The Transformation of Bartholomew Fortuno: A Novel (5 page)

Barnum had installed all the latest technology, from moving panoramas to calcium and gas effects for supernatural spectacles and battle scenes. I still couldn’t get over the hydraulic machinery and the footlights, which used a new method of mixing oxygen and hydrogen right at the burners with a blow-through jet. Barnum renamed the theater the Moral Lecture Room when he decided to make what was shown there respectable enough for ladies to visit. Now, instead of housing Prodigies or good old-fashioned spectacles, the big theater was wasted on performances of
Uncle Tom’s Cabin
,
The Vicar of Wakefield
, and
The Drunkard
. These shows drew crowds, it was true, but crowds made of pinch-faced women dragging in spineless men without a bone in their bodies.

By the sounds of the thumps and bangs at the end of the hall, one of the Indians had fled from the theater and had crashed into the crates from the newly delivered steam engines.

“Good Lord, can’t you do something about all that noise, Barthy?” Matina scowled into her mirror and tried to disguise the red in her eyes by rubbing makeup around them. In spite of her efforts, it was obvious that she’d been crying again.

I placed my hands sympathetically on the curve of her rounded shoulders. “You’re looking lovely today.”

Matina pressed some
papier poudre
under her eyes and along the sides of her nose. “Kind of you to say, but it would take an awful lot of beauty to counteract so much sadness in this world.”

I gave her shoulder a friendly squeeze, the bones of my fingers sinking into her flesh. “How lucky we are, then, to have you.”

“Such nonsense,” Matina said, but I could tell my words pleased her. “Go along now. We’ve all got work to do.”

I left her, checking the daily notices on the way to my first show.

Aside from the extra task of cutting up the bunting, the only thing of interest was that the new act wasn’t listed. I wondered if she would start in tableau, like the rest of us had, or if Barnum would put her right on the performance program. Either way, why was he waiting so long to introduce her?

When the warning chimes signaled time for places, I dashed a bit of pomade into my hair and hustled down the hall toward my little showroom. Backstage, Thaddeus Brown, lecturer and general master of ceremonies, grabbed my arm. He was a squat man, with short thick legs and a barrel chest that tipped him forward when he walked. Thaddeus’s calloused, tobacco-stained fingers pinched my bicep and made me wince in spite of myself.

“Bone man. You’re late.”

I yanked my arm away from him. “I’m here, for God’s sake.” According to the usual schedule, my act followed Alley’s and, as Alley was still onstage, I had plenty of time.

Pulling my performance suit off its peg, I tugged the trousers over my red tights and then paused to peek past the curtain into the house. Perhaps Barnum’s mystery woman was out in the audience, observing our acts today. Why not? We were the best of the best, and she should be proud to be part of our company. I ran a hand down along the staircase of my ribs, past my nonexistent belly to the ridges of my hips. Yes, she’d be lucky to be one of us.

Thaddeus flicked the back of my head with a finger. “Places, bone man. Now!”

Frowning, I slipped into my jacket, the small rocks hidden in the bottom hem bouncing painfully against my thigh. Sewn in to keep the material in place, the rocks also kept down the white shirt and vest stitched to the inside seams, allowing the lot of it to be ripped away in a single piece. Quickly, I took my hat and brushed it clean of any dust, buttoned my jacket carefully, and slipped on my padded shoes. Two stagehands balancing a painted backdrop of a castle scene hustled past me, and I stepped back to let them pass.

Right on cue, Alley growled and took his final bow. When he
exited, he grinned bleakly, obviously glad to be done with his show, and tipped his crown to me in greeting. The stagehands carried my prop chair onto the stage.

“So what did you think of our muscleman?” Thaddeus crowed to the audience in his whiskey voice. “Wouldn’t like to encounter
him
on a dark street, eh?”

I checked a loose thread, pulled myself tall, and breathed in to steady my nerves.

“But perhaps you’d like to see something even more shocking. Perhaps you’d like to see the human body pushed to the very edge of its endurance. Let me show you how much that quarter you paid for this show is
really
worth, my friends,” Thaddeus crooned. “Let me show you the facts of your very own life.”

