The Museum of Extraordinary Things
Page 67
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Still, she imagined she would see his death before her very eyes. The cage was open, and Coralie wondered if she would rush to the trainer’s defense if tragedy struck, or if she would watch, paralyzed, as he was eaten alive. But the lion only rubbed his head against his trainer and seemed to embrace him. “That’s a good fellow,” Bonavita said. He pushed the lion off and afterward scratched at his mane with the palm of his hand, which the beast greatly appreciated. A deep rumbling came from Prince’s throat and chest.
“Come inside,” Bonavita urged his audience of one.
Coralie’s heart dropped. But she thought of her dream, how she had feared to make the leap from the ledge in the woods, and then, when she had expected to crash to the ground below, she fell into the blue water and knew she had been made for another element entirely.
She stepped inside the cage.
“Don’t scream or shout,” Bonavita said softly. “Ignore him.”
Coralie was still as the lion studied her. She dared not take a breath as the beast approached.
“I knew it.” Bonavita was pleased with himself and how good a judge of character he was. “You have a form of bravery inside you.”
The lion’s scent was of straw and an earthy wildness. He rubbed his head against Coralie, and as he did, Coralie felt her own wildness. She sensed that all her waking life had been a dream, and that it was only in this moment that she had at last opened her eyes.
When Bonavita called to Prince and clapped his hands, the lion went trotting back to his cushion. Coralie left the cage so that Bonavita might bring the lion his breakfast, the half-frozen carcass of a cow, which the lion attacked with studied intensity. Coralie noticed there were several coarse hairs on her skirt, some golden and some black. Her heart was still pounding, yet she felt overjoyed at having been so close to such a fierce creature, and one as great as Prince.
She asked Bonavita what allowed him to be so fearless in the presence of his lion, especially having been attacked earlier in his life.
“Oh, I fear him,” Bonavita assured her. “He could kill me if he wished. He and I both know that. But the lion that attacked me was misused and ill treated before I had him. I raised Prince from the time he was first born. There is a connection in that sort of companionship, a trust that goes beyond his nature, and mine as well I suppose.”
Coralie asked if Bonavita’s wife wasn’t afraid at each one of his performances, some of which included a dozen tigers and leopards surrounding him in a ring.
“I am good to my wife and to my daughter, but they understand me. In my experience you can only have one great love, and I have chosen mine.”
Coralie was certain that real love was nothing like the life she’d known, the lust of the exhibition room, the shadows lingering on the wall, the rasping sound of the tortoise in its pen, so calm and patient in its confinement, the men who had stalked her on the other side of the tank, then been ushered away as if they were mere figments, rather than flesh and blood.
The animal trainer had thought she was brave, but in her daily life Coralie remained a mouse. Her anger became self-directed, her wounds self-directed as well. When she was angry she stuck pins into her own flesh, but unlike the Human Pincushion, who had been with them for several years and who drank an elixir of nettle, blackberry, and lotus to stanch his wounds, Coralie bled. She felt the pain. In the evenings, she served her father large mugs of rum, so that he would close his eyes and dream and there would be peace inside their house. She shocked herself by considering how easy it would be to lace his drink with arsenic, which was stored in the garden shed and used to keep the rats away. She fled the house, frightened by the sheer wickedness of her thoughts.
The evenings were still damp and chilly even though spring had arrived, and the dusk fell in sheets that were mottled and fish colored. Coralie went to the shoreline where she had first learned to swim. The water’s pull was difficult to resist; she could feel it in her blood, stinging like salt. It was here the whole world opened to her, as it always had, in a grid of sand and sea. She had come to believe that if her father had wanted a docile daughter, he should never have allowed her access to the ocean. It was here she found a strength that often surprised her. Perhaps she was not a spineless creature, but a wonder after all. Recently when she gazed into the mirror she believed she spied a series of lines at the base of her throat. Surely they were not the gills she had dreamed of but merely a pattern of throbbing blue veins. Still, she wondered.
The deepening night was soon strewn with stars. The beach, so crowded in summer months it was impossible to walk along without bumping into another beachgoer, was empty, save for the clam diggers, who called to each other from the beds of shellfish as they worked by lantern light. It was low tide, and the air was perfumed with seaweed. As the dark sifted down, Coralie undressed to her undergarments, unlacing her boots so she might leave them behind. She loved the feel of damp sand in the tide, how it tugged at her, pulling her into a world she could sink into. The waves rolled in, and soon enough she was waist deep in water. There was a film of phosphorescence in the water, an illumination caused by tiny fish that were invisible to the human eye, unnoticed in the daylight hours. This was the virtue of the dark: you were who you had always been, only no one could see you.
