The Transformation of Bartholomew Fortuno: A Novel (42 page)

Iell’s face softened, and she smiled pleasantly at him. This seemed to endow Barnum with increased vigor. He loomed over her for a heartbreaking second and I tried to stand between them, but it was as if I didn’t exist. Iell pushed past me and placed herself again in front of Barnum, her lovely beard spreading out like a fan. When Barnum took her face in his pawlike hand, rage nearly blinded me.

“I’m not interfering,” Barnum said to Iell. “A promise is a promise.”

“Interfering with what?” I demanded, fists clenched, mouth dry as the desert. Neither of them acknowledged me.

Barnum grinned ear to ear as he hopped up on the pedestal where the bear stood and, hanging on to the bear’s neck, called out to the crowd: “Welcome to all of you and Happy Birthday to me!” Wild applause. All heads but Iell’s twisted toward him.

“Interfering with what?” I demanded again, as Iell fussed absent-mindedly with her beard and gazed out over the crowd. My anger melted into confusion.

Barnum reached down and took a glass of champagne held up to him by one of serving girls. He lifted it high in the air, the liquor sloshing out and catching the light as it spilled to the Ballroom floor.

“It’s not every day a man reaches his fifty-fifth year and finds himself surrounded by so many wonderful friends.” A drunken whoop filled the room. “Our country is whole again! Our city thrives! And here we all are, together in the most magical place in the world. The home of the enchanted”—he looked straight down at Iell and winked—“
and
the grotesque. Both ends and in between.”

I looked toward Iell and was horrified to find her gazing at Barnum as if he were the sun. My heart sank.

“So, tonight, I welcome you once more and hope you will have the most astonishing night of your lives!”

The crowd rose up, and the noise was deafening. Right on cue, the servers tossed ignitable powder over the candles so that the Ballroom popped and fizzed in luminescent colors. Then dozens of young boys dressed as cherubs poured through the Ballroom doors, each carrying a burning torch in one hand and a long silk banner in the other. The crowd began to stir, and Iell took a step forward. As the guests were herded out the Ballroom doors, Iell moved to join them.

“No. Wait,” I sputtered behind her. “You promised we would talk tonight!”

“Meet me in the theater in five minutes,” she called over her shoulder; then she slipped into the crowd and was gone.

F
LAMING TORCHES IN FRONT OF THE
M
ORAL
Lecture Room doors redirected the partygoers from the Ballroom to the theater, and buckets of water had been discreetly placed a few feet from each torch. The guests, well into their cups, funneled through the doors, eager to see the opening act.

I was desperate to find Iell again. But just then, Bridgett moved past me.

“What happened to your ‘Engleesh no berry gud’?” I asked, one eye on the lookout for Iell. “Faking it now in the name of love?”

Bridgett looked toward the far set of doors and waved at Brady, who waited for her, hat in hand. “It’s a pity, Mr. Fortuno, that life ain’t about love. Not in the end, anyways. Smart girls do what they need to do, and I ain’t talking about Mr. Brady neither.”

What in the world
was
she talking about? I tried to think as she wandered off, but a tingling up my neck made me turn around and look toward the outdoor balcony. Iell pushed through the heavy curtains separating the balcony from the Atrium and stood in the entrance alone, like a child abandoned by the side of a busy road. I all but ran to her.

“Finally,” I said, catching her by the elbow and steering her toward the last set of open doors. “What were you doing out on the balcony? Are you all right?”

The heels of her shoes clicked as we hurried along the tile. “Of course. I’m fine.”

“What did Barnum mean when he said he wasn’t interfering?”

Iell put a finger to my lips. “Let’s sit and talk like civilized people.”

How rude of Iell to make me wait like this. But I could not force her to talk. She’d said she prized my patience. What were a few more minutes compared to the rest of our lives? I nodded with false amiability and led her through the theater doors.

