The Palace Of Curiosities Part 20

'Yes, you have heard tell of our Pandora's Box of mystical entertainments. Prepare to be astonished by the India-Rubber Boy! Prepare to be scandalised by the infamous Dance of Salome, the exotic Eastern Beauty! Dazzled by her voluptuous secrets!'

I thumped the drum and Bill clashed the cymbals as he described the allurements of each act. I peeped through the curtain rigged up to conceal us when we were not on show. It was not a bad crowd this evening: well-dressed swells for the most part, for my husband still managed to maintain a precarious hold on the better cla.s.s of men.

Still, we had our share of rough types in glaring checked jackets, and as for women well, that was a different matter: dollymops full of oyster suppers, not to mention the night-stand women eyeing up potential customers. He had sacrificed any claims to educational improvement with the arrival of Lizzie and her particular talents in the stomach-dance.

'Prepare to be diverted by the entertainments of the Encyclopaedic Man, inked with every story from the Arabian Nights, ill.u.s.trations both saucy and satirical! You shall view the most true and genuine Lion-Faced Woman! What does she hide beneath her veil? All will be revealed: here, tonight!'

I would be out front soon enough. For now I revelled in the delicious luxury of watching them rather than them watching me. I loved to see their eyes, darting to and fro, lips parted with excitement.

'Everything is genuine! No gaffs nor fake freakery in my famed establishment!'

He grasped the chair, rapping his knuckles on the underside of the seat.

'Hard, plain wood!' he yelled, so loud a man in the front row flinched. 'Solid! Here for your inspection! No hidden trapdoors! Let any man approach and test the veracity of this himself!'

They were quiet. One thin lad was jostled forwards by his companions, but shook his head, growing more and more red-faced.

'Not one of you?' said Mr Arroner. 'Your trust is admirable, gentlemen.'

He positioned the lantern beneath his chin and it threw strange darknesses on to his face.

'First, we have something rare,' continued my husband, dropping his voice to a fearsome hiss. 'The Great Non-Descript! You have heard about him. The rumours are about in every salon where men of discernment gather. In every coffee-house where the sensational is freely discussed.'

He lowered his voice even further and every neck craned forwards to hear.

'You have heard whispers regarding his special talents. You know not whether to believe. You will say it is not possible. But see!'

He stood up suddenly and bellowed, causing many of the audience to start back in surprise.

'And seeing, believe! Ah! This famed exhibition is for the stout of heart, not for swooning, weeping, cowardly types. These are wonders unsuited to fainting females and mewling infants! Strong resolve is what we ask for. Are you strong men, brave men, men of firm resolve, who will not flinch from the terrors displayed here tonight?'

'Yes,' they breathed.

'Are there any faint-hearted amongst you?'

'No!'

'Ah, indeed! You are all brave-hearted men. You are not afraid. Oh no, not you. Tonight, I present the world's strangest mystery. The Man With No Name! The Man Without a History!'

They thought it was flannel, but it was the only time I heard my husband approach the truth, and it made me smile. He waved his hands suddenly, shrieked, and everyone jumped, even Bill and myself, despite knowing his showman's style. The audience smiled, elbowing each other for being caught out in such foolishness.

'Ah,' said Mr Arroner sadly, dropping his chin and affecting a mournful expression. 'It seems I was mistaken. See how easily you are frightened. Maybe it is better if we stop this train of events now. There is still time. I shall give you back your money; we shall pretend we never met.'

They shifted uneasily in their seats.

'There is no shame in being too fearful to see this petrifying performance. You can call it off, and perhaps still call yourselves men. What do you say? Shall we shake hands and bid each other goodnight?'

He stuck out his hand; the room was quiet. He flexed his forearm and fisted the air.

'Or shall we stand firm?'

There was a rumble of a.s.sent. We were in luck; it was an obedient crowd. However, this answering murmur did not satisfy him, for he spoke again, louder.

