The Virgin Cure (34 page)

I liked Mr. Dink well enough, I guessed. I supposed things could be worse.

“I’m quite impressed with you, Miss Fenwick,” he began, stroking his beard as he had in the intermission room when we met. “Your graceful figure and humble nature are simply unforgettable.”

I nodded to him, awkwardly, and the little man nodded back, grinning, then went on to explain that somewhere between the stroke of midnight and the break of dawn, it had occurred to him that our brief encounter might well lead to an arrangement of good fortune for us all.

Miss Everett was smiling now, nodding too.

I tried picturing myself with Mr. Dink—his hand on mine, his lips on my cheek—but the idea left me queasy and scared.

Bringing out a notebook from his pocket, he showed me a drawing he’d made of a well-dressed young lady standing in front of the entrance to Dink’s Museum. He had figured onto the girl’s skirt square after tiny square; a quiver’s worth of arrows pointed out from them to a sign that read C
ARTES DE VISITE!

“You won’t know this, my dear, but my museum also offers my patrons a bit of wonder and curiosity to take home with them—for a fair price,” he said. “Such goods include, but are not limited to, vials of genuine pharaoh dust, mummy linen scraps, the teeth of any number of vicious creatures such as shark, wolf, hyena, bear and tiger; bird’s-eye-view maps of this country’s finest cities; real imitation shrunken heads; wax renderings of the bones of the inner ear; and a wide selection of
cartes de visite.”

“Unfortunately,” he explained, “I only have a limited amount of space in which to display such cards: a single shelf behind the counter on which to fit one hundred generals, Indian chiefs, actresses, sideshow performers, and circus stars. My patrons often pass them over for other fare, or worse yet, they leave the shop without purchasing anything at all. This,” he declared, “is an opportunity lost.

“The wealthiest tobacconists in the city always have a pretty shopgirl on hand to assist their customers. Hot-corn girls, although nowhere close to your station and manners, Miss Fenwick, tend to be comely young ladies overall. I could go on about the array of fresh faces behind every businessman’s success in this town, but suffice it to say, gentlemen are far more eager to part with their money when a beautiful girl is involved.”

As if he were about to bestow the title of princess or duchess or baroness upon me, he concluded, “To put it boldly and sincerely, I’d like you, Miss Fenwick, to be New York’s first and only
cartes de visite
girl—”

“It’s to be a limited engagement, of course,” Miss Everett interrupted. “Until you’ve gotten your footing, so to speak, in the company of gentlemen.”

Mr. Dink’s proposition was as follows: each afternoon I was to stand in the entrance hall next to his curiosity shop and model
cartes de visite
for his patrons’ viewing pleasure. Since all the museum-goers were men, I would have to be careful to be friendly with the customers, but not overly so, engaging them in conversation about the personages featured on the cards, the gentlemen’s personal preferences in collecting them, and the weather. The men would choose the cards they wanted and purchase them from the shopkeeper. No money would pass through my hands, as my task was simply to entice.

The proposal came as a great relief. I wondered if it might even mean a chance for me to get out of my Sunday duties in the parlour. Afraid to put the question to Miss Everett, I looked to Mr. Dink and asked, “Would I be needed Sundays as well?”

“Of course,” he answered with a smile. “It’s our busiest day of the week.”

After a round of yeses and handshaking, Mr. Dink left the house.

Then Miss Everett took me aside and said, “Not to worry, Ada. More men than I can fit in a month of Sundays in the parlour will see you on display at Mr. Dink’s.”

At breakfast the next morning, Miss Everett told me that I was to go to Mr. Dink’s place of business to be fitted for the dress I’d wear as his
cartes de visite
girl.

“Will Cadet be escorting me?” I asked, thinking I could get him to speak at least a few words to me on our way there and back.

“He’s too busy,” Miss Everett replied. “But don’t fret. Dr. Sadie has agreed to escort you to and from the museum. She’s been called to see to the well-being of one of Mr. Dink’s players.”

Alice, trying her best not to show any jealousy over my new position, wished me luck on my way out the door. “You’re to tell me all when you return,” she said.

“I will. I promise.”

I hadn’t told her that Miss Everett had relieved me from my Sunday duties in the parlour. No matter how strong our friendship, I knew she’d find it unfair, and I couldn’t help but feel guilty.

