Wild Rover No More: Being the Last Recorded Account of the Life & Times of Jacky Faber (22 page)

“Very well, Miss,” said Higgins. “Lady Godiva it is. For the good of the people and all . . .”

“Higgins . . .” I said, by way of warning. Perhaps I overdid the nobility thing a bit. “Surely you don't think I'll be doing it for my own enjoyment?”

“Of course not, Miss.” Higgins tried unsuccessfully to suppress a smile. “I was merely thinking of your past experience in matters of
le striptease,
as the French so delicately put it. There were several times on the
Wolverine,
involving Mr. Raeburne and Mr. Fletcher, respectively, and then there were those times in the hold of the slaver
Bloodhound,
wherein you traded glimpses of your well-toned body in return for fresh water to ease the suffering of your sisters in captivity in the dark hold of that horrid craft. And then there were the many nude dips in the Mighty Mississippi, to say nothing of the naked dive off the pirate female Cheng Shih's mighty junk,
Divine Wind.
Oh, and there was the performance given before Lieutenant Harry Flashby that involved the careful unpeeling of an Oriental sari. And did I hear that you posed au naturel for the great artist Francisco Goya?”

Higgins often gave me advice as regards my personal safety but never on my conduct in the way of moral behavior. He may consider us fellow travelers, both sinners, and both outside the pale of the usual standards of conduct. We have been through a lot together.

“Thank you, Mr. Higgins, for that very complete summary of Jacky Faber's time in the buff, public-wise,” I said. “And I must admit the truth of it
—
this poor hide of mine has, indeed, been around the block more than a few times, so one would think the novelty might have worn off, but apparently it hasn't. However, for your cheek in pointing it out, you may draw me a bath. The least I can do if they're gonna be squintin' at me bare bum is to make sure it's clean and presentable and my limbs are smoothly shorn.”

He agreed, bless him, and it wasn't long before I was in a fine bath in the laundry tent, head to toe in wonderful sudsy hot water, with Higgins working his magic on my hair.

 

“But just wait till spring, Higgins, when we take the newly refurbished Montessori and Mattucci Grand Circus on the road again. We'll bring Fennel and Bean
—
”

“I'm sure those renowned . . . 
thespians
 . . . will prosper in this venue,” says Higgins with a certain dryness. I know he chokes a bit on that word, preferring less kind descriptions
—
he and I have seen the
great
actors and actresses of our day on the London stage during our recent time in that fair city. “But then again, we all do strut and fret our hour on the stage, don't we, be we grand dame or poor ham actor . . . or impresario of a circus.”

“Thanks for not calling it flea-bitten, Higgins,” I say.

“Actually, I have been quite enjoying myself out here on the hustings, as it were, and have not been bitten by a single flea.”

“They wouldn't dare,” I venture. “What mere insect would presume to bite the hide of the redoubtable Higgins?”

“And I have grown quite fond of the smell of mildewed canvas.”

The spread of canvas above my head is a bit spotty and exhibits none of the taut majesty of a sailing ship's mainsail, but still, it does its job.

“Oh, I have such plans for spring, John!” I say, exulting in both my lovely bath and my plans for the future. “Some monkeys, I think, and a dog act, and we'll hire a professional boxer to take some of the load off poor Gregor.

“And, hey!” I say, my feet propped up on the edge of the tub. “When we go by Clarissa's place on our way down through Virginia, maybe I'll drop in and see her. Old school chums and all that.”

“I don't know if that would be wise, Miss.”

“Umm. You're probably right,” I agree. “Murder of one's hostess not being good form, eh wot? But do you know what would be really choice? If I were to procure from Chopstick Charlie a troupe of howler monkeys and let them loose on the Howe estate. They breed really fast, you know.”

“While it is amusing to think of, I think that it is neither a particularly healthy nor profitable line of thought, Miss.”

“Perhaps not, but the idea of Clarissa and Lord Richard Allen making like monkeys in her bedroom, with a cadre of howlers at the window laughing and hooting away at the amorous pair, is most satisfying to my vindictive mind.”

“Perhaps it is lucky you cannot act upon that bit of vengeance.”

