Wild Rover No More: Being the Last Recorded Account of the Life & Times of Jacky Faber (18 page)

“I still do not believe that a goddess such as yourself, even though you are forced to be on this earth, must eat food like a mere mortal,” he continues. This is, of course, a teasing game that has been going on between us since first we met, and we both find it fun. Up to a point, I realize, for should I weaken, I know he would be right there, ready for the Big Romp. And he is very, very charming, so I must be extremely careful—for the imaginary Count Petrovsky, as well as for the very real Lieutenant James Emerson Fletcher.

“Zere are man-ny things vee goddesses do zat vould surprise you,” says I, deciding to be a bit wicked. I reach into my bowl with the fingers of my left hand and pull out a long, thin sausage, lock eyes with Marcello, and then bite the tip off with a loud
snap.

“Yum,” I say, which I know is a universal word, inRussia, Italy, or any language there is.

“
Arrrrghhh!
Oh, I am wounded to my very soul,” he cries, hands thrust between his knees. “Cruel, cruel daughter of Siberian wolves, you have robbed me of my very manhood!”

He groans and buries his face in his hands. “Such torture, such exquisite torture, I can take it no longer.” He lifts his face, his merry brown eyes round with delight. “But do it again, please.”

I finish off my lunch and pat him on the back. “Very nice performance, Marcello, but I zink your manhood ees still very much intact.” I look down at the very obvious codpiece that is part of his costume. “
Ciao,
dahlink, I vill see you later.”

With that, I head back to my wagon to rest and get ready for the next show. I open the door, throw the latch, and kick off my shoes. It's another hour and a half till my next performance, so I flop back in my bed for a bit of a doze. If I fall asleep, Marcello will surely wake me when it's time, just as he has done so often before.

My seabag sits on the floor next to me. I had long ago pulled out the stitching that spelled out
J. M. Faber, Midshipman
and replaced it with
M. Natasha Romanoff.
Now I reach over, open it, and thrust in my hand. Feeling the very familiar shape of the frame, I pull out the miniature portrait of Jaimy I had painted all those years ago, and gaze upon his sweet face. As always, it brings tears to my eyes.

Oh, Jaimy, why must we be forever so star-crossed and at the whim of Fate?

And so, life at the Montessori and Mattucci Grand Circus goes on . . .

They had done the top part of the Cape on their way to Provincetown, so now we will work the towns of the south shore—Chatham, Dennis, Barnstable, Falmouth, and then back to the mainland of New England. That means we will go back near Plymouth again and I must be careful. Even though it's been a good month since I left that town, and I'm assuming things have probably settled down as regards the pirate Jacky Faber, still . . . I'm relieved, however, to learn that the circus will not do Plymouth itself again, having already done it on their first swing through. No, we'll set up the Big Top in the town of Wareham, a bit to the south, where it should be safe. We'll do three days there and then pack up for Providence, Rhode Island. I'll breathe easier when we're out of this area, that's for sure.

Yes, both the ringmaster, Generalissimo Pietro, who actually owns the Montessori and Mattucci, and the dashing animal trainer, Udo von Arndt, with his whips and boots and tight white pants and open-collar hunter's shirt, had made it plain to me quite early that they would not mind slipping into the wagon of the fiery Russian aerialist for a bit of this and that. But by my hanging around with the somewhat more manageable Marcello, they hold off, assuming he is already ensconced in both my wagon and my bed.

And I do love my fine little wagon. It is gaily paintedinside and out, and since I am one of the stars of the show—risking one's neck on a daily basis does bring some benefits—I do not have to share it with anyone. It reminds me of Zoltan's gypsy wagon when I had been taken in and had traveled with his band of Roma in Spain. 'Cept it's not quite so crowded with his daughters. And in my fine bower, I find I now have both the privacy and leisure to write a letter to my dear sister Amy.