“Come inside,” Bonavita urged his audience of one.
Coralie’s heart dropped. But she thought of her dream, how she had feared to make the leap from the ledge in the woods, and then, when she had expected to crash to the ground below, she fell into the blue water and knew she had been made for another element entirely.
She stepped inside the cage.
“Don’t scream or shout,” Bonavita said softly. “Ignore him.”
Coralie was still as the lion studied her. She dared not take a breath as the beast approached.
“I knew it.” Bonavita was pleased with himself and how good a judge of character he was. “You have a form of bravery inside you.”
The lion’s scent was of straw and an earthy wildness. He rubbed his head against Coralie, and as he did, Coralie felt her own wildness. She sensed that all her waking life had been a dream, and that it was only in this moment that she had at last opened her eyes.
When Bonavita called to Prince and clapped his hands, the lion went trotting back to his cushion. Coralie left the cage so that Bonavita might bring the lion his breakfast, the half-frozen carcass of a cow, which the lion attacked with studied intensity. Coralie noticed there were several coarse hairs on her skirt, some golden and some black. Her heart was still pounding, yet she felt overjoyed at having been so close to such a fierce creature, and one as great as Prince.
She asked Bonavita what allowed him to be so fearless in the presence of his lion, especially having been attacked earlier in his life.
“Oh, I fear him,” Bonavita assured her. “He could kill me if he wished. He and I both know that. But the lion that attacked me was misused and ill treated before I had him. I raised Prince from the time he was first born. There is a connection in that sort of companionship, a trust that goes beyond his nature, and mine as well I suppose.”
Coralie asked if Bonavita’s wife wasn’t afraid at each one of his performances, some of which included a dozen tigers and leopards surrounding him in a ring.
“I am good to my wife and to my daughter, but they understand me. In my experience you can only have one great love, and I have chosen mine.”
Coralie was certain that real love was nothing like the life she’d known, the lust of the exhibition room, the shadows lingering on the wall, the rasping sound of the tortoise in its pen, so calm and patient in its confinement, the men who had stalked her on the other side of the tank, then been ushered away as if they were mere figments, rather than flesh and blood.
The animal trainer had thought she was brave, but in her daily life Coralie remained a mouse. Her anger became self-directed, her wounds self-directed as well. When she was angry she stuck pins into her own flesh, but unlike the Human Pincushion, who had been with them for several years and who drank an elixir of nettle, blackberry, and lotus to stanch his wounds, Coralie bled. She felt the pain. In the evenings, she served her father large mugs of rum, so that he would close his eyes and dream and there would be peace inside their house. She shocked herself by considering how easy it would be to lace his drink with arsenic, which was stored in the garden shed and used to keep the rats away. She fled the house, frightened by the sheer wickedness of her thoughts.
The evenings were still damp and chilly even though spring had arrived, and the dusk fell in sheets that were mottled and fish colored. Coralie went to the shoreline where she had first learned to swim. The water’s pull was difficult to resist; she could feel it in her blood, stinging like salt. It was here the whole world opened to her, as it always had, in a grid of sand and sea. She had come to believe that if her father had wanted a docile daughter, he should never have allowed her access to the ocean. It was here she found a strength that often surprised her. Perhaps she was not a spineless creature, but a wonder after all. Recently when she gazed into the mirror she believed she spied a series of lines at the base of her throat. Surely they were not the gills she had dreamed of but merely a pattern of throbbing blue veins. Still, she wondered.
The deepening night was soon strewn with stars. The beach, so crowded in summer months it was impossible to walk along without bumping into another beachgoer, was empty, save for the clam diggers, who called to each other from the beds of shellfish as they worked by lantern light. It was low tide, and the air was perfumed with seaweed. As the dark sifted down, Coralie undressed to her undergarments, unlacing her boots so she might leave them behind. She loved the feel of damp sand in the tide, how it tugged at her, pulling her into a world she could sink into. The waves rolled in, and soon enough she was waist deep in water. There was a film of phosphorescence in the water, an illumination caused by tiny fish that were invisible to the human eye, unnoticed in the daylight hours. This was the virtue of the dark: you were who you had always been, only no one could see you.
