The Transformation of Bartholomew Fortuno: A Novel (6 page)

Backstage, I flung myself down on an old salt box to examine the extent of the damage.

“What in God’s name?” I cried, when Thaddeus came offstage. “You’re supposed to help me, not let me dance about like a maiden protecting her virginity.”

“It’s not my fault you’re a virgin, Fortuno. And, frankly, I did you a favor. They liked your racier act way better than your usual drivel.”

“My
usual drivel
,” I said, “is a revelation of the soul of man.”

“Yeah, sure it is.” Thaddeus pushed past me. I stomped along behind him, as he slipped off his stage jacket and brushed the back of it with his hand. “Anyway,” he said as he put his coat back on and straightened the lapels, “it don’t matter. You ain’t got that much to show.”

“It certainly
does
matter,” I answered. “This is not about pride, it’s about professionalism. You’ve no right to make me into a fool. And if you do such a thing again, I will have you dismissed!” I poked him once in his meaty ribs for emphasis.

Thaddeus grabbed my finger and pulled it, hard. An awful pain shot all the way up my arm.

“Maybe it’s time for you to go back where you came from, Fortuno,” he taunted me. A momentary shiver stopped me cold.
Back where I came from
meant the circus. Never! Just the idea made my head dizzy.

“I loved the circus,” I lied to the back of Thaddeus as he
reentered the stage. “I was a star in the circus, and they treated me like a king.”

The truth is, I was never a star in the circus; I was only a sideshow act, and I didn’t belong on the fringes, I belonged as a main event. But even as a sideshow act, I knew, at the tender age of fourteen, as I sat shivering and bruised in the fancy Richmond office of Isaac Van Amburgh, my uncle Frederick beside me wringing his hands, that the circus was going to be an improvement on what came before. At last, I would be seen.
I’m getting out, I’m getting out
, I thought to myself as Van Amburgh eyed me from across his broad wooden desk.
My gift will soon be seen by all.

“His parents are dead, you say?”

“The father, yes. The mother, mad as a hatter. Ward of the state.”

“And you have full control of the boy?”

My uncle scrabbled about in his pocket, pulled out a wrinkled but official-looking document, slapped it down on the desk, and sat back nervously. “Like he was my very own.”

Van Amburgh studied me. “He
is
magnificent, got to say that much. Let me see him up close.” He waved a hand, and my uncle grabbed me by the scuff of the neck and hauled me to the front of the desk, pulling my coat open to show my bony chest. Van Amburgh stared at me with small black eyes.

“Can you speak?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you eat anything at all?”

“Yes, sir.”

My uncle piped up. “He might be an idiot. I hope that doesn’t lower the price.”

“Not as long as he can travel. You can travel, can’t you?”

“I think so, sir.”

“And you will live, eh?”

“Of course the little bastard will live,” my uncle said. “He’s strong as a horse.”

It took Van Amburgh forever, but finally he slid the papers across the desk with a fingertip. “I want to tour him with my traveling show. People are getting tired of seeing only animals, and these human oddities make the menageries a little more exciting for our countryfolk. Might even put him with a tented show if he does well.” He smiled and turned to me. I hated him already. “Better to work for me, boy, than some two-bit handler roaming about in the territories. You’re a lucky little lad.”

Within two days, his people had lashed my mattress to a flat rig, and I found myself traveling south. My education began then, and for a grueling two years I bounced from Maryland to the Carolinas, from New York to New England, first traveling with the animal shows, sitting in a little side tent reading to avoid talking to people as they passed. Later I joined an even lower-class sideshow. I was seen, yes, but only by pig farmers and vengeful little boys. No one who really understood my gift.

Compared to those years in the circus, life at the Museum was a pleasure. Like a good painting, I was best seen with a bit of distance and a proper frame. And I was my own master here—even if Thaddeus didn’t care to acknowledge the fact.

