"I’m coming!" My groping fingers finally succeeded in locating and capturing a pair of the coins hiding in my purse, and I placed the fee in the dirt-caked palm proffered to me. "Right then, pretty. Enjoy the sights," its owner said, baring a rot-and-grime smile. I made some gesture of thanks, and hastened to join the other dancers.
The girls were chattering excitedly, but I looked on my surroundings with increasing disappointment. The colors of the tents had once been brilliant and garish, but were now sick and faded, the material patched visibly in several corners. A pair of jugglers were well into their routine, which consisted as much of ribald jests as it did of actual feats of dexterity. One of the tents was painted with those ostensibly mystical symbols with which all fortunetellers announce their dubious trade. Throbbing drums echoed from another, and I peered through the open flap to see a ragged-haired girl in bright, filmy clothes, writhing her hips with an expression of complete boredom on her face. The latter was lost on her audience, who cheered and hollered lewdly in response to her indifferent display. I turned away in disgust--not from the sensuality of the dance, for I was hardly an innocent in such matters, but from her inability to maintain even a facade of delight in it. Art without joy is merely torture, one of my countless instructors once said, and I have always believed it.
The largest of the tents remained closed, with men at the doorway to eradicate any chance of entry. I wondered what could possibly be so important...
The group of dancers was already splitting off into various directions according to mutual interests. I lagged behind, wishing heartily that Jules had not needed to finish work on the new backdrops. It had been several days since I last saw him, and the ache of separation was begging for the release that only his arms could give. But wishing would not conjure Jules to me, so I set off alone, determined to make the most of what little the fair had to offer.
Of the various acts set up in the tents, only two stirred my approval: a contortionist who bent herself into positions that made even my ballet-trained limbs wince, and a small troupe of tumblers who performed their act with both zeal and technical prowess. Finally, at a loss for occupation, I used another of my dearly hoarded coins to cross the fortuneteller’s palm. She uttered all the typical nonsense: dark handsome strangers and great journeys and important messages; the sort of prophesy positive enough to ensure complacency but vague enough to be forgotten if it failed to pass. I left her ostentatiously occult pavilion in absolute irritation. It wasn’t real, any of it--oh yes, the performers themselves possessed some measure of talent, but the entire aura of the place rang false. They claimed to be Gypsies, but if there was any real Romany blood in them then I’m the Maid of Orleans. No, they were more like a poor production of Carmen: all bright clothes and provocative attitudes, enough to fool those who knew no better. It wasn’t so much the illusion itself that bothered me, but the spiritless and obvious manner in which it was carried out. Once again I found myself longing for my Jules, that I might have something real amidst this fabrication...
"Here ye, here ye!" The voice bellowed from the direction of the largest tent; its owner proved to be a rangy man with greasy black hair and a jutting chin. "See the eighth wonder of the world, the mysterious Living Corpse! Stand amazed at the creature with the wisdom of an angel and the face of a demon! Step right up, the viewing will commence in a quarter hour!"
I’d forgotten about that--it was the reason Jacqueline and the others had wanted to attend this fair to begin with. There was some rumor...something about a horrible beast kept locked up on the grounds. I dutifully trotted over to the great tent, but I held no great hopes. Probably some bad actor made up to look like Quasimodo, I thought.
Some of the other girls had already staked out an area near the front of the curtained stage, and I discreetly insinuated myself back into the group.
"The fortuneteller said a gift was coming my way," one of them was saying with exuberance. "It must be from Pierre--I know it! He’s been promising me a surprise for weeks--"
"Except Pierre can barely afford to buy bread, let alone great gifts," snorted Felicité, one hand possessively sliding down her mink stole, a token from her latest conquest. "Really, Marie, you ought to be more particular."
"Oh, Felicité, don’t be such a prude!" Jacqueline laughed. Felicité took offense to that and did not hesitate to remind our unspoken ringleader that she was no more virginal than the rest of the girls. But it was hard to live up to Jacqueline’s standards; she would take anyone to her bed regardless of social status or (it was rumored) even gender. Moreover, she took pride in her reputation and did not hesitate to laugh at girls like Felicité, who weighed her admirer’s potential by his pocketbook, or myself, who demanded proper treatment from a man before I granted privileges of the flesh.
"I think she’s right," another girl dared question Jacqueline’s authority. "There’s no sense wasting one’s time on a man who doesn’t...listen, do you hear that?"
We all stilled at once, our attention called to the soft strains of a violin. I’ve spent my life in the study of dance, but I must admit I know little in the way of musical theory. Yet just as even the layman can tell the difference between a mighty cathedral and a simple hut, so I became stunned by the purity of the music, the mastery of that as-yet unseen virtuoso which was undeniably beyond anything I had heard before...or have since. Mon Dieu, I thought, what is an artist like that doing among these pretenders?