“A pity, yes, but anyway, dear Higgins, back to next season: I think we'll add some more dramatics, such as short plays with Polly Von and the Emerald Players. We'll put on my
Villain Pursues Constant Maiden,
or
Fair Virtue in Peril
 . . .”

“Good Lord, no,” whispers Higgins in horror, his fingers slackening at their work.

Knowing in what low regard Higgins holds my past literary efforts, I press on with wicked delight. “. . . and I have started work on a new one. It's called
The Midshipman Stood on the Burning Deck.
Would you like to hear of it?”

Before he can reply, there is a scratching at the tent flap.

Higgins glances over and says, “I believe your ardent admirer, Marcello Grimaldi, requests admittance. Shall I send him away?”

“No, bid him come in, John. In light of recent developments, I need to talk to him.” The water is murky enough due to soap and my recently sloughed off layer of crud, so I sink down to my chin into its still-warm embrace, leaving my right foot hanging over the edge of the tub, as Marcello enters. He stares astounded at the scene before him, but his tongue does not fail him.

“Ah, behold! The Volga Princess in her fabled bath of the milk of many minks!” he exults, sinking to his knees tubside, mustache all a-quiver. “My eyes shall fall from my unworthy head.”

He glances uncomprehendingly at Higgins placidly stropping his razor and preparing to relieve my lower limbs of the unsightly fur that persists in growing there. Higgins says nothing to relieve his mind, but I do say something that I hope will mollify the lad. Pointing a finger up at Higgins, I say, “You vill, of course, recall zee very jealous Count Yakov Petrovsky. Heem of zee horrible impalements?” I point to Higgins and draw my finger across my throat. “Meester Hee-gans here ees his man.
Capiche?
” Higgins nods in sage agreement to this. Marcello scowls, unmollified, as I continue. “Vee shall not dance zee flamenco tonight, Marcello.”

“No, my sweet Russian wolfhound?” he says, still looking curiously from Higgins to me and not liking it much. “I was beginning to enjoy it.”

He actually does a good job at it. Hey, stick the two of us in the proper garb, put a rose in my teeth and castanets on my fingers, and with the Shantyman strumming away on his guitar and Mairead beating on tambourine, you've got flamenco, rural-America style. All seem to enjoy it.

“No, sveet fool. Tonight my poob-blick demands zat Princess Natasha Annasova Romanoff dance her Famous Fan Dance, and she must bend as zee vill-ow and bow to zeir demands.”

Marcello gasps and sucks in his breath.

“So you mus' prepare zee tent,
caro mio,
” I continue. “Mairead and zee De Graff sisters vill assist me ven I am onstage. And Higgins, too.”

“And your loving and faithful Marcello? What of him? Must he stand outside like a kicked dog?” He looks wounded.

“No, dear one, you shall sell tickets at zee entrance, and ven zee audience ees seated, my brave Marcello vill stand by to see zat no crude ruffian should rise up and give offense to my fragile self during zee performance.”

At that, I lower the lashes and give him the big eyes. “You vill give protections to your poor Slavic rabbit, vill you not, my fine young
acrobato
?”

I guess that nails him, for he gets to his feet and bows, grasping my wet foot and lifting it to his lips.

“Yes, I shall. I swear by the ice water flowing through these lovely blue veins traced on this, the purest of white skin!” he exults as he places hot kisses on the heretofore quite unremarkable appendage, adding to the steam in the tent. “Yes, fear not, Princess. I shall defend you with my unworthy life! I live only for the coming of the night!
Addio!
”

“Zat ees possibly zee worst Russian accent I have ever heard,” says Higgins after Marcello leaves, exhibiting a bit of uncharacteristic sarcasm.

I laugh. “It makes my jaw ache doing it. I'll be glad to stop after this is all over.”

“Do you enjoy playing with him, Miss?”

“Oh, yes, he is ever so much fun, and cute—and handy, too. By letting it appear that he is my consort, the others stay away, and after all, I am promised in marriage to JamesEmerson Fletcher, and though Jaimy is nowhere nearly as ferocious as the fictional Count Petrovsky, I still think he'd be rather miffed if he returned from London only to find me knee-deep in amorous Italian males.”

“I think Lieutenant Fletcher should be rather used to that by now.”

That gets him a look, but I must admit the truth of what he says. Poor Jaimy. I lie back as Higgins's magic fingers continue to massage my scalp.
Ummmm.
But, eventually, it is over.