I settled in the wings as Thaddeus leaned back on his heels, throwing his voice over the crowd. “And next on the roster, another lad who understands the meaning of transformation.”

Ricardo went through his paces as I fumed. Eventually, the audience gave their final applause and the room emptied out, leaving me to wander into the house alone. What a mess. Discarded flyers littered the place as though a storm had recently passed; underneath the seats were abandoned apple cores, ends of meat sandwiches, crumbs, spittle, and smoldering Bull Durhams. So much of the disorder in the world was caused by men filling their bodies with food or drink! I took a seat in one of the chairs. My back prickled at the thought of Thaddeus’s insults, but I realized how difficult it was going to be to revenge myself without putting my job in jeopardy.

Perhaps it was best to ignore his insults. I should concentrate my energy on obtaining new tights, since my current pair was torn beyond repair. And for that I’d have to go to Barnum. I sighed. Getting Barnum to pay for anything other than room and board wasn’t easy. He claimed that costumes and props had been supplied at the beginning of our employment, and there was not a reason in the world to be replacing perfectly decent attire. If we needed something beyond what he originally supplied, he contended, we were to pay for it ourselves. I disagreed. None of us knew the extent of our employment, and though our salaries were generous, we had to save every single penny for the unknowable future. I, for one, had no intention of spending a dime beyond what was absolutely necessary.

Then there was the problem of finding a way to see the man. First, he had a rule that everyone must have an appointment, even though he was notorious for not being there at the appointed time. And second, he insisted that all complaints and requests be put in writing, though in the past I’d found that this action assured me of nothing. The truth was that Barnum was a capricious man. He acted on whim, and he traded in favors.

But I could hardly work without a decent costume. I had no choice but to go to Barnum’s office after hours that night and insist that he see me. Maybe the sight of my torn tights would be dramatic enough to force some resolution. As insurance, I would abide by the rules and put my request in writing.

I found a piece of paper beneath one of the seats and, using the pen I always kept in the upper pocket of my performance coat, I wrote out:

Not bad. Clear. Concise. With the illustrative hole in my tights and an argument list in my hand, my chances of getting a new costume looked very good indeed. I sat in the empty performance room until I heard the Museum’s closing chimes. Soon after came the eleventh stroke of St. Paul’s bells. I waited a few minutes more and then set out across the second-floor Atrium toward the Grand Staircase. Three of the housemaids came up behind me in the shadows of the hall.

“Evenin’, sir. Nice legs, those.”

“Off with you, girls,” I snapped, and they scampered away, giggling like children, one smiling so broadly that her tin-capped teeth sparkled in the lamplight. Another, a pockmarked girl, covered her grin with a small grubby hand and cackled rudely. They’d seen me often enough
not to be shocked by my appearance, but I remained a joke. They couldn’t see far enough past their own noses to recognize my gift.

Downstairs, the front doors had been locked for the night, kept in place by velvet-covered chains looped securely through the brass handles, and the floor of the empty ticket vestibule sparkled from the reflected gaslights outside. As I walked past the shadows of the turnstiles and through the Cosmo-Panopticon Studio, my heart started to pound. Maybe Barnum wasn’t in. Or, if he was, maybe he’d toss me out on my ear for bothering him after hours. I stopped to rest near the panorama of the Colosseum of Rome and pretended for a moment that I was a gladiator, fierce and fearless.

At the end of the hall loomed a door marked with the sign
OFFICE OF
p. T.
BARNUM. ENTER BY APPOINTMENT ONLY
. I forced myself forward and rapped lightly on Barnum’s office door with the end of my cane. No one answered. I knocked once more, clutching the list I’d made in my free hand. The least I could do, I told myself, was leave the list on his desk so he could read it at his leisure and leave word for me as needed.

I pressed the door open an inch. Inside, I saw light and movement and then heard voices: Barnum’s voice and a woman’s as well. Generally, I would have left immediately—private conversations are private conversations, after all, and should be respected as such. But the woman’s voice was unfamiliar. What strange lady could Barnum be entertaining in his office at this hour? It could only be the new act.

