‘What does Jonas Ochoa know? Did you tell him?’
‘Of course I did. She’s Indian, I said. She’s a Digger. He says he’s never seen a Digger like that before.’
‘You tell him what Papa says. She’s just like us only with hair.’
‘Then he says that’s what I mean, the hair, he says, human beings don’t have hair. Not like that, they don’t. Monkeys do. Bears do. Wolves do, dogs do. But not human beings. Not like that.’
‘He has a point.’
Rates read aloud from a newspaper article to the man sitting across from him in the pink parlour.
‘This mysterious animal is one of the most extraordinary beings of the present day . . . — you see, he knows what he’s about, the man’s a giant in his field,’ gesturing towards a large folder that lay on the low table between them, ‘and his examination was completely thorough. I have it here, in writing—’ Rates peered down short-sightedly at the newspaper. ‘His medical opinion is that she is the result of the pairing of a human being with a simian. See! She has features in common with the orang-utan . . .’
‘Better make your mind up,’ the other man said, a big-boned, yellow-haired showman with a broken-nose. ‘You’re calling her the Bear Woman, and he’s saying she’s a monkey. She can’t be both.’
‘Let’s keep it just this side of credibility, shall we?’ said Rates with a lofty smile. ‘There are bears in those mountains but I never heard of an ape in Mexico.’
‘Of course there are,’ said the blond man. ‘There’s monkeys.’
‘But no large apes.’
‘Not as far as we know.’
‘I’ve had interest from other quarters, you know, Beach,’ Rates said. ‘Barnum’s after her. Did you know?’ He glanced up. ‘And here – yes, here it is.’ Rates slapped the paper. ‘And don’t forget this Mott’s at the very top of his – here, says he’s never seen anything like her – see, see, something absolutely new, he says, absolutely new, unknown to science.’ He put the paper aside. ‘Science!’ He turned his pale steady gaze onto Beach. ‘You see my dilemma.’
‘Not at all,’ said Beach. ‘Mine’s the better offer, and it’s that simple.’
Rates pursed his lips and tried to look thoughtful. ‘Yours may be the better offer, but Mott’s working in the interests of knowledge. Science,’ he said reverently. ‘Of course I have to take that into account.’
‘No, you don’t.’ Beach laughed and stood up. ‘Who cares about science? She doesn’t. The girl wants a good time.’ He laughed again. ‘The girl bit does, who knows about that other thing? Ask her. What’s she want?’
‘She doesn’t know what she wants.’ Rates drained his glass. ‘She wants to get around a bit and see the world.’
‘She’ll do that with me. Least she’ll see Milwaukee,’ Beach said.
Rates sighed. ‘She’s a good girl,’ he said. ‘Does the very best she can, you know, nice nature. Open to suggestion, you know, very helpful. You say try this, she tries it. No nonsense about the girl. I want her treated right.’
‘No question about it. Shake then.’ They stood and shook hands. Beach towered over Rates. ‘Time of her life’s coming,’ he said. ‘This time next month she’ll be drinking champagne.’
They went down to see her straight away. She was alone. She knew what they’d been talking about. Twice Beach had visited her backstage after the show, filling the dressing room with his bulky self-made air.
‘My dear Julia,’ Rates said, taking small steps towards her and clasping both her hands in his, ‘I can’t tell you how privileged I feel to have been a party to your great success.’
Beach smiled over Rates’s shoulder, his eyes an eerie pale blue.
‘And now,’ said Rates, ‘I feel a parting of the ways is nigh.’
She looked Beach in the eye.
‘Mr Beach has a proposition,’ said Rates.
‘I thought so,’ she said.
Her eyes made Beach shiver, she could tell, but he showed no sign of disquiet. What to make of him? Caramel-coloured coat. Gold cravat. Carrying his hat. Only thing she could do was trust instinct. He came forward. His cheekbones were shiny ridges, his grin made him look like Punch. ‘Cleveland,’ he said. ‘Buffalo. Chicago. Lenox, Massachusetts. Milwaukee. Cincinnati. I have these lined up for you already.’
She laughed nervously. ‘I don’t know where they are.’
‘Want me to show you a map?’ He patted his pockets comically. ‘Don’t have one on me right now, but I sure will next time I see you.’
‘And the contract?’ she said.
The girls would have been proud of her.
On the steps Beach lit a cigar, shaking his head in wonder. A light rain began falling on the steaming pavement, and a breeze blew up from the river. ‘The strangest thing,’ he said, gazing down the street to the carriages waiting in line. ‘The face, the face . . .’
‘The face indeed,’ Rates echoed, scratching his smooth bulby chin.
‘Impossible to comprehend.’ Beach put his collar up and hunched his shoulders. ‘There’s a kind of – no, the word wonder isn’t right – she is so – completely—’ He shook his head again.
Rates completed the sentence. ‘Inhuman.’ The rain was turning to sleet. ‘Went down a charm in New Orleans,’ he said, ‘thought she was the rougarou.’
‘As if the head of a wolf or a boar—’ said Beach.
‘I know.’
For a moment they stood in silence.
‘Beggars belief,’ said Beach. ‘I tell you, gives you the shivers. Puts the fear in people. And then she opens her mouth – the mouth of Cerberus! – and this sweet little voice comes out!’
Rates gave a short laugh. ‘And her English is perfect. She’s not at all bad, is she?’
‘She’s a sensation,’ said Beach, ‘that’s what she is. She’s a good girl, I can work with her.’
All gone on the night train. The goodbyes said. Good luck, sweetheart, we’ll no doubt see you again, that’s the way of it.
New place, new people. They were going to Cleveland on the train, and after that a long tour. They’d ride in wagons. She’d have one of her own, Beach said. He paid better than Rates. The contract ran till Christmas when they would return to New York, and after that, well . . .
‘I plan on making you a famous lady,’ Beach said, ‘yes I do. I will get the best deal going for you every single time, nothing more, nothing less.’
And all in writing.
‘Before we leave New York,’ she told Beach, ‘I want to ride the streetcar. And I want to go to church.’
‘I don’t think there’s time, Julia,’ he said. He was dashing off somewhere.
‘Why not? I’m not doing anything.’
‘Yes, you are,’ he said. ‘You’re guarding your mystery.’ He’d picked the phrase up from Rates. ‘If you go out just any old time people get used to seeing you. They stop paying. Simple as that. Think about it. It’s your livelihood, Julia. You’ll never want for anything as long as you live, but