CHAPTER NINE
B
efore I could form a question, Mr. Stoker had reached out and twitched a small streamer of bells that hung outside the flap.
From within, a stream of music issued, an odd, otherworldly sound of longing and wistfulness, almost painful to hear, it was so sharp with yearning.
A voice rose above it.
“At last, Stoker—enter!”
Mr. Stoker lifted the flap and gestured for me to follow.
What I stepped into was a scene straight out of a dream.
The tent itself was hung with garish silks and more of the Chinese lanterns, its floor fashioned from a layer of thin Turkey carpets.
But it was not the odd decor that caught my attention.
The tent was full of people, and not one of them was like anyone I had encountered before.
There was a woman so enormously fat that her chair was the size of three armchairs fitted together.
She held a plate of cream cakes and was working her way through the lot, munching with diligent delicacy.
Beside her stood a man with the face of a lion, his features obscured by a full growth of hair some four inches long, and wearing a full-dress military uniform with an astonishing array of medals and decorations.
He rested his hand on the back of a rocking chair in which a very elderly lady seemed to be sleeping.
Next to them stood the largest man I had ever seen, for if Mr. Stoker was a good six feet in height, this fellow was seven, with the sort of bulging muscles one seldom saw outside of caricature.
Next to him sat two chairs almost back to back.
There were no arms between the chairs, and I soon realized why.
The pair of gentlemen seated in them was conjoined at the ribs and sat, rather like bookends, the back of one man’s shoulder touching the back of his brother’s.
One of them held an accordion, the source of the strange music, while the other held only a slender cigarette in a holder a foot long.
This he waved as we entered.
“Make way, make way, the bridegroom cometh!”
he cried, waving his cigarette holder in a purely theatrical gesture.
Mr. Stoker moved to stand in front of him, pushing me along in front.
“Good evening, Professor,” he said.
“It has been a while.”
“Two years almost to the day since you left us,” the professor said silkily.
A muscle twitched in Mr. Stoker’s jaw, and I understood then that he was wary of the reception he might find here.
“I realize my leave-taking was a trifle sudden,” he began, but the professor waved him to silence.
“And yet the prodigal always returns; is that not what the Bible teaches us?
And meting out the just deserts.
I seem to recall something about every man receiving just what he is owed,” he remarked with a thin smile that did not reach his eyes.
He shifted his gaze to me, giving me a curiously appraising look.
Mr. Stoker spoke.
“May I present my bride, Veronica Stoker?
Veronica, this is Professor Pygopagus.”
To his credit, he did not stumble over either my name or the word “bride.”
He was watching me closely, and I had the strangest feeling that however I handled myself in the next few minutes would prove crucial to our future cordiality with one another.
I stepped forward and extended my hand.
“How do you do, Professor?”
The professor clasped my hand and gave a little crow of delight.
“Look, children—Stoker has brought us a bride!
My dear, you are most welcome to our little family of curiosities,” he said, but there was no real warmth in his voice.
He held my hand in his, and I felt the skin slide over fleshless bones as he continued to speak.
“Now, there are far more members in our traveling show than are gathered here, but you will appreciate that it is very late, and the others have retired.
They require more beauty sleep than the rest of us,” he added with a twist of his lips.
“Permit me to introduce you.”
He gestured to each of the others theatrically.
“First, my dear Madame du Lait.
Madame?
Madame!”
He clapped his hands together sharply.
The elderly woman in the rocking chair started and lifted a brass ear trumpet as she cocked her head.
“What?
Why do you disturb me?”
she demanded irritably.
She was swathed in half a dozen shawls and traveling rugs, and she peered out at the company with colorless eyes filmy with age.
“My dear Madame, I wish to present our newest arrival, Mrs. Stoker.
Stoker has returned and brought his bride.”
It took three more attempts to make her understand, but when she did, the withered old face pulled a frown.
“Stoker!”
she exclaimed.
“I never liked him.
Moody little devil.”
“Ah, but I am certain you will find his wife charming,” the professor instructed, his mouth twitching with a smile.
I moved to shake her hand, but she had already fallen asleep again.
The professor made a gesture of dismissal.
“One must make allowances, my dear.
She is one hundred and fifty-three years old.
She was Napoleon’s wet nurse.”
From behind me, I heard Stoker murmur dryly, “And for an extra halfpenny, she’ll show you the teat where she gave him suck.”
Before I could respond, the professor had moved on, gesturing towards the tremendously obese woman.