Peering around the door, I could just make out Barnum behind his desk, observable in glimpses as long as he didn’t shift too much to the left or to the right. Uncharacteristically dapper, he wore a European jacket with ivory buttons and a satin lining; a watch chain dangling from his vest pocket caught the secondary light. He’d tamed his hair with ebony wax as he usually did, but his jowly face looked unnatural, smiling but strained, as if suddenly frozen in a daguerreotype. All I could see of the woman were the gloved hands resting on her lap and the tips of her walking boots peeking out from beneath her skirts.

“I see no reason for you to expect such treatment,” Barnum said stiffly.

“Really?” the woman answered coyly. “I thought I’d given you more than sufficient reasons, sir.”

His eyes pinched shut. “This was not our agreement. You promised me a decision by tonight.”

“I did? How silly of me. Well, let’s not create a stalemate over a little bit of time. I’m perfectly satisfied with the status quo for now, and I assure you I’ll give you an answer soon enough.”

Barnum banged the wall with a liver-spotted fist, the picture of Napoleon’s march shaking askew. “Anyone else would jump at the opportunity!” he hollered at her.

“Anyone else? But I’m hardly like anyone else. Why are you so vexed?”

Barnum took in a deep breath and then slouched, adopting the posture of the meek and beaten. “Fine,” he conceded. “I’ll wait a little while longer. As for the other matter, I’ll take care of it as I promised. But I’ll not allow you to expose yourself. You’ve no business in such places. Is that understood?”

“For now, that is acceptable, yes.”

Barnum stood behind his desk, and I heard and then saw the whip of the woman’s skirts as she made her way out the door at the other end of his office, on her way, I assumed, to a private carriage waiting nearby. Barnum held his smile until the latch clicked closed, and then he collapsed into his chair, his face a storm of anger and disappointment. Ever so quietly, I pulled the hallway door shut.

I smiled. It was rare to see Barnum bested, especially by a woman. Even though I knew nothing of the details of their negotiation, it was clear that the beautiful stranger had taken the upper hand and Barnum wasn’t pleased. Suddenly, I had a sinking feeling. Wonderful as it had been to watch him grovel, he’d be in no mood for favors now. Perhaps the wisest choice was to put off my request until morning, when I could either make a proper appointment or leave my list with a note.
Resolved, I folded the list and replaced it in my breast pocket. Then the office door flew open. Barnum stood glaring at me from the threshold, the backlight from his office making him look as huge and uncontrollable as a wild bear.

I took a step back.

“I knocked, sir. Twice. I waited and no one came so I assumed . . . I was making my way back upstairs.”

“You do realize I only see people by appointment, do you not? Why are you skulking around like this?”

If it had been morning I could have said I’d been wandering past the carnivorous flowers or had decided to take a private clairvoyant reading, but at this time of night any excuse I made would ring false.

“You misunderstand,” I sputtered instead. “My costume. Look here.” I thrust my leg unceremoniously forward, hoping the light was strong enough to show the tear.

Barnum glowered at my tights as if he were about to rip them from my body, and my heart all but stopped. Then he turned on his heel and stamped into his office. “All right, then, Fortuno,” he said, over his shoulder. “Come on in. I suppose I can have a word with you, as long as you’re quick.”

Holding my breath, I followed him in. The office smelled of embalming fluid and cigars, as always, but with a new layer on top of it, the lingering scent of roses. I stood at attention in front of Barnum’s desk, and as he made his way to his chair, I surveyed the room. Despite its fancy decor—it had the same moldings and the same blood-red upholstery and gilded mirrors as did the Moral Lecture Room—I couldn’t help but think of a morgue. Perhaps that had something to do with the floor-to-ceiling cases teetering with shrunken body parts, misshapen bats, rodents, calf fetuses, even a triple-winged canary, all floating in liquids of different colors and viscosity.