“Stand, please . . .”

“
Le
trick in
le striptease,
Jac-qui,” my good friend Zoe and fellow member of Les Petite Gamines de Paris dance troupe had said, “is never show them too much too quickly. And as for
le
fan dance, if the dancer is skillful, she never shows them anything at all, the fans covering her up just enough, at just the right time. The men will come together afterward and compare what they saw of her and her parts, and what they think they saw.
Oui, ma petite,
men are silly and stupid, but still we love them, no? Give them a bit of leg, a flash of derrière, they enjoy, so what's the harm?”

She and the other Gamines had been most kind in welcoming me into their company, teaching me the moves I would need for the performances, and I thoroughly enjoyed my time with them. What we did was what is generally known as the cancan
.
Not the classical ballet by any stretch, but still it was a lot of fun. Hey, ruffles shaking on the tail, or the bare tail shaking by itself, what's the difference?

Zoe had given me some advanced advice on the art of showing skin as we enjoyed a very fine aperitif at
Café des Deux Chats, my favorite restaurant during my stay in the City of Light.

“Come, little one,” she said, dabbing her lips and rising, “to my place and I will show you. I have the proper fans.”

Say, I wonder what Zoe and Giselle and the rest of the gang are doing now? Maybe they'd like a tour of America with the Montessori and Mattucci Circus in the spring. Oh, it would be so good to see them all! I shall write to MadamePelletier posthaste, but right now Tondalayo must practice her night moves.

 

We have turned my wagon around such that the door faces into the back lot, allowing us to set up the stage and canvas right against it. That way, I can duck into the safety of my quarters between shows.

The stage has been constructed—about twenty feet wide and six feet deep—and along the front there hangs a red curtain. It will part to show me, standing, wearing nothing but my two strategically placed fans and a smile. There are benches in front to seat about thirty patrons of the arts. The bottom of the canvas tent is fastened down tightly to make sure no randy boys are peeking underneath. Don't mind 'em peeking; but not payin'? Nay, it goes against my nature.

We will have whale-oil torches for light . . . but not too much light—I don't want 'em countin' my ribs, that's for sure. If they could see what they were actually getting in the way of female pulchritude, well, they just might pass on it.

We have a dress rehearsal, where I do my bit in fans and underclothes, and it goes well, with laughter and giggles all around. Eliza regards me, and Mairead and the De Graffsisters—them all decked out in feathers, tights, and net stockings—and offers the opinion, “Sometimes, it is good that my husband is blind, lest his attention wander.”

Mairead laughs, then says, “Don't worry, Eliza, our Enoch may be blind, but he can see us in his mind's eye, clear as day.” The Shantyman says nothing to that but merely smiles and tunes up his fiddle.

So the stage is built and the posters are tacked on every tree in town. We are all excited and ready to go—except, perhaps, for the cowardly star of the show. Oh well, I've faced tougher crowds. We shall see. The worst that could happen is that I'd be laughed off the stage and people would demand their dollars back.
Shudder . . .

 

“Come all ye good gentlemen who appreciate the finest in the art of dance! The Montessori and Mattucci GrandCircus presents Tondalayo, the Queen of the Naked Nile! She walks, she talks, she wiggles on her belly like a snake! All in the best of artistic taste! Just one dollar, gents. Step right up! Do not be shy! There are still a few seats available. Thank you, Sir! I promise you won't regret it! Step right up!”

For my part, in my wagon, I have stripped down to my skin with Higgins's help and then emerge covered in his heavy opera cloak. It has a high collar and a single button at the neck. I position myself in the center of the stage behind the closed curtain and listen to Rigger O'Rourke's patter and the murmur of the crowd. I know the skimpily dressed De Graff sisters are standing to either side of him while he is giving his spiel outside the tent, to get the randy gents in the proper mood, like. An excited Mairead stands next to me, offering encouragement.

“It'll be just fine, Jacky, you'll see.”

“Easy for you to say, Mairead. I'm the one who's standing here all starkers. Prolly fall on my face and disgrace myself.” I am teetering on a pair of high-heeled shoes. I thought they might lend me a little in the way of leggy grace, but I dunno . . .