“This is our dear Tilly, the fattest lady in the land and the loveliest.”
He blew her a kiss and she simpered.
She did have a beautiful complexion and a charming set of dimples.
She waggled her cream-covered fingers at me and I smiled in return.
“Next to her is her husband, Leopold the Lion-Faced Lord.
He isn’t really a lord,” the professor added, sotto voce, “but, again, one must make allowances.”
The gentleman bowed—an elegant, almost regal gesture under the circumstances.
“Welcome to our little family, Mrs. Stoker.”
His voice was surprisingly melodious, deep and resonant.
“Thank you .
.
.
er .
.
.”
“Please, call me Leopold.
We do not stand on ceremony here,” he said kindly.
The professor spoke again.
“This is Colosso,” he informed me, pointing out the enormous fellow, who put out a hand to shake mine.
His was more than twice the size, and I felt like a child as he carefully enfolded my fingers.
“Welcome,” he said, his accent thick and unmistakably Italian.
His greeting to me was cordial enough, but the look he gave Mr. Stoker was one of purest hatred.
Before I could determine why, another snippet of music began to play, a sinuous and inviting sound that coaxed and seduced, filling the ears with unseemly thoughts.
The bells at the tent flap sounded softly, and a woman glided in.
She wore a long silken robe of Oriental origin, its sleeves sweeping the ground as she moved.
On her feet were tiny slippers of gilt leather, turned up at the toes.
Her hair, black as my own, but woven into an intricate series of tiny braids, fell to her tightly sashed waist.
Her eyes were dark and impenetrable, and her every gesture graceful.
I felt very English at that particular moment, and deeply aware of the practicality of my own costume, becoming as it might be.
“Salome,” said the professor softly.
I realized then that Mr. Stoker had turned a most surprising shade of puce, and I wondered if he was about to have a fit.
I stepped briskly forward and put out my hand.
“Veronica Stoker,” I said firmly.
A smile toyed with the corners of her mouth.
She shook my hand gravely.
“Yes, I heard that Stoker was returned to us.
With a wife,” she added.
It was masterfully done.
With that one sentence she managed to convey curiosity and disbelief, but so elegantly that it was quite clear she considered the matter a tremendous joke.
Mr. Stoker’s hand closed tightly around my arm.
“Salome,” he said shortly.
She came forward and kissed me on both cheeks, leaving the scent of her musky perfume behind.
It reminded me of decayed flowers, ripe and sensual and deeply narcotic.
“Welcome, my dear.”
A less clever woman would have kissed Mr. Stoker as well, but she did not.
She merely darted him a glance to show that she had considered the gesture and dismissed it.
Then she smiled brilliantly and withdrew, bowing gracefully at the tent flap.
Stoker was perspiring freely.
“Our principal dancer,” the professor explained.
“And now you must meet my brother, Otto.”
He waved a hand to the fellow conjoined to him, and again that soft, yearning line of melody he had played upon our arrival issued from the instrument in his hands.
Otto left off playing then and gave me a polite bow from the neck.
Then he resumed his instrument, moving into a pretty bit of Chopin.
I inclined my head.
“How do you do, Otto?”
The professor made a gesture of impatience.
“Pay him no attention, my dear.
He is a singularly annoying fellow.
He is a selective mute and communicates only through his music.
You will learn to interpret it in time.”
He turned to Mr. Stoker, who had wiped his brow with a handkerchief and seemed to have recovered himself.
“Now, I understand from your rather urgent telegram that you wish to return to the show.
When last you came to us, these souvenirs of your trip to the were fresh,” he said with a graceful inclination of his head towards Stoker’s scars and eye patch.
“I remember the tale.
You were lucky to escape with your life,” the professor said softly.
“I always said you had nine lives.
How many do you have left?
I wonder.”
Stoker swallowed hard, but his tone was deliberately casual.
“By my reckoning, this is probably the last.”
The professor’s mouth split into a wide grin at Stoker’s display of bravado.
“Then we had best make it count.
You remember the rules.
I keep only those who earn their way.
If you do not work, you do not eat, and you most certainly do not stay.
The last time you were with us, I was content to let you work as a conjuror.”
I stared at Mr. Stoker in surprise, but he merely nodded towards the professor.
This development was clearly something he had anticipated.
“That should not present any difficulties.”
“But this time I require something more,” the professor told him.
“I am in need of someone to take Rizzolo’s place.