnum yet. I rearranged my sword and patted down my hair.

“What can I do to ensure that Emma won’t bother you again?”

“It’s fine, Mr. Fortuno. Really. A dispute between friends, nothing more.” Iell glanced toward the theater doors, then took hold of my arm. “Really, you should go.” God, she was lovely!

“I wanted to tell you that I have your package. I didn’t dare leave a note,” I stammered as her fingers slid away. “But I shan’t be able to go and fetch for you again.”

Iell tilted her chin. “That’s all right. Would it be a terrible imposition for you to bring the package to my boardinghouse some day next week? I am staying at Mrs. Beeton’s uptown.”

Exactly what I didn’t want to hear, but who could refuse such a woman? “No imposition at all, though I’d prefer to go out after the Museum has closed, if that is all right.”

“Ten o’clock, then. Let us say Wednesday. Someone will be there
to let you in.” An unidentifiable bang made us both jump. “Now go,” Iell said, and rewrapped her scarf around her head, tucking in a stray strand of hair with the end of one finger.

“My hat,” I said. “I forgot my hat!” I dashed into the wings to retrieve it, and thank goodness, because I never would have made it out of the theater without being seen. The door swooshed open just as I reached the wings, and I dove back behind the curtain, knowing what a disaster it would be if Barnum found Iell and me together. What a shock to hear
Mrs.
Barnum’s voice wafting down the aisle.

“Mrs. Adams. We meet again.”

My heart hammered into my throat. No matter how bad the consequences of Barnum’s discovering me there, if his wife found me she’d dismiss me on the spot. I took no chances and did not so much as poke my head out from behind that curtain, despite the fact that I couldn’t hear a bit of what the two women discussed. I waited until their muffled voices faded completely before venturing out. My hands shook like a crone’s.

When I was absolutely certain that the theater was empty, I tore down the aisle, fretting that I might not make it to the doors before someone returned and discovered me. I didn’t relax until I slipped into the evening crowd, welcoming their stares as proof that I was still a Curiosity and still worthy of my billing.

Before returning to the Green Room, I slipped into Barnum’s office and hastily penned him a note to cover myself.

To report,
I wrote with a shaky hand,
I briefly witnessed Mrs. Adams speaking with Emma Swan in the Lecture Room after the Memorial show, but I did not approach or speak to either lady. No other sightings to date.
I set the note on his chair and scurried out of there.

W
EDNESDAY TOOK FOREVER TO ARRIVE
, and once it did, I found myself in a terrible state. I kept my mood in check, but after dinner I sat on my haunches in the gravel garden of the Arboretum café and considered digging up the root. My impending visit with Iell coupled with the ever-present fear of discovery sent shakes through my entire body. I simply had to pull myself together. The root would give me energy and courage, but how could I dare use it if I could not control its effects?

“What should I do, my friends?” I asked the sleeping birds. I’d come to rely on the birds more and more. Not that I expected real counsel, but they were a gentle presence, and when I needed to express myself out loud, they’d become my substitute friends. Of course, there was not so much as a squeak in answer to my question.

Moving aside the speckled rock I’d used to mark where I buried the root, I brushed away the gravel underneath until I saw the top of the bag. Think how strong you’d feel if you swallowed even one little sliver, I thought. The bag came out effortlessly. Dirt and gravel covered the outside; I shook it clean and then held it by its strings and let it dangle in front of me. My mouth watered. Oh, but I couldn’t. Not after what happened with Matina. The trip to Iell’s boardinghouse might be easier with a bit of root in me, but what would happen when Iell and I stood face-to-face, the two of us alone in her room? If I couldn’t control myself with Matina, I’d no chance with a woman like Iell. No, it wasn’t a good idea at all.

I dropped the bag back into the hole, brushing the dirt from my knees. One sideswipe from my foot set the loose gravel tumbling into the hole, filling it in seconds. It took only a few well-placed steps to pack down the gravel with the sole of my shoe and replace the rock. Done.

In no time at all, I’d be dressed and making my way uptown. I refused to let unfounded fear break my resolve. My reward would be seeing Iell.

H
OURS LATER
, in full disguise, I slipped into the public rooms just before the Museum’s closing bell rang. It was easy enough to blend in during the rush at the end of the day, though I ran the danger of bumbling into one of my colleagues, who would no doubt recognize me despite the wig and mustache. If Alley had been with me, I could claim that we were on our way to McNealy’s, but I hadn’t trusted him enough to bring him into my confidence. For the first time, I began to see how isolated my predicament was making me.

I managed to work my way out the front door and onto Broadway without incident. When it was clear that no one had followed me, I hopped a trolley and headed uptown toward Iell’s boardinghouse. I’d stuck her package in my coat pocket along with the white scarf. I felt quite passable in my padded jacket until a woman on the trolley dropped a quarter into my lap, saying, “Get something good to eat, sir,” and it wasn’t until I jumped off the trolley and started walking toward Mrs. Beeton’s that my uneasiness began to pass. Nevertheless, I all but ran the last few blocks.

By the time I reached the boardinghouse, I was out of breath. This part of town was rather shabby—it had long ago lost its old stylishness and most of the houses were now residences for single gentlemen or show-business types—but Mrs. Beeton’s still retained an understated elegance. The house was set a few yards back from the street, delineated by a perfect white fence, and even in the dark I could see its handsome redbrick façade. Its gardens were abloom with lilies and
azaleas, and the walks on both sides of the house were lined with small saplings. In front, a discreet metal sign read:
MRS
.
BEETON’S BOARDINGHOUSE FOR WOMEN AND YOUNG GIRLS
.