The greasy-haired man, apparently the head of this troupe, stepped out onto the curtained stage, his arms thrust out dramatically.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he proclaimed grandly, "we have a special treat for you, a rare find that I, Marcello, am proud to have discovered. Beyond this curtain is a most extraordinary creature--the cleverness of Hermes, the artistry of the Muses, and the visage of Hades itself. I give you the walking dead man, the Living Corpse...Erik!"
The curtain was pulled aside revealing an immense cage taking up the majority of the dais, shadowed despite the lamps spaced throughout the pavilion. Its occupant seemed unaware of us. His back was to the crowd and he seemed entirely lost in his music, for we could now see it was he who produced the exquisite notes that echoed underneath Marcello’s diatribe.
"An amazing story, the life of this Erik...French by birth, though he speaks a dozen tongues as fluently as if he was native to them. His wretched mother drove him away--why, you shall soon see--and he wandered throughout the continent, gleaning wisdom from every corner of the world. No field of study lays outside his expertise--music, composing, architecture, science...perhaps even darker, more forbidden arts. Such achievements won him the attention of the Shah of Persia, who commissioned a fine palace ringed by a maze of mirrors. But the king was jealous of his new residence, and passed a sentence of death on its creator. He escaped--unfortunate for the guards who died in his place, but lucky for Marcello, eh?" The violin ceased its achingly beautiful song, and its owner lowered it with a simple yet strangely graceful gesture.
"You wonder, do you not, why a man of such ability is kept under lock and key, why he performs in Marcello’s company. Ah, my friends, that is Satan’s curse, for the mark of evil is upon him! Behold the stain that mars his art--Erik, show your face!"
The man in the cage remained silent and still as a mountain, his shoulders hunched in tension and his face resolutely turned away. Peering into the darkness, I felt a twinge of repugnance. He was dressed in rags, this unsung Mozart...and through them I could perceive the stripes of a beaten slave.
"Come now, monsieur," Marcello goaded, "you’ll disappoint our audience. There’s nothing remarkable about your backside!"
Jacqueline’s brash guffaw cut through the silence, but the rest of us were caught in the net of anxiety. I was aware of the increasing apprehension that something was terribly wrong here, some dark story which lay untold beneath the veneer of showmanship...
The fair’s leader barked something offstage; two muscular men entering the enclosure answered him. They bestrode the caged man and each seized an arm, hauling him to his feet. A metallic ripple accompanied the motion; I had not noticed before he was shackled at the wrists and ankles.
The man called Erik fought his captors, but he was outnumbered and outweighed. The two strong men forced him to face the audience; one clutched his hair (which, I could now see, consisted of a few erratic wisps) and jerked his head away from his chest.
I need not describe that sight, monsieur. You have borne witness to it yourself...and you know words would be useless.
The ballet girls around me were shrieking and making a terrific scene, but I neither made motion or sound. If I were inclined to be vain, I suppose I would say that I sympathized with him instantly, but truth be told I think I was simply too shocked to react in that first instant.
"Dreadful, is it not? Been this way since birth, he has...whether he was whelped by the devil or simply cursed by him, only his mother knows for certain..."
I ceased to register Marcello’s eerie narrative; I could only gaze dumbfounded at the perverse answer to my peevish boredom. For he was real, this Erik: the scars of his face and body were only too vivid. But what convinced me more than anything else were his eyes--eyes the color of molten silver, fierce and bright as storm clouds streaked with lightning. He had gone limp in his captor’s arms, but his eyes remained defiant as they stared out at the mob with undisguised loathing...
...And fixed directly on me.
The world around me both shuddered and stopped; I became uneasily conscious of the fact that my inactivity was making me stand out against the hysteria surrounding me. The anger and hatred retreated into the background of his gaze, and a puzzled curiosity came to the fore. There was an unusual intelligence in his scrutiny and I began to feel as if I was the caged exhibit and he the spectator. But I refused to look away; some strange quirk of pride made me determined to meet his ravaged face and intense stare with composure. Again the silver eyes shifted, this time into respect and...I can not be certain, but he seemed almost thankful for my equanimity. Oddly enough, that gratitude proved too much for me, and I averted my gaze. But I could still feel him looking at me; I could feel it even after the curtain was drawn around his prison. Even now, separated by miles and years, I sense it, monsieur...I still feel Erik’s eyes.
* * * * * * * * * *
"It’s almost insulting," Jacqueline was saying as we left the fair, "I spend hours at a time getting myself in order, and someone like that can draw crowds without even trying."
"The difference is, I don‘t think he enjoys being looked at," I answered softly. I couldn’t stop thinking of those eyes...
"Nonsense," she snorted, "it’s the best people like that can hope for--why do you think places like that exist to begin with? You needn’t be so naive, Adele--that bit with the strong men? All a performance, I’d wager any amount..."
"My ma doesn’t like freak shows," one of the younger girls piped up. "She says good Christians have no business going out and staring at those who’ve done nothing other than look different."
"I don’t mind telling you, your ma is a priggish, tight-lipped zealot," Jacqueline retorted.