'I said, are you men enough to witness Terror? Are you brave men and true?'

'Yes!' came the response, and he grinned.

'You are fine fellows all. And no monies will be refunded for any future sickening of the stomach,' he added quickly.

'And now! His strange fame has advanced before him. He is the Arcane. He makes the hidden revealed! Stir up your courage, and prepare yourself for the Flayed Man: the Marsyas of Modern Times!'

Abel was steered on to the stage by George, who struck a lucifer and lit the circle of candles, manoeuvring Abel into position in the middle, where he unb.u.t.toned his shirt and removed it. My gaze was drawn to the slick of damp fur fanning across his chest and stomach, and I forced myself to turn away. It was nothing. My husband took the shirt and swung it around his head.

'See!' he cried. 'An ordinary shirt, such as any of you might wear!'

My husband had wanted to grease him with pig-fat and stick him with sequins, but Abel had said no in that quiet way of his, much firmer than any bl.u.s.ter. He did, however, ask for one of Lizzie's shawls to be bundled around his hips, although this seemed a strange affectation for one so plain in his manners.

George held his hand to his mouth in mock-fright, reached into his belt and drew out a knife. He waved it backwards and forwards in the flickering light so all might see the gleam of true steel.

Abel took it at last, lifted it to his nose, sniffed along its length, and then rested it gently at the bulge of flesh on his upper arm. His skin goose-fleshed: pocked as though he had once been plumed with feathers, and each one had been pulled out. He flattened the palm of his hand and pushed. There was resistance: he pushed again and the skin popped like the smack of opening lips, the tongue of metal slipping into this new mouth.

'Oh G.o.d,' gasped a voice.

Abel looked towards the sound, tipped his head to one side, and smiled. Then he returned to his arm, drawing a crimson line of agony from shoulder to elbow. Breath was sucked into a mult.i.tude of throats. Feet shuffled. This was the moment we always feared: the sparking of panic, shouts of murder! The whole crowd kicking back their chairs and running away.

'See!' roared my husband, pointing at Abel. 'There is no blood!'

They looked; they believed; they breathed out. A few souls made nervous exclamations of how they had not been afraid, oh no, not them.

'It's a trick!' ventured one wag.

'It is not!' boomed Mr Arroner. 'Observe!'

The knife finished writing its scarlet name along Abel's arm. He gripped the edges of the gash and pulled the book of himself wide open to a dark red page, lifting his skinned limb for the crowd's inspection. Then, with neither flourish nor showmanship, he placed the point of the blade on to his naked stomach and drove it in.

'He's a b.l.o.o.d.y marvel,' murmured Bill, with the fervour of a convert turning to his new G.o.d.

It was his silence that made it bearable. If Abel had flinched just the once, or drawn in his breath too sharply, it would have been too much. But he worked upon himself with the calm curiosity of a boy who opens up a box of promised sweets, and, finding them uncommonly delectable, must needs sit quiet awhile and enjoy them with his eyes.

So did he let us enjoy him. His calmness at opening his body allowed us to marvel also. He was not mysterious in that trickster way of many freaks whose act is only a flag of smoke: he was beautiful. My husband had taken me on his search for strange companions and I had seen plenty of show-folk stick skewers through their cheeks and tongues. For all their showy strangeness, not one of them matched Abel for oddness. To him, the cutting was as simple as drinking tea, but infinitely stranger.

As I watched, I became aware of a tightness in my throat as a thrilling sensation rose throughout my body. I should not feel this way. It was unbecoming. I was a wife a good wife; I ought to feel this stirring for my husband and for him alone. I endeavoured to wrench my eyes away from the sight of Abel. I looked at the toes of my boots. I studied my nails. I finger-combed my beard, for it always tangled into snags at the earliest opportunity, and then did the same with the long tresses which dangled from my ears.