Inside, the Moral Lecture Room radiated with excitement. Curls of smoke spiraled up from the great torches hanging on the walls, and the prisms reflected the flames, sending mad flashes of light bouncing everywhere one looked. Ahead of us, the stage heaved with tumblers and acrobats, and a huge bear ankle-chained to a metal bar swiped at a caged monkey an inch or two beyond its reach. Barnum sat on a throne to the right, watching the festivities and nodding in time to the orchestra’s repeated choruses of “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.” And the new songbirds! In my absence, workers had tied the silver cages to the long streamers hanging from the ceiling, and now hundreds of little caged birds swung above our heads, catching the light and carving exquisite fan patterns in the air.

Iell and I stood in the rear of the theater for a time, staring into the sea of fancy hats, clinking glasses, and long white cigarettes. Then my stomach thundered to life again. I’d gotten a sudden whiff of roasted lamb coming from the food tables, and I had an overwhelming craving to fill myself up. Drawing my coat closed, I forced myself to remain in my place. I wasn’t an animal. Hunger did not control me; I controlled it. As soon as I had regained my composure, I bent forward and whispered in Iell’s ear.

“Are you hungry, my dear?”

Iell touched my arm with her fingertips, and without a word the two of us joined the procession of people snaking past the food tables along the far wall. My mouth watered madly as we slipped into line. Before us was a huge roasted pig, pheasants covered in rosemary sauce, sautéed baby spinach leaves, tournedos Rossini, apple and rhubarb turnovers, wonderfully browned corn soufflés, and lamb. Weak-kneed, I loaded up my plate. It was impossible to disguise the growling
sounds coming from my stomach; at one point, the aroma of garlic and onions so overwhelmed me I had to bury my nose in my napkin. It took quite a few moments for me to regain my equilibrium, but finally I salvaged my plate and caught up to Iell, who had found us seats in the rear of the Lecture Room.

In front of us, guests sprawled across their own seats, plates balanced on their laps and flagons of burgundy on the floor near their feet. They applauded a group of harem dancers who swirled through the entrance doors behind us and sashayed down the aisles. Onstage, three jugglers, a singing dog, and a ballet dancer competed for the crowd’s attention.

“What’s that in your lap?” Iell asked me, after we’d sat down in our seats.

“Where?”

She frowned, nodding toward my overflowing plate.

“You mean the food?” Feigning innocence, I dropped my eyes to my lap. “I’m hungry,” I said, glad for once to be the one in control of information. I bit into a chicken leg, its juices rolling down my chin, the taste of it overwhelmingly rich.

“What do you mean you’re hungry?”

I looked over at Iell. She seemed disappointed. Wasn’t this what she wanted?

“I do have a choice,” I said, and Iell raised her wineglass to her lips. I needed to take command of the situation, so I put my hand over hers, bringing the glass down to rest.

“You never answered me about negotiating new contracts with Barnum, nor did you agree that I should write to Peale’s in Philly. Is there something else you want?”

She studied my face intently.

“I have some money saved,” I said. “Quite a lot, in fact. I have been quite disciplined in saving.”

“What is it you are saying?”

“That I can take care of you. Of us. We can leave in the morning. If you don’t want to work any longer, we can hire a little city house,
one with a garden, and find other ways to earn a living, like regular people do.”

“A normal life?”

“You said you believed in transformation. It doesn’t matter what you promised Barnum. I can eat. I can take care of you.”

Iell’s eyes welled up.

Some performance on the stage in front of us elicited wild applause from the audience. I put my hand on Iell’s knee. “You don’t need any of this.” I gestured to the theater in front of us. “Or Barnum.” Then I reached up and gently touched her beard. “You don’t even need this.”

Iell furrowed her brow, her eyes shiny with tears.

“I love you, Iell,” I spit out, dizzy with relief at finally telling her how I felt.

Iell bit her lip and moved my hand from her beard back to her lap. “Bartholomew, there’s something I have to tell you.” She squeezed my hand. “But tonight I have one more promise to fulfill. Meet me tomorrow morning in the Yellow Room. Nine o’clock. After that, I promise never to make you wait again.”

She stood to leave.