 

Princess Natasha Annasova Romanoff, Aerialist

The Montessori and Mattucci Grand Circus

Wareham, Massachusetts

 

Miss Amy Trevelyne

Dovecote Farm

Quincy, Massachusetts

 

Dear Amy,

Yes, dear heart, I have joined the circus. It was inevitable, was it not? Come now, Amy, you know you are the biggest worrywart on Earth. All I really have to do is walk out on the high wire, do a few lame tricks, then retire to great applause. What could be easier?

I barely escaped Plymouth. That nosy postmaster I told you about was actually reading our mail and so tipped off the local authorities. Can you imagine that? I know there is scant honor among thieves, but I didn't know it also applied to some politicians and those whom they appoint to trusted positions. Somehow I expected better.

No matter, what is done is done. Suffice it to say, on my last day at the Polk household, I was greeted with a fully armed posse intent on bringing me in to face their justice. I did manage to evade capture with the help of my pistols, but it was a close thing, believe me.

I have made up a sheer veil for myself to wear when wandering about on the grounds. Yes, the area for the circus people is well marked and guarded, but still, people can see in. Why am I being so careful? It's that I swear I heard Gully MacFarland's fiddle the other day, working the edge of the crowd. I didn't spot him, and I am sure he could not recognize me, veiled as I was . . . But still, nobody plays the fiddle as well he does. He's supposed to be at sea, but I don't know . . .

Don't bother writing back, for we will be long gone from this town by the time you get this letter. After we hit Philadelphia, the circus will head south for the winter, and I shall leave at that time and head back to Boston to see how things lie. You may tell Ezra that. You may also rest assured that I will be under heavy disguise. How about as a cloistered nun, spending my days mumbling prayers for the world's poor sinners? I haven't done that yet . . .

This time I will be a bit more careful and sign off, with all my love, as . . .

 

Your Russian cousin,

Natasha

 

I am sealing up the letter as I hear a knock on my door.

“Princess! We're on in fifteen minutes, my exquisite Russian rabbit!” shouts Marcello from outside, bringing me out of my reverie.

“Very vell, Marcello,” I say, rising. I put my skirt back on, then check my face and hair in the mirror of my dressing table. I give my corselette a few tugs at the armpits to make it sit better on me before heading out into the sunlight.

“Let us go and entertain zee rabbles.”

Today I have a bit of a shock, make no mistake about that . . .

When I am high up on the wire, the faces of the crowd below tend to blend into a gray mass, but not today. Today, down below, I see broad swatches of color—like sports teams who sit together all decked out in their uniforms.

Sure enough, when I reach the ground, I see that I am right. But it is not adult teams that I spot. No, it is a tournament of local boys' football teams, and they have signs announcing who they are. There's Hyannis in green-and-blue jerseys, and over there is Falmouth, all proud in black and red, and there is—
Oh, God!
It's Plymouth in garnet and gold, and there, standing to the side, is one of their members. He has dark hair and dark eyes, and those eyes are trained right on me. He does not move.

I turn my head and pull my veil across my face as I hurry for the staff exit.

Damn! Did he recognize me? Am I undone?

Something has to be done, as I do not want to run from this kip just yet.

Marcello is waiting for me outside the tent, of course, ready to escort me to lunch. My first impulse is to run to my wagon to hide, but I cannot do that. I've got to fix this.

Marcello and I take our seats as usual at the food wagon and wait for Enrico to dish it out. Sure enough, a small figure in garnet and gold has appeared at the outside rope, looking in at me.
Damn!

“May I say that you are even more beautiful today than when last my poor eyes gazed upon your glorious form,” Marcello says, taking my hand in his and avidly kissing the back of it. “But why do you wear the veil today? To torture your poor Marcello by hiding some of your charms?”

“
Nyet,
Marcello,” I say. “But you must help me vith some-zing, dear fool,” I say, not looking over at the lad.

“You know I would lay down my very life for you, my sweet Russian potato,” he says grandly. “You have only to name the task and I will do it.”

“You see zat boy over zere?” I say, with a gesture of my head. “He has been bothering me. Looking at me funny. Make him go away, please.”

Marcello leaps to his feet, full of manly resolve, and goes over to confront the boy.