The museum wasn’t yet open when Dr. Sadie and I arrived. Leading me through a little side door at the back of the theatre, she turned a bell in another small wooden door and waited for an answer.

Before long, Mr. Dink opened up to us. “Miss Fenwick,” he said, greeting me with a broad smile. Then, taking Dr. Sadie’s hand in his, he said, “My dear doctress, it’s so good of you to come on such short notice.”

“Anything for you, Mr. Dink,” she said, blushing.

It was strange to see her face turning pink at Mr. Dink’s kindness, her eyes bright with their conversation. I’d come to think of Dr. Sadie as a woman who was, above all else, strong and sure of herself, immune to all weaknesses, struggles and charms.

“You know the way,” Mr. Dink said, pointing to a stairway that led beneath the building.

“Of course,” Dr. Sadie replied.

“I’ll leave you to it, then.” He bowed to both of us and took his leave.

Beneath the Palace of Illusions was an enormous den of rooms that seemed to have no end. This, Dr. Sadie said, was where the costumes for Mr. Dink’s players were kept. Lights shone all along the stairway that led down to the vault, and as I descended into a world of flounces, frocks and magician’s cloaks, I was smitten with the place.

We were soon met by a small, white-haired young woman whose pale skin glowed almost blue in the gaslight. I recognized her as the same lady who had assisted Mr. Dink’s illusionist.

“Dr. Sadie,” she said, smiling. “You look well.”

“As do you,” the doctor replied.

“And this must be Mr. Dink’s little
cartes de visite
girl?” she asked.

“Indeed she is.”

Turning to me, Dr. Sadie said, “Miss Fenwick, I give you the wise and all-seeing Miss Sylvia LeMar, the best fortune teller in all the boroughs.”

“Pleased to meet you,” I said.

“Of course you are,” she replied.

As she and Dr. Sadie chatted, I reached to touch a garment on one of the many racks that filled the room.

“No touching,” Miss LeMar scolded, without even looking at me. “No, no, no.”

Just as I pulled my hand away, a second woman popped out from between the costumes, causing both Dr. Sadie and me to gasp in surprise.

“Good day,” she cooed, peeking at us over her spread fan. Her dress sported several rows of ruffles that matched a spray of bright-coloured feathers in her hair. Snapping the fan shut, she revealed the whole of her face. One side was delicate and smooth like a lady’s, the other half coarse and bearded like a man’s.

“Oh!” I exclaimed.

In a deep, grumbling voice, she asked, “What’s the matter, sweetheart, don’t you like me anymore?” Batting her eyes, she tugged on the curl of her one-sided moustache and laughed.

Dr. Sadie laughed too. “Oh, Miss Eva, you’re a naughty one.”

I couldn’t help but stare at her, wondering how many times she’d made a man’s heart race while his belly turned, and just how much she’d enjoyed it.

“Miss Eva’s an amazing sword swallower,” Dr. Sadie said after their laughter had died away. “She and Miss LeMar are seamstresses by day and stars in the spectacles Mr. Dink puts on in his theatre by night.”

“I’m afraid I won’t be starring in the show anytime soon,” Miss Eva complained, putting her hand to her neck. “I’ve got a terrible case of sword throat.”

“How long has it been bothering you?”

“Three days,” she moaned.

“Have you done anything different that might have caused it?”

Miss Eva stopped to think.

“She’s been putting a dead soldier’s sabre down her throat,” Miss LeMar said, shaking her head. “I’ve told her to get rid of it. It’s cursed.”

Ignoring Miss LeMar, Miss Eva answered, “I’ve been adding more swords lately. I’d hoped to do seven at once by the end of the month.”

Dr. Sadie frowned. “I see,” she said. “Perhaps a little less ambition is in order,” she suggested. “Along with hot tea with lemon and honey, and a week’s rest.”

“How about two days’ rest?” Miss Eva wheedled. “Mr. Dink’s got me on for Friday and Saturday nights.”

“Three days, and I’ll speak with Mr. Dink on your behalf.”

While the doctor and Miss Eva were negotiating, Miss LeMar had gone about the task of searching for a dress that might suit me for my job. Reappearing from the racks, she brought out a sleek black dress with long sleeves and a high neck.