Thaddeus moved out of my sight line, and I craned my neck to watch for my cue. When I’d first come to the Museum, my act was a bit more erudite. I still wore tights, but over them I’d layered a scholar’s jacket and big fake spectacles. Most of my stage time was spent reading to my audience from Jules Cloquet’s
Manuel d’anatomie descriptive du corps humain.
I quite enjoyed discussing the nature of the body. For a while, Barnum had even let me change my stage name to The Professor. But eventually he decided it was the sight of me that really carried my show, so out went the books and charts and in came a tight red body stocking. I remained philosophical. As long as I still got to share my gift, what did it matter how I showed it?

I straightened my coat as Thaddeus bent down close to the front row of the spectators, focusing on a young girl with lush chestnut hair. He squinted in mock concern.

“But first, answer one question, ladies and gents,” Thaddeus said, directly to the girl. “What does it take to make a man? How much flesh? How much—dare I say—bone?” Even from the wings, I saw her blush a high red; Thaddeus could be such a scoundrel. “Decide for yourself what is real as you gaze upon Bartholomew Fortuno, the Thinnest Man in the World!”

Thaddeus stood back and waved his arm in a grand gesture as I marched onto the stage.

The audience gasped at the sight of me, some breaking into nervous laughter, others slipping into silent awe. Giving them time to adjust, I walked to my stool and dragged it downstage center, climbed onto its padded seat, and arranged the cuffs of my sleeves. The heat from the gas lamps warmed my chilly feet, and as I dusted lint from the front of my trousers, I peeked out from beneath the shadow of my gray fedora. From the stage, I could barely distinguish one person from the next. Short folks stretched into taller, darker versions of themselves, children grew into adults, then back into children again. I’d had this sensation for years. For lack of a better term, I called it Misting Over.

With concentration, I began to distinguish individuals. A handful of lads rumbled around in the rear, kicking the spittoons. A soldier silenced them. Directly in front of me, a handsome pair of nurses perched on their chairs, curled hair perky beneath their spring bonnets. They fanned themselves, inching forward to check on the emotional state of the dozen or so girls in their charge, all dressed identically in ivory-colored smocks. The girls looked me over with shock-filled eyes, the smallest of them sitting with her mouth open, pulling mindlessly at the strings of a whirligig carved into the shape of a queen that vaulted round and round, wooden head and crown
clap-clap-clap
ping against the stick that held it.

I waited for the audience to settle down, and a feeling of exhilaration washed over me. They already found me shocking, but they’d no idea how thin I really was. I couldn’t wait to change their stares and snickers into gasps of fear and awe.

“Oh, he’s thin, you say. Certainly he’s that,” Thaddeus called out behind me, “but do you have any idea how thin?”

One of the boys in the back shrieked, “No,” and Thaddeus’s broad, fox-colored mustache flickered up and down as he asked me the question we’d performed many, many times.

“So how thin are you, my skeleton friend?”

“Thin enough,” I hollered out, bending over and rolling my pant legs just enough to expose the red tights that covered my legs, eliciting a few grunts from the watchers.

“Are those your
legs
?” Thaddeus mocked on cue. “I doubt you can even stand on those things.”

I answered by hopping down from my stool, the rocks in the hem of my coat banging into my thighs. “I stand as surely as
any
man stands.”

“But you show us only bones, sir. The fat of you must be above your knees, yes? Shall we see a bit more?” The spectators laughed and applauded, cheerful now in my presence, assuming they’d seen the worst. Gleefully I rolled my pants higher, securing them with the special hooks sewn in them so they would stay up. When I exposed my bony knees, the audience buzzed, but when I hitched the pants higher, revealing my long thighbones and suggesting the narrowness of my hips, their laughter stilled, and they whispered among themselves. If this kind of audience reaction didn’t warrant a poster, I didn’t know what did.

