he’d done for her. Then he’d got up and walked about the room, staring at the floor. ‘What do you think it will be like,’ he’d said, ‘out there in the world? I am your guardian, you are my responsibility. I mean to continue in that role. Tell me, have you any idea quite how your Mr Rates intends to present you? Hm?’
‘Señor,’ she’d said, ‘you know that I can sing and dance, you yourself made sure of it.’
‘Indeed! That does not answer my question. You’re not a fool. Have we kept you prisoner here? There are no bars on the doors or the windows. Why don’t you go out then, freely, brazenly? Why?’
She said nothing, because her eyes were filling up and she was realising that Don Pedro was the one she’d miss the most, even though he hardly ever spoke to her.
‘You know why.’
Nothing.
‘Do you think you’ll see any more of the world out there than in this safe home we gave you? Here, where you’re known? However far you go, do you think you’ll ever be able to walk down the street like any other young woman?’
‘Señor,’ she said, ‘I can’t tell you how grateful I will always be to you.’
‘You’ll sing and you’ll dance and you’ll play your guitar, and they’ll applaud, of course they will. Do you think they care about your talent? Such as it is.’
Such as it is, she repeated in her mind. Such as it is. Something about the phrase and the way he said it, as if he was throwing it away, hardened her resolve.
‘They don’t care about your talent, Julia,’ he’d said, stopping in front of her and speaking gently, ‘they only want to see the freak.’
‘Señor,’ she said, ‘I know. I want to be independent. Mr Rates has sent me my fare.’
And then of course he’d become sentimental, as was his way, sat down in his chair and gazed at her with moist aching eyes and told her once more how he’d first seen her in the orphanage. ‘In you came with that old lump of wood in a dress, a little ape but not quite an ape, and it was the most curious thing.’ Shaking his head. Impossible. ‘You were so hideous but you were just like a puppy. You were sucking your fingers. So unaware of what you were. And I tickled you under the chin and scratched behind your ears. I asked you what you liked to eat and you said “Porridge, Señor”, in the most ordinary little voice. I was surprised you could talk.’
‘And then the old nun said, “Oh, she has a voice, Señor. Would you like to hear her sing?” And you sang that silly little song, “Sana Sana Colita de Rana”.’
Your talent. Such as it is.
It all flooded in, Don Pedro, Solana and her room and the young men coming and going with their friends, calling her out to sing in the patio, and the fig tree and the stone seat and the steps going up to the gallery. Don Pedro the last time she saw him, his sad farewell to the family dog.
The future was as far away as the past. She was frightened, as if time dispersed in all directions, but there was something intoxicating about the moment too. Where was everyone? Beach had gone out. It was half past three in the afternoon. She was on the third floor and could see below a young man holding his head beneath the pump, people walking up and down, flashy long-haired boys in wide trousers, girls strolling about on their own as if it was the most natural thing in the world to do. The window was open and she heard the sound of traffic from the wharves. She went to the mirror, a mottled ailing thing in a tarnished gilt frame, looked at her face and wished that at least her neck could have been a bit longer. Just that. ‘I’m not a prisoner,’ she said aloud. He couldn’t tell her what to do. ‘He’s a manager,’ she said, ‘not a jailer.’
She still had some of the money she’d left home with, as well as a fair bit from her earnings.
She put on her cloak and bonnet, her veil and gloves, picked up her purse and went out onto the landing. The house was quiet. She ran lightly down to the front door and out. It was cold, but her cloak was a good one and she huddled down in it. The brownstones all looked the same. Wouldn’t do to forget the number. She knew where to go, she’d watched from the carriage window on the way to the theatre and seen it all, people clambering on and off the streetcars, carriages in a line waiting for passengers. She kept to the edge of the sidewalk, walking quickly past the row houses and stores to the corner. Down side streets, high tenements went on forever. Kids were everywhere, oblivious to the cold, gangs of them on the roam.
At the corner she stopped and looked about. Nobody took any notice of her. People rushed up and down the street. Two flashy young men were waiting for the streetcar, so she went and stood a little way from them, observing through her veil.
‘So I says to him,’ said one in a high-pitched whine that reminded her of Ezra Porter’s voice, ‘I says, what you wanna do dat for, huh? Looks like you wanna get mowed, dat what you mean, huh?’
At least she thought that’s what he said. His hair was brilliant with oil and swept up high on his head.
‘Lillian says so,’ the other replied in a darker voice, ‘she says he do it all the time, no matter what.’
She couldn’t take her eyes off them. The cigars wagged up and down on their lips as they spoke, and they wore gold chains across their waistcoats. She felt like a ghost. When the streetcar came she followed them on and offered the driver a handful of money. She had no idea what it cost.
‘Broadway,’ she said. The driver looked at her hand and laughed.
‘Lady,’ he said, ‘for that you can ride around all day if you want to.’
‘Oh,’ she said, ‘that’s very nice.’
He looked at her strangely, then scooped up the cash and gave her some change. The streetcar was crowded but she found a seat half way down. No one else wore a veil. A fat man in wide trousers stared at her. She sat very still. A squash of girls in black shawls and brightly coloured bonnets babbled and laughed as if no one could hear or see them. The streetcar was too close-packed and getting more so, and the noise was crazy. A woman with a kind, worn face stooped to smile at her. She thinks I’m a little girl, thought Julia. A little girl in a veil alone on the streetcar. She coughed genteelly into her gloved hand and nodded, and the woman passed on. Her heart thumped. There were other glances. When the girls swirled down the aisle to get off, she followed.
She stood in the street and trembled, feeling too small. Which way? Which way? This way, that way, nothing she remembered. A fine white sleet began and she pulled her cloak tight. If I didn’t have to wear this, she thought, they’d see my figure and know I wasn’t a child. She’d never seen so many people up close. A bell chimed from the tower of a church and she looked up. The spire soared above the buildings. A carriage clipped past with a footman in blue livery on the back. Here I am, Julia Pastrana on Broadway, alone. All the swells, she never saw anything like it, strolling along in their shiny shoes. Swaggery men and girls with done-up hair, the women’s dresses taking up half the sidewalk. She got a sudden urge to pull off her veil and just walk along and see what happened. Shame. Shame, but so it was and so it always had been. The air was full of a hot peanut smell. Julia felt light-headed and stood still for a moment with the people sweeping past in both directions. The buildings were grand and high, and a few had flags flying on the tops. There was nowhere to sit down, just some wide steps in front of a bank, already taken up by half a dozen or so raggedy little kids holding out their caps for money. Poor little faces. The sleet turned to fine rain,