“No.” I struggled to my feet, nearly knocking my plate of food to the floor. “Please don’t go. Don’t leave me in the dark again.” But Iell pushed past me and inched sideways down the row of seats.

As she hurried up the aisle, she glanced over her shoulder at me and smiled—gratefully, I thought, but I wasn’t certain. I sat down full of self-reproach. Clearly, I’d overwhelmed her. It had been too soon to tell her that I loved her. And perhaps I’d been presumptuous about the future.

Miserable, I sat alone in the last aisle as the performers went on. Near the end of the show, Matina appeared atop a huge wooden horse pushed by six burly stagehands. She wore a pink body suit and a yellow wig long and thick enough to cover nearly all of her body. But the intent of the illusion was clear. She had decided to play the Menken role after all. Partygoers, women as well as men, yelled out, “Bravo!” “Delicious!” Applause and laughter came in equal measure as she rolled across the stage, face beaming, hand waving like a queen. Thaddeus
stood at the front. “Like a holiday pudding, ain’t she? Too tempting to leave alone and much too big to finish. Give her a hand, folks, give her a hand.” I spotted Alley in the wings, watching over her, his escort still behind him.

Bridgett entered next, carried on from the other side in an open sedan chair, its glittery box tipping from side to side as the four men carrying its poles mismatched their steps. A poodle lounged in her lap, and two long-nosed Afghans tied to the back nipped at each other as they followed her to center stage. Bridgett’s first “stage show” was visual only, but she got a rousing hand when Thaddeus blathered on about her mountain lineage and how she was the purest breed of Caucasian in the world.

On stomped the giants, who performed a mock wrestling match, and Zippy did a birthday dance inside a metal cage. I felt another stab of loss when Matina appeared after everyone else had finished, this time pushing a huge gong. She had thrown on a red satin cape with a sloping hat. A silver boa dangled carelessly around her neck, and she kept tossing it back as she rolled the gong to center stage.

“Mr. Barnum,” Matina boomed across the heads of those not too drunk to sit upright. “In honor of you!” She bowed grandly and grabbed a mallet. With pink-faced flourish, she banged the gong until the room fell into a stunned hush. Gesturing toward the wings, she waved Barnum back onto the stage.

“Ain’t she a honey of a gal,” Barnum bellowed as he sauntered to the center, hat in hand, his broad grin like a spotlight beaming over the applauding crowd.

“For you, sir! Happy birthday from your loving friends here at the Museum!” Matina presented him with a blue tasseled pillow, a glass jar perched precariously on top.

“What is this?” Barnum lifted the jar and read the label. Laughing, he hoisted the jar aloft, the finger floating obscenely in the pale green water. “Look at this, folks. Blackbeard’s finger! What a fine gift!”

Then Emma and Alley wheeled in a flatbed cart. On top of it was the largest birthday cake I had ever seen: over four feet high, and as
wide as Matina herself. They tilted the cake forward for everyone to see the perfect marzipan rendition of the Museum, the carved doors and balconies already dripping in the summer heat.

The audience let loose another round of hurrahs, and then, on cue, in came the unicorn, followed by two aerialists who, in a smoldering finale, flew across the stage on burning trapezes as the orchestra played “Happy Birthday to You.”

And finally, with everyone’s attention riveted upward, the doors to all the little birdcages popped open—they had been rigged with strings pulled by lads running along beneath them—and a hundred frenzied songbirds dashed out into the heights of the cavernous theater, a cockatoo and a conspicuous blue parrot among them as the boys released all my birds as well.

The birds, set free, swooped about in fifty-foot drops, careening over our heads and then dashing up again, as if they were trying to make sense of a world without limits. I leaped to my feet with the rest of the audience, bedazzled by the spectacle, hope and fear rising in me in equal measure. Many of the birds settled on balconies or seatbacks for a moment or two before taking off into the air again, and my heart soared with them. But an unlucky few seemed to lose their way, and, rather than fly with their brethren, they swooped too high or too low and ended up smashing themselves against the walls, discovering the hard way exactly what freedom meant.