“Too plain,” Miss Eva sighed, rolling her eyes with disapproval.

“You’ve no sense of propriety,” Miss LeMar retorted, before disappearing again into a sea of silk and tulle.

The next dress had a large hoop skirt covered with bows.

“That one makes me sad,” Miss Eva complained. “I cannot begin to tell you how much I detest it.”

“You’re impossible!” Miss LeMar cried.

“That
dress
is impossible …”

While the two women bickered, Mr. Dink arrived to check on my progress. Pulling out his notebook to show Dr. Sadie his sketch of the
cartes de visite
girl, he told her of his grand plans for me and his picture cards.

Staring at the sketch, considering, she leaned toward him to confide, “I think I have the perfect dress.”

“And you’re willing to lend it to the girl?” he asked.

“It’s hers,” Dr. Sadie replied.

We left Miss LeMar and Miss Eva to their argument, and followed Mr. Dink into a long corridor that stretched from a doorway in the back of the costume storeroom.

“Do you have time to see my latest acquisition?” he asked Dr. Sadie.

Her eyes grew wide with excitement. “It’s arrived?”

“Oh yes.” He grinned. “Miss Gertu is here.”

Dr. Sadie fell in behind Mr. Dink, and I tagged along after the two of them through a series of tunnels that wound underneath the building and up to the main floor.

The museum was filled with glass cases and cabinets, stacked from floor to ceiling. Taxidermy specimens, arranged on stands with gilt-edged cards attached, were displayed in every corner—a golden eagle with its wings spread wide, a black jungle cat from Peru, a ferocious bear standing on its hind legs, and a brown-feathered chicken with four legs and three wings. Against the far wall was a cage containing a fat, lazy-looking snake. The creature, still very much alive, had reportedly devoured two chickens, a dog, a cat and a ten-month-old child in the space of one day.

126. Very fine dissection of the foot.

127–129. Brains of children—two, four and six months.

130. Monster child born in Bleecker Street; was exhibited in Broadway for twelve months; it lived fourteen months.

Most of Mr. Dink’s curiosities seemed oddly familiar to me, bringing to mind things that had haunted the courtyards and curbs of Chrystie Street. Dead cats with their bellies blown open from rot. Jars of pickled somethings gone bad with the heat. Pensioner Pete’s hero’s stumps, shiny and covered with sores. The far-off stare of a child so thirsty she’s about to drop. The whole slum had been one endless cabinet of horrors, only we had the smells and sounds of misery to go along with the sights.

We climbed a winding, gilt staircase to the waxworks. The place was windowless and dim, the gaslight turned down to a hazy glow, Mr. Dink explained, to preserve the integrity of the models, as they were susceptible to damage from the heat and light of the sun. The air in the room was close, and smelled sweet like honey.

204. T
HE
M
ANIAC
, a truthful portrayal of insanity.

205. The deathbed of A
BRAHAM
L
INCOLN
.

206. Execution of M
ARIE
A
NTOINETTE
, with model of the guillotine.

207–209. Waxworks of C
HARLES
D
ICKENS
, N
APOLEON
, and W
ILLIAM
T
WEED
.

210. E
VE
and the Apple.

In the centre of the room was the new attraction Mr. Dink had brought us to see, a life-size figure of a naked woman lying on a bed of pink satin. The top half of her body was whole and beautiful, her nipples like perfect little buttons, her eyes open just a glimmer, seeming to beg anyone who came near to take her home. Below her belly she’d been opened up to reveal her wormy insides and the mysteries of the female anatomy.

300. T
HE
G
REAT AND
W
ORLD-RENOWNED
G
ERTU
, imported from Vienna by the proprietor, at a cost of $15,000. This has been pronounced by the many thousands who have seen it to be the very “Ne Plus Ultra” of feminine beauty, the development of all the organs are magnificent, and being life-size it is more than worthy of admiration.

“Isn’t she divine?” Mr. Dink asked as Dr. Sadie approached the display.

“Indeed she is,” she whispered, clearly fascinated.

Mr. Dink’s desire to please Dr. Sadie, and the care she took with it was, to me, the most interesting curiosity of all.