The Transformation of Bartholomew Fortuno: A Novel (17 page)

Barnum walked around the desk, placed his arm around me, and walked me forward. His armpits were damp through his jacket, his odor slightly feral. At the door, he hesitated.

“No,” he said. “I don’t think that will be necessary. But before you go, Fortuno, there is one more thing.”

“Of course.”

“Since this cat is already out of the proverbial bag, I’d like you to go again to the Chinaman’s for me.”

This was not the outcome I’d wanted, not in the least.

“Next week I might be able to manage,” I said haltingly, hoping that by then I could find some way to avoid the task.

Barnum pulled out a sack of coins. “Actually, I was thinking of today. Tell you what, Fortuno. I’ll arrange to have a carriage waiting on the other side of Ann Street after five. I’ll have Fish tell the others you’re excused from your shows this evening. So toddle along and bring the package to me as soon as you’ve collected it.”

I’d managed the trip once. Perhaps the second time would be a bit easier. But I already felt the pinch of the tightrope I was walking. I suspected that it might not be so easy, in the end, to please both Barnum and Iell.

A
T FiVE O’CLOCK EXACTLY
, I
SAT IN A
private hack on my way to the Chinaman’s store. This time, the traffic flowed smoothly. We slowed down only once along the way, at Chatham Street, where the latch at the rear of a hay wagon had come unhinged and bales of hay spewed across the avenue, an irresistible temptation to some of the less well-fed trolley horses. It took twenty minutes to navigate the mess, but soon we were on our way again.

The Chinaman’s building looked quiet—too quiet—when we finally arrived, so I had the cabbie drive back and forth past the storefront until I caught sight of the proprietor’s head bobbing past the window.

I banged my cane on the ceiling. “This should do.”

As I got out, another Chinese man, humped over and wearing a skullcap and a dirty red jacket with a dragon on the back, came running.

“No stop! No stop here!” When the driver didn’t move, the man in the street started pounding on the side of the cab with a hickory stick.

“It’s okay,” I yelled to the driver. “Drive to the end of the block. I’ll meet you there when I’m finished.”

The stench of the trash piled in front of the rickety building gagged me, and I swatted away mosquitoes the size of horseflies that had gathered near the front door. My whole body shuddered. This really had to be the last time I did this. Ridiculous idea to involve me anyway. Surely someone sturdier could be sent to retrieve the package. I should be onstage now, in my element.

The front door stuck, and I had to give it a swift kick to open it. Inside, the stink of pickled onions assaulted my senses.

“No now,” the Chinaman snapped, but when he saw who it was he wiped his hands on his apron and gave me a welcoming wave. He moved aside a jar full of pig snouts sitting on the counter and motioned me forward.

I held back, not wanting to move too near for fear of touching something unsavory. The first time I was here I’d not noticed how the ceiling above us sagged. Now I feared that at any moment the roof might tumble down.

The Chinaman wagged his head and smiled a toothless smile. Seemingly in need of more illumination, he tried to light the lamp on the counter but the wick sputtered, so he hauled up a hand lantern from the floor. I flinched. I’d hated hand lanterns ever since I was a boy, and seeing it flicker to life felt like a bad omen.

“I need the same thing as before. Do you remember? Last week I picked up a package for Mr. Barnum.”

“Money?” He stared at me and waited.

I pulled Barnum’s bag of coins from my vest pocket and tossed them onto the counter. The Chinaman stuck his hand in the bag, riffling through the coins, the late day sunlight streaming in from outside.

“You wait.” He shuffled through a slit in the tattered curtain, leaving me alone in the stuffy room. I shoved open the window at the front of the store for a bit of air. Outside, in the growing dusk, a handful of Chinese boys in gray jackets and skullcaps loitered near the man who’d refused to let my carriage wait. One boy etched Chinese figures on the wall across the way with a burnt stick. Next to him, another drew a rough outline of a dragon with a limp bird in its mouth. They seemed to be preparing for some kind of ritual. Right at that moment, Emma was most likely performing in my stead. How disappointing for the audience. I sighed. I hadn’t missed a performance in years.