Whatever I did, I found my gaze drawn back. Although nowhere near as abundant as the hair on my own skin, his chest was covered with delicate black hair; I wondered if it was as soft as it looked. One might find out by touching. Once again, I forced my eyes away, a fierce wash of blood sweeping over my cheeks. I was never more grateful for my fur. I clenched my hands firm and still and waited for my embarra.s.sment to subside. This was wrong. My mind reeled.

'Perfect,' hissed my husband through the curtain, and I startled awake.

'Yes,' I gasped. 'Oh, yes.'

'That's enough for now. Knock those cymbals together, Bill. I'll not see him tired out. Nor our paying guests.'

He screwed his hat back on to his head and stepped back into the centre of the stage to a burst of applause at which he simpered as though it was for himself alone. He pranced up and down, making a fine distraction from Abel, who was gazing at his wounds like a mother on the face of her sleeping child.

I could not stop watching Abel. My imagination danced wildly, and there was a lump of shame in my throat, hard to swallow as a piece of pork gristle. Cheers and catcalls dinned in my ears as George bundled Abel off-stage and placed him on a chair at my side. Lizzie was getting ready for her dance, swathing yard upon yard of satin around her copious frame.

I filled a cup with cordial and offered it to Abel, my hands barely shaking. As I fl.u.s.tered, Abel seemed lost in his own quiet s.p.a.ce. I wondered what it might be like to be somewhere so peaceful. He was tranquil, observing the cut on his arm as it healed up.

'Are you well, Abel?' I asked, my voice a little rough.

It was a foolish question, and I was grateful when he did not appear to have heard. I sat beside him, as enchanted as he by the knitting of his flesh, which was now much progressed. The edges of the wounds had joined and were now red welts, livid as the mark of a lash. A single drop of blood was oozing from the deepest cut on his stomach; he licked his thumb and wiped it away, sighing.

Lizzie swept up to us and twitched her scarf away from where it dangled from Abel's lap.

'You finished with this?' she asked, peering where it had lain.

He blushed, nodding.

'Yes, it seems you have,' she chuckled, and sailed away.

I did not know what she meant by this, but for some reason it created an echoing blush in my own face. I was glad it was obscured by my moustaches. I wanted to speak; I did not know where to start. I thought of the years I had been locked in my own incongruity; how I had yearned to escape that loneliness and imagined the day when I might meet someone as queer as myself. I had pictured the communion which might spring up between us, how we would need no words to explain our companionship.

In truth, there were no words here, but I was flooded with awkwardness. He was seated next to me, but was as distant as India. On the other side of the curtain, my husband was making Bill's pitch. Lizzie was on next, and Abel would need to be ready with his pipe.

'Drink up, Abel,' I said. 'You need to play for Lizzie in a moment.'

'Thank you, Eve,' he said, gazing at me with a warmth that unsettled me even further.

'It is nothing,' I said as carelessly as possible.

He grinned. His dark eyes continued to hold me, and of a sudden I felt as though he was running a wet finger around the sticky bowl of my mind, placing that finger into his mouth and sucking it finger clean. I shuddered. I am a good wife, I reminded myself feebly.

Beyond the draped velvet, Bill capered across the carpet, stretching out the elastic skin of his cheeks and letting go with much play-acting of feigned pain, to the crowd's gales of relieved laughter. Abel continued to stare at me.

'Have we met before?' he said.

'Indeed!' I laughed. 'This morning, in the kitchen!'

He looked into his lap, frowning with some effort I could not understand.

'No,' he whispered, intently. 'Did we not meet before this? Before I came to the troupe?'

'No, Abel. I am sure I would remember meeting someone like you.'

I smiled to show that I meant kindness.

'I forget so many things,' he muttered. 'Sometimes I wish it could be everything.'

He shivered and examined his palms for something that was not there.

'Abel. Drink your water.'

'Oh. Yes.'