Right on cue, Thaddeus walked behind me and asked the final question. “And if your legs are that thin, what about the rest of you?” Staring directly into the crowd to engage them, he hooked the front of my breakaway jacket with the top of his cane.

“Shall we see?”

A few people clapped; a few yelled out, “No, no!”

“Shall we?” Thaddeus yelled louder, and more of the audience joined in, hollering, “No, no, please,” while stamping their feet.

“You shouldn’t be afraid, my friends. You deserve to get your money’s worth. You deserve to see it all.” Finally, one woman hungry to know screamed out, “
Yes!
” So, flourishing his cane and his smile, Thaddeus hooked the neck of my coat, the wood of the handle rough along my neck, and ripped away.

The audience swooned as I stood in front of them in my red tights and jersey, the bones of my torso and my ribs revealed. Sitting back on the stool, I smiled sweetly.

“It’s good to be like me,” I said, breaking the quiet of the room.

“What’s that you say?” Thaddeus laughed. “Do you hear this, my
dear audience, my fellow seekers? He says it’s good to be like him.” He scowled and turned to me. “Why would you say such a thing?”

“Because,” I answered, preparing as always to use my gift to its fullest, “nothing happens within me that cannot be witnessed from without.”

This gave folks back their voices, and chatter filled the room. That’s when I stood and pulled in my stomach muscles until every organ in my body seemed to pop right out of my frame.

“Oh, good Lord, sweet Jesus,” one woman sighed, and the entire room went silent. The show was going well.

I propped one foot up on the stool to show myself at a different angle, lovingly running my fingers down my rib cage. “Don’t be afraid of what you see. This,” I said, “is what we’re all made of. Me, you, every single one of us. Do you see how my heart beats? And how my stomach waits for me to fill it? When you look at me, can’t you understand yourself a bit better?” I made fleeting eye contact with the silent faces in front of me. “The only difference between us is that I do not hide my inner self.”

It took nearly a full minute for someone to snicker nervously, and then a second joined in, and a third, until nearly everyone began to laugh fully and slap one another on the backs or pinch each other’s body fat, eventually applauding when goaded on by Thaddeus.

But a few stayed silent. One or two sat with their heads hanging down, the smoke-filled air encircling them as their feet shuffled against the floor. These were the ones who mattered to me. The ones I taught.

C
HANCE, TOGETHER WITH A BIT OF LUCK, SOON
sent me along my inevitable way. It began with a small fire in a corner of the Green Room. An accident. Someone dropped an ash, or an errant flame leaped from one of the wall lamps; no one seemed to know for certain what had happened. Mr. Fish was frantic, insisting that the janitors check every lamp in the room for leaks or faulty wicks. It would not have affected me at all except that when the stagehands doused the flames with a bucket of water, they pulled out the charred remains of my stage tights.

“What in blazes?” I hollered out, poking at the soggy tights. Half of one leg had burned completely away. It was impossible for them to be salvaged. As a result, I had to dig out my old pair, the red faded at the knees and the seams loose and frayed.

That Saturday, the last show of the night, my little theater overflowed with visitors. My spirits were high—I’d drawn in more people than usual that month, proving my worth to Barnum—and even having to wear old tights did not hamper my mood. The show went as well as it always did, the audience reacting exactly as expected. But then, near the end, just as I rose from my stool, I heard a horrible tearing sound, and a wave of chilly air hit the inside of my thigh.

“Holy smoke, take a gander at that!” A farmer in the front row nudged his neighbor, and they started a guffaw that spread through the room like wildfire.

My tights had ripped along the inseam from my crotch all the way to my knee, the material cutting into my skin. I shot Thaddeus a look of desperation. His shrug said a million things: Be a soldier; act like a man; march on. So on I trooped, going through my paces as if nothing were amiss, dipping rather than standing tall, twisting where I normally stayed my ground. Of course I couldn’t afford to suck in my stomach at the end for fear of more exposure, but I made do, altering my act as best I could. In the end, even though the audience clapped wildly, I failed to reach any of them at a deeper level.