I nearly jumped from my skin when the Chinaman grabbed the top of my shoulder with spindly fingers. In his free hand, he held a small package identical to the last one I’d picked up for Barnum.

“What you ask for.” He handed Barnum’s package to me.

I stuffed it into the side pocket of my trousers and turned to leave.

“Wait,” the Chinaman said. “Another thing. A thing your heart want.”

I did not understand until he held a dingy muslin bag in front of my eyes. A piece of tattered drawstring held the thing closed.

“A gift for you.”

“What? No. No gift.” I recoiled. “I want nothing else from you.”

“You take.” He dangled the disgusting thing in front of my nose, then grabbed my wrist and pressed the bag into the palm of my hand. “Eat and true self come alive.”

I thrust the thing at him, wiping my hands against my pants.

“I don’t want to eat that! Good God, man.”

The Chinaman took me by the lapels and pulled my face close to his, his breath so foul I turned my nose to the ceiling to avoid it. With surprising speed, he snatched the pouch from my hand, shoved it into my coat pocket, and jostled me out the door.

It took me a moment to catch my breath. I could not believe that the Chinaman had manhandled me so! I looked around for a sympathetic soul, but the boys who’d been hanging about had mysteriously disappeared. In fact, the entire block looked deserted. Yet as I slogged to the carriage along a broken walk of bricks and soot, I could feel a thousand eyes watching me. What a relief to crawl into the covered carriage, safe again, and on my way home.

It wasn’t until we turned onto Broadway that I felt secure enough to pull Barnum’s package from my pocket. Whatever it was, it wasn’t worth the bother. I held it up and shook it. Only the fear of what Barnum would do if he found me out stopped me from tearing off the wrapping and looking inside. As for the other thing—the mysterious gift—I left that package well enough alone. Whatever it was, I’d dispose of it the moment I returned.

Inside the Museum, I weaved through the dinner crowds—how wonderful to hear gasps as I passed—and made a beeline for Barnum’s office. Thinking only to rid myself of his damned package, I rapped
vigorously on Barnum’s door. No one was there, so I slipped in and left Iell’s package on the desk and then hurried upstairs.

I didn’t even touch the sack that the Chinaman had forced on me until after I had washed up and changed my shoes. Then I dug the thing out of my pocket and pitched it into the trash bin.

A minute later, I fished it out. If I couldn’t find out what was in Iell’s package, at least I could satisfy my curiosity about this one. Fumbling with the greasy strings, I reached in and lifted out a tiny black root. It was slightly bulbous at its base and shaped like a deformed man. Disgusting. I held it to my nose and sniffed. It reeked of decaying mushrooms. The last thing I would ever do was eat the thing. True self be damned.

“Fortuno? You decent?” The sound of Alley’s voice made me jump.

I stuffed the root into its bag, tossed it on my étagère, and opened the door. The hall light showed that the bruises on Alley’s face had turned mottled and black. I retreated enough to give him room to duck beneath the doorframe, backing farther away when he passed.

“My God, that face of yours looks bad.”

“Came by to see if yer okay,” Alley mumbled. “Matina was worryin’ ’cause yer missin’ tonight’s shows.”

“Little stomach virus is all. Nothing of concern.” I thrust my chin toward the oversized settee where Matina always rested. “Want to sit? You really should tell me what happened. Maybe I can help.” I shoved open a window and tucked a pillow onto the sill, forming my usual perch. I crawled up, put my feet on the lintel, and sighed despite myself. My legs ached from trekking around the city like a servant. If Alley hadn’t been there, I’d have fetched a pot of hot water and soaked my feet.

Slumping down on the settee, Alley dug behind his back and rescued the piece of lace Matina had been tatting. It was slightly misshapen, with jelly marks across one edge. He set it gingerly on the side table. Then he lifted both eyebrows, his way of asking for one of my good cigars.

“Be my guest.”