I didn’t hear the other girl’s response, for I had begun to deliberately lag behind the group. The others didn’t notice my absence, a fact that, sadly, caused me no surprise. I was part of their circle only in the broadest sense, tolerated and treated with kindness, but never received with any real affection. I was not outgoing like Jacqueline, or fashionable like Felicité, or even lively like Marie. Having no real identity or mark which made me stand out, I was relegated to the background of our society, known for nothing except a slightly stronger devotion to my craft and a reputation only slightly less infamous than that of the average stage girl.
I waited until the other dancers were well out of sight and hearing, then I resolutely turned my steps back towards the site of the fair. I was determined to see Erik again, driven by the need to puzzle out the mystery surrounding him. I wanted to get close to him, speak to him, determine if he was really capable of all Marcello claimed. But most of all...I wanted to ask how he had come to such a mean state; why a man of such talent and pride was reduced to imprisonment in a mummer’s carnival...
I did not go through the fair again, for by now the grounds were clear of spectators, but instead skirted its outer boundaries to the largest tent. As I neared, the weeping notes of a violin stirred the air, and I let them guide my feet. The cage was exposed on this side of the pavilion, unsheltered save for a few trees, which cloaked my approach. I was within sight of his shadow and taking care to be stealthy...and then I heard the voice, and my world was shaken for the second time that night.
How can I describe it? A sound pure as crystal, warm as velvet, soft yet strong like silk. My knees must have given out but I scarcely noticed, as I was enthralled by the power of the reaction that ethereal tenor evoked. I could feel the blood rushing through me in my head, my heart…the place between my legs. The breath was hot and thick as it passed through my lips in shuddering gasps, and my mouth tingled with the desire to taste flesh. One of my hands was knotted in the material of my cloak; the other clutched at a bodice and corset that was too tight, too confining….Only a lingering trace of inhibition prevented me from rending the fabric with my hands and standing naked to the sky like a pagan…
It disturbs you to hear such things spoken of, doesn’t it monsieur—particularly by an old woman such as myself? Forgive me, but you did ask that I not spare your feelings. I think you must know these things, as indelicate as it is to discuss them. You couldn’t know how his voice made me feel; you wouldn’t know even if you had been more kindly disposed towards him….You think it was sinful, to feel that way when he sang? Perhaps it was…but I cannot believe that.
The song abruptly halted, stilled by the rusty shriek of an opening gate, and the sudden silence left me dazed and vaguely dissatisfied. My awareness of my surroundings returned to me and I now saw Marcello’s form entering the cage. His hand clutched a wooden rod, and the sight of it made me sick with foreboding. My apprehension was quickly justified, for without preamble he struck his captive soundly across the shoulders.
"That’s for your insolence," the barker snapped. "I had five people demand a refund thanks to that little display of yours—think you’re too good for Marcello’s troupe, do you?"
"It’s your own fault, limiting me as you have," Erik spat with an eloquence that left me in no doubt of his mental ability. "I could pull twice the crowds of that charlatan of yours, were I allowed proper use of my hands…"
The proposal only resulted in another blow. "You think I’m stupid?" Marcello demanded. "I know full well what you’re capable of, Monsieur Diable; you needn’t think you can trick me into giving you opportunity to leave your position here!"
"I have no need for tricks where you’re concerned." The tilt of his head gave him the dignity of a king, beaten and debased though he was, and the sight of such inherent nobility touched me greatly. "You caught me in a moment of weakness, but I always take care to learn from such mistakes."
"Arrogant cur!" The cane punctuated the epithet. "I ought to beat you to death for your constant presumption—"
"Well then?" The abject misery in Erik’s voice was so sudden and so absolute I had to clap one hand over my mouth to avoid moaning in empathy.
"Oh no, monsieur," Marcello said with sudden menace, "You won’t get away from me that easily. Nobody pays to see a dead corpse, after all…No, I can think of other ways to make you more tractable…" He raised the cane again, but angled down at the last second to strike not Erik’s back, but the violin still cradled in his hands.
"No!" I don’t know how my cry was heard over the discordant splintering of wood or Erik’s scream of inhuman rage, but suddenly both men were staring at me. Erik’s face was even more contorted in grief, his eyes dull with loss as he held the shell of his instrument in numb hands…and yet somehow, the shock of recognition still registered.
"You—" Even his voice had gone numb somehow, as if the destruction of one instrument had rendered the other lifeless.
Marcello sneered disdainfully. "Off with you, girl," he jeered, "or I’ll lock you in with it."
I turned heel and fled, not from terror of that threat but from the fear that if I stayed they would see the hunger, the passion aroused in me only moments before. Like Eve I was suddenly and distressingly conscious of my naked desire, and I couldn’t bear the scrutiny of those eyes when so agitated. As I fled back to the city, I prayed that Jules was at the tavern where he often spent his evenings, that he might help me sate the fire still raging through my body.
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