“You, there! Go away!” he orders with a shooing motion. “This place is for performers only! Away with you!”

The boy does not move.

“You would presume to disturb the rest of the renowned Russian
artiste
Princess Natasha Romanoff, a member of the Russian Royal Family? Off with you, urchin, before I summon her palace guard. Away!”

I hide behind my veil and pretend to ignore the proceedings. A glass of wine is put in front of me, and I take an elegant, aristocratic sip.

The boy speaks up for the first time.

“Don't worry. I will not betray you.”

When I look again, he is gone.

Damn, damn, damn, and double damn! But then, somehow, deep in my heart, I believe him.

There's trouble. We all know that, for after the final show on our last day in Buzzards Bay, Massachusetts, the ringmaster does not direct the roustabouts to strike the tent, as he usually does. Instead he announces that the circus folk are to gather for a meeting under the Big Top.

Uh-oh . . . This can't be good.

It isn't, as we soon find out. We take seats in the bleachers usually reserved for paying customers and silently regard our plump little ringmaster, Pietro Mattucci, mournfully standing below, his head hung low. Marcello sits to my right, while Rigger O'Rourke sits to my left. I know Marcello wants to order Rigger to take a walk, but he cannot, for we are all equal here. Plus, my ardent Roman swain has seen the well-muscled roustabout in action. Last week we had some trouble with a pack of locals who thought they were tough. After the call of
Hey, rube!
rang out, thanks to the iron fists of Rigger O'Rourke and his lads, the yahoos went home, much wiser and minus a few teeth.

“It tears my heart out to say this, dear ones, but the Montessori and Mattucci Circus must close.”

No!

There is much lamentation and expressions of great sorrow.

No! But why?

“There is no more money,” says Mattucci, his head hanging, his mustaches drooping.

What will we do now?
I hear asked in at least three languages, all of them sounding desperate. Marcello groans and grabs my hand, telling me I should not worry, for he will take care of his little Russian herring, which gets a snort from Rigger.

“Suppose you withhold our pay for a while? I'm sure all would agree to that.”

There is a rumble of agreement, but . . .

“There is no money to pay you,
mi amici,
there is no money at all. I am sorry. We cannot even pay the next town its license fees.”

Marcello's groans are echoed by many in the crowd. True, there are some who could just walk away from here and get another job—the laborers, the roustabouts, and me, for that matter—but for most, this is a disaster. What do you do with a lion? Or a cage full of tigers, for that matter? Some of these people can barely speak English! They are strangers in a strange land. What will happen to poor old Señora Elena? Where will she go?

“Why do we not do three shows a day, Maestro, instead of two?” calls out a hopeful voice. “That would bring in more money, no?”

The ringmaster sadly shakes his head. “Alas, I am sorry, but we tried that once and it did not work. It was too dark for the last show and the people would not come out at night.”

There are no more helpful suggestions, only some sobs.
These good people were looking forward to some rest in their soft winter quarters down south, and so, frankly, was I . . . and Gargantina! What of her? And Balthazar?

I spring to my feet and say, “Signor. Please. Your attentions. Ven zee pippils come to our circus, zey pay, zey vatch our show, and zen zey go home.
But zey still have moneys in zere pockets!
Vy do vee not sell zem some-zing different in zee dark time? Some-zing more suited to zat time of day, and maybe attract a different sort of customer?”

“Explain yourself, Princess Romanoff,” says Signor Mattucci, and all eyes turn to me. I take a deep breath and begin.

“I haf traveled throughout Europe on my vay from Mother Russia to here, and I haf performed in many other circuses. Many of zem had places set off from zee Beeg Top for shows and games . . . and other kinds of performance. I saw zat zose places made a lot of money. In England it vas called zee midway. Zis circus does not haf such a midway, and—”

“If you mean freak shows like the Bearded Lady, the World's Fattest Man, Lizard Boy, never! Never shall the Montessori and Mattucci sink to that level!” He has enough of his innate dignity left to puff up in outrage.