He pulled a cigar from the side table’s drawer, bit off the end, and
lit it with a long match, the shooting sparks from the phosphorus making him grimace. It crossed my mind to tell Alley about my trips to Chinatown. I could really use someone to talk things over with, even if Alley rarely gave advice. But again, he’d feel obligated to share whatever I told him with Matina, and then she’d want to know why I hadn’t said something to her myself.

“The Copperheads,” Alley said, out of the blue. “The police says I helped them set off those fires in town. Ya know what I’m talkin’ about?”

I knew all about the fires. And the Copperheads. They were a ragged bunch of Northern Democrats whose idea of preserving the Union was to prolong the war. A few months ago, a ringleader named Robert Cobb Kennedy masterminded a plot to burn down New York by torching a dozen hotels and other establishments while simultaneously lighting bales of hay floating in the harbor. The first fire started on the third floor of the Lafarge House, but the Fifteenth District put out the blaze. Then small fires shot up at the Winter Garden and the Fifth Avenue Hotel. Later, the police found evidence that someone had planned fires at the St. James, the Metropolitan, Tammany, the Belmont, the Hanford, and even the St. Nicholas and the Astor. Had the plan been pulled off, the fire brigades could have never stopped it, but most of the would-be arsonists ended up being tossed out of the hotels for the cut of their coat or their lack of a shave well before they’d time to light their kindling. Pity for them they didn’t have Barnum’s skill in putting on a show.

“And they beat you? The police?”

“Caught up with me three blocks from here.” He flicked his cigar ash into the unlit fireplace and gave me a tilted smile. “Not easy for someone like me to hide, ya know.”

“I don’t understand why they’re bothering you. They hung those fires on that poor Kennedy fellow last March, and the affair ended then. Why would the police suspect you now?”

“Someone left a new tip. Said they seen a freak that night pourin’ phosphorus over a bed at the St. James and were afraid to come forward till now.”

I slid off the windowsill. “Saw a freak? Only that? No physical description?”

“You know cops. They figured it had to be someone like me.”

“You need to tell Barnum,” I said, walking to my étagère and fingering the dirty sack with the root inside. “Don’t tempt fate, my friend. The police haven’t been the same since the Draft Riots.”

“Nah,” Alley said, getting up off the divan, “I can handle it.” He walked to the window, and when he passed me, he glanced at the sack in my hand. Quickly, I opened up the top drawer and dumped the thing inside.

“As long as you were in the Museum that night, I suppose you’ve nothing to worry about.”

Alley looked out the window down into the street. “I did do a job for them once.” He half turned and gave me a sheepish look. “Guarded a meeting, but nothin’ else.”

“The cops will have to prove you were near the fires or they’ve got nothing.”

Alley leaned out into the night sky. “Moon’s up,” he said. He shifted his weight back and forward, one foot to the other. He often fidgeted like this, the movement reflecting some flame inside him. Quite honestly, I suspected the worst. Not that Alley was an evil man, but God knows he had his rages. Perhaps arson helped him quiet the fires within.

“If you need an alibi—”

“Nah, don’t worry, Fortuno.” Alley flicked the ash of his cigar out the window and came back into the room. “By the way, Fish won’t let you into that show. Sorry, friend. Tried my best. But I brung you a gift.”

Alley rummaged in his pocket and pulled out a crinkled broadside that he set on the table and straightened out as best he could.

“These here are tacked up all the way down Broadway. Thought you might like to see one.”

Might like to see one? I could barely contain myself as I snatched the broadside out of Alley’s hands and held it an inch from my nose.

Quite a captivating broadside. But, oh! Iell would only be here through July 31!

“Did you see this?” I asked, stabbing a finger at the date. “This is only a few months away. I knew her engagement was limited, but this is no time at all!”

Alley shrugged. “What are you gettin’ all riled up over? She’s a woman with a beard, Fortuno. Nothin’ more than that.”

“Come, come, now. Help me think how to get into her show. Maybe you could start a little fire in the hall to draw Fish away from the door.”