He drained the gla.s.s, and as I took it from him, my fingers touched his. The hair on the back of my hand began to stir at once, as though a breeze was running through it, swirling it into curls, and then sweeping up over my wrist, p.r.i.c.kling each hair on my arm into a stand of attention. My eyebrows fluttered; my side-whiskers licked flames across my cheeks, pulling my mouth into the broadest smile I had ever known. I ached with pleasure, and clutched at his hand.

With the clasping of our fingers, the pleasure soared higher. Beneath my bodice my hair writhed across my back and shoulders, over my b.r.e.a.s.t.s; my nipples pinked and sang. At any moment this champagne exhilaration would make my feet leave the ground and carry me across the floor and out of this house; up over the city and far from here: very far and very fast.

Every part of me was on tip-toe, the tingling eddying around my belly and then with the keenness of a blade swooping between my thighs: I gasped at the sudden deep sting and my hand flew away from him. My pelt settled by tiny degrees, flattening slowly against my skin. We sat facing each other, his face as surprised as mine. I had a thousand questions and did not know which to ask first.

'Abel?' I gasped.

My stays were exceedingly tight. I seemed to be struggling for breath within their steel cage.

'Abel's not bad,' said my husband at my shoulder, so suddenly it made me start. 'But we'll make a better showman of him yet.'

My breast heaved and I prayed he had seen nothing. But he was ignoring me. I was never so relieved. This evening could not be paralleled for strangeness.

Bill made his final bow, snapping the skin of his thighs and cartwheeling back behind the curtain to a burst of clapping. My husband nodded ready? at Lizzie. She nodded back, and he stepped out before the audience once more.

'Who is here for something educational?'

My husband winked so hard I thought his eye might disappear into the bowl of his head. The crowd raised their beer-pots and cheered.

'Who would enjoy something a little edifying?' he leered.

The roars grew in strength. Bill looked at me and pulled a face. Lizzie saw it and pinched his ear.

'Less of that,' she growled. 'I'm on. Get those cymbals ready.'

'Get off, Lizzie,' Bill yelped, clutching his wounded ear, but was quick to obey her.

I was glad everyone was so busy, for I was sure the delight I had felt upon touching Abel was written clearly upon my body, fur or no fur.

'A Bible story, perhaps, gentlemen? And of course, ladies?'

He steepled his hands in mock-prayer, and the laughter washed up to our toes.

'And now! Will you welcome the Mystery of the East! The Wonder of the Harem! The Voluptuous! The Murderous! Salome!'

Feet stamped; beer spilled; my husband sent George to the door so no late-comers might squeeze into the room and cheat him of a shilling. I picked up a tambourine and shook it, feebly, for my arm still tingled. Lizzie waded forward, head veiled and wrapped from chin to ankle in a length of red satin, the sort used for dressing lampshades. She seemed to stretch from one side of the room to the other.

She lifted her great arms, joining her palms in a point to the ceiling. Clapped her hands, and the chatter of the company was slapped in half. Clapped them again, and all held their breath at this woman-mountain come before them. Then she began to roll her hips in a slow circle. The men's eyes rolled with her, hooked to the bounty of flesh that quaked before them.

I counted four gyrations: on the fifth she slung her hip sharply to the left, and I smacked my tambourine; then she swung to the right, to another crash from me and a jangle from the heavy girdle of bra.s.s coins around her middle. The crowd huzzahed. She let them cheer; but before the noise had died clapped her hands once more and silenced them completely.

Next, she swiped away the scarf and revealed her face. They could not help it: all gasped at her. No mere fat lady of a hundred cheap side-shows but the true Salome: long ringlets trailing into the squeezed crease of her enormous b.r.e.a.s.t.s, jewels glued across her forehead, rouged lips, eyes smudged with black grease, face stained the brown of the richest gravy. I had oiled her hair, smoothed on her paint, rubbed sunshine into her cheeks, would have been speared with jealousy if she had allowed anyone else to touch her.

She held her audience an aching moment longer and then billowed forward. The satin trickled over her belly and made her b.r.e.a.s.t.s shimmer.