in their arms to look at her, and she smiled and smiled. One child was afraid and screamed and was carried away by his scolding sister, saying ‘Oh, Enzo, making such a fuss. Señorita Pastrana will think you’re very rude.’
‘Not at all,’ said Julia, but the girl did not hear. Poor little boy, she thought, will he wake screaming, with a great jerk, seeing me in the dark?
‘Who taught her to sing?’ someone asked.
Will he try and try to put my face from his mind and be unable, and wish he’d never seen me? Will I have him waking in a sweat still when he’s a man grown up with his own babies?
‘I did,’ said Marta, who’d changed out of her wedding gown and put on a green-and-white dress over several layers of frothy lilac petticoat. She had not taught Julia to sing. Julia had always sung. She’d sung around the Palace as a child, sung as she worked, sung as she fixed a hem. She never showed herself unless she was called, and these days she was not called upon so much, usually only when Don Pedro had a visit from some important somebody with silk lining in his cuffs. And if that important somebody or that important somebody’s wife had heard of her and wanted to see her, she’d come out when they were sitting with their cigars and brandy, all ready and waiting and agog, in her red dress with a red flower in her hair. That had been Don Pedro’s idea, but she liked it. Red flower, black hair. Or purple bougainvillea from the vine growing along the boys’ balcony. Hoolya! Hoolya! Calling her to the patio. Hoolya! Hoolya! Summoning her to entertain them.
Rates had appeared in front of her, a round-faced man in late middle age with a prissy little mouth and the plump chin of a great baby. He was in company with an intense boy, one she remembered, one of those who got the pull, whose eyes got stuck on her in a troubled way.
‘Señorita Julia,’ the boy said, ‘you did not dance.’
She wasn’t at her best; she was tired. She’d been up long before light with the other servants. It had been a horrible day. She’d been crying because of the blue dress. If she was very careful, she could cry without anyone knowing, letting the tears hide one by one, strictly controlled, in the hair beneath her eyes. This was useful.
‘Not tonight,’ she replied.
‘I saw you dance once before.’
She smiled politely.
‘I wish you would have danced,’ he said stubbornly, his eyes steady.
‘Shall I dance for you now?’ She smiled, picked up her skirts and did a couple of swirls, backwards and forwards, side to side, stamping her feet and finishing with arms akimbo. A cheer went up from those close by who saw. The older man applauded.
‘You have talent,’ he said with a slight bow of the head. A Yank, by his accent.
‘Thank you, Señor.’
‘Didn’t I tell you?’ The boy spoke with an air of great seriousness. ‘She’s remarkable. She speaks English, Uncle. And you ought to see her dance. The way she points the toe.’
‘Indeed.’ The man held her gaze. ‘Miss Pastrana,’ he said in English, ‘you really ought to go on the stage.’
Julia smiled, looked down.
‘She exceeded all expectations,’ Don Pedro said jovially, appearing at her side and putting one arm about her shoulders. ‘I taught her to read myself. She can make a good fist of French as well if it’s called for. Can’t you, Julia?’
‘Mais bien sûr, Monsieur,’ said Julia, raising a laugh.
‘Miss Pastrana,’ the man said, as the band struck up once more and Don Pedro was dragged away to the dance floor by one of his daughters-in-law, ‘have you ever been in New Orleans?’
‘I have never been anywhere, Señor.’
In English he replied, ‘Should you decide to make your fortune, Señorita, come and see me in New Orleans. My card, Señorita.’ Which he presented with another small bow.
‘My uncle is in the entertainment business in New Orleans,’ said the boy importantly.
The name on the card was Matthew Rates.
‘New Orleans,’ he said, ‘New York.’
The outer door opened, Charlotte coming in with the chocolate.
‘Charlotte,’ she called, ‘I’ve taken my veil off. You can bring the chocolate in here if you like, or leave it on the table and I’ll get it when you’ve gone.’
Julia set about unpacking her grip, putting things in the small cupboard next to the window. A moment later a voice said, ‘Miss Julia, there’s some pecans too’, and when she turned Charlotte was standing by the curtain with a bowl of hot chocolate and a dish of pecans on a tray. For a long moment she held Julia’s eyes, devoid of expression, then she set down the tray. ‘Mr Rates say he’ll come by for you when you’re rested,’ she said.
‘Thank you, Charlotte.’
Then she was gone. To tell. She was used to freaks of course, but still. The chocolate was dark and wonderfully rich, and Julia drank it by the window, eating pecans and looking out at the twining plant on the back wall of the yard, thinking about Cato. He doesn’t know he’s a pinhead, she thought. He lives in that face like I do, but it’s different because he doesn’t think about it.
I do.
And there were more to meet. She’d be a difference among differences. It was a peculiar feeling.
Later Mr Rates came across with Madame Soulie. ‘At last!’ she said, walking straight over to Julia and peering down eagerly into her face, ‘I can see you! Oh my, oh my, you really are the strangest person I have ever seen.’ Her eyes bugged out. ‘And believe me, I’ve seen a few.’ She reached down and touched the hair on Julia’s cheek with one finger. ‘You are quite unique.’
‘So I’m told,’ Julia said. There were no freaks among freaks, but it was dawning that she really did surpass the lot.
‘You didn’t exaggerate, Matt,’ Madame Soulie said.
‘What did you expect?’ Rates looked smug. ‘When have I ever exaggerated? She’ll slay them in New York.’
‘Ooh, it’s lovely and soft!’
Madame Soulie’s hand was light and cautious. She stepped back. ‘You are so like an ape it’s scarcely credible,’ she said. ‘You just don’t look human. And yet you do. And you speak so nicely.’
‘I can’t be an ape because they don’t talk,’ Julia said in French, smiling, ‘but I know how I look.’
‘Absolutely!’ Madame Soulie laughed. ‘An ape doesn’t talk!’
‘I talk,’ said Julia. ‘I speak French and English and Spanish. An ape doesn’t speak French and English and Spanish.’
Madame Soulie goggled with delight.
‘Mr Rates,’ said Julia, ‘Who am I sharing with?’
‘Myrtle
