Wild Rover No More: Being the Last Recorded Account of the Life & Times of Jacky Faber (21 page)

Our glorious circus parade rumbles through Wareham at noon, to the delight of the populace. Signor Mattucci, on his white horse, is in the lead, resplendent in his red ringmaster uniform, looking much happier now that a burden has been lifted from his shoulders. Mairead and I are on Gargantina, all three of us decked out in feathered finery, the two humans posing shamelessly, our dear elephant plodding along to the absolute delight of the children.

An Elly-phant! Look at that!

Behind us, we have set up a flatbed wagon, and on it stands, straight and tall, Enoch Lightner, the Shantyman of great renown, known from Bombay to the South China Sea, sawing away at his fiddle, while Eliza thunders away at the big drum. He bellows . . .

 

I am a jolly fiddleman, at fiddling I have been

For two-score years on this little isle of green.

I'm known from Boston down to the Bight

And everybody calls me Old Blind Light.

 

Sure, that's just “The Little Beggarman” tune reworked a little, but it works just fine here, so play on, Shantyman. Believe me, your mighty voice can be heard down to the end of any street or alley in this town.

 

Of all the trades a going, sure the fiddling is the best

For when a man is tired he can sit him down and rest.

He can play for his dinner, he has nothing else to do

But to sit at your table tapping his old fiddle bow.

 

After that, we have the De Graff sisters standing on the backs of their mighty stallions, waving to the crowd, and then the cat cages with their occupants roaring, and all along the route, clowns cavort and toss penny candies to the wildly excited kids.

Fresh paint is on the wagons, and we are as bright as a new penny. Shabby? Not at all. As a matter of fact, I'm rather proud of my brave little circus and the people who live in it and who make it come alive.

And, too, there is something about the traveling life that appeals to my restless nature. I often hark back fondly to my travels across Spain with King Zoltan and Bubya Nadya Vadoma and their caravan of gaily painted Roma wagons, yes, and that trip down the Mississippi River on my keelboat,
Belle of the Golden West.
There was something new at every turn, and I liked that. I reflect that I could live like this. Hey, look
—
all around me, everybody's smiling and happy, and what's the matter with that, I want to know.

Tad and Jerry bring up the tail end of the parade and are kept busy putting up posters advertising the circus and its new offerings . . . that and sparking up the local girls, in their spanking new shirts and newfound sense of world­liness. Signor Mattucci had a stack of the sheets that had a space open at the bottom for the notation of times and dates, and other notes of interest. Into that spot I penned . . .

 

Come one, come all!
Wholesome entertainment at the Midway of the Montessori and Mattucci Grand Circus!
Games of Skill, Games of Chance!
Much more! Come see!

Gather all ye hardy young men brave enough to step up and challenge the Mighty Gregor in bouts of wrestling. Big Prizes if you best him.

Cockfights begin under the Big Top at Nine.

Come see, come see!

 

Course I decorate any open space with arrows, exclamation points, and other embellishments, anything to catch the eye of the country boy or man.

 

The morning and afternoon acts under the Big Top went off without a hitch and the midway is up and ready to go . . . and night is falling. I cross my fingers in anticipation and hope. Many of the people who attended the afternoon show wandered over to the midway.
Good, good . . . Come on over
 
. . .
 
Stay.

I am sweating it out, gnawing at my knuckles, and peeking anxiously through the curtains of my wagon. I have advised all the
artistes
to continue to wear their costumes when they circulate through the midway, whether they have a role to play or not. It adds exotic color, I figure, that the locals should appreciate
—
the kids, especially. In keeping with my own instructions, I still have my aerialist costume on, without the skirt. The veil, however, I will keep.

“Try to remain calm, Miss,” urges Higgins, raising a square of chocolate to his lips. “Here. Try a piece of Heidi De Graff's fudge. It is quite good.”

At any other time, the Faber jaws would have clamped down on the delicious brown morsel, but not this evening. No, I am too keyed up and too involved with grinding my poor tusks down to nubs.

Noticing my nervousness, Higgins attempts to settle me down. He takes a look out my window and says, “Regard, Miss. There are already a couple of lads at the bar right now, loosening up for the night's revels. You have once again made a profit on Demon Rum and Nancy Whiskey, two business associates of yours who have proved worthy of your attention in the past. Interesting, considering you yourself have forsworn the imbibing of said spirits.”

Indeed, but since the Wareham town councilor who owns the Boar's Head Tavern is requiring us to buy all the bar supplies from him, the profit will be scant.

Higgins is dressed in one of his many fine suits of clothes, a dark gray affair with a deep red cravat around his throat, all crowned with a top hat of the finest brushed beaver. Never let it be said that John Higgins, vice president of Faber Shipping Worldwide, was ever less than the height of male sartorial fashion. He will place himself at the entrance to welcome the crowd and watch for troublemakers. His velvet waistcoat does house two small but deadly pistols, after all, and he is not afraid to use them.

“Ummm,” I say, with a doubting squint. “Just be sure they ain't none of our gang. No. It's all right; they're locals. Good. Drink up, lads.”

Earlier, we had covered up the
TONDALAYO, QUEEN OF THE NAKED NILE
sign. There's no sense in promising them something they ain't gonna get. No, for that I will substitute a wild flamenco dance, and who should be my partner other than my ardent suitor Marcello Grimaldi? It doesn't take much for Señora Elena to deck him out in something that looks vaguely like a Majo from Madrid. As for me, I have my seabag and in it is stuffed my Maja rig: black dress that's heavy with embroidery, my ever-handy lace mantilla, and shiny castanets. As for the dancing, all he really has to do is stand there and look macho, while I do the rest. He does, however, protest mightily.

“Geet over here, you, my big sveet Italian sausage,” I order. “Vee must practice.”

“But I am trapeze artist, my slippery little Black Sea whitefish, not some foolish dancer.”

“Eef you luf your Russian volfhound, you vill do it for me. Plus, I am now your boss as vell, so consider your sit-u-a-tion, woychik.”

He sighs, relenting. “
Sí
. And that troubles my heart, too. I believe I shall go see Mairead, the flame-haired one, for comfort in this matter.”

“Oh, faithless one, you vould abandon your sweet babushka in her hour of need? Look, you stand zere and just stamp your heels in time to za music, clap your hands over your head, and look arro-gant. You can do zat! I vill do za rest. Besides, the beauteous Mairead ees a married lady who vill have nothing to do with Italian
ragazzi,
no matter how handsome and strong zey might be.”

That, and the kiss I plant upon his brow, wins him over.

 

“Well, Miss, I believe it is time we hit the sawdust, as it were, and do our circus duty,” says Higgins, rising and putting on his top hat, then taking up his gold-headed cane. “The smell of the greasepaint, the roar of the crowd, and all that.”

There's a big gulp on my part and a simple clearing of the throat on the part of Higgins as we stride out into the midway.

 

Higgins, of course, takes to his new role as if he were born to it . . .

“Ladies and gentlemen, step right up and walk right in! Welcome to the Montessori and Mattucci Grand Circus!”
He is every inch the proper English gent, with plummy accent to match, gesturing grandly with his cane.
“Yes, all you could wish for in wholesome and edifying entertainment for the entire family! Pony rides for your lovely children? To your right, Sir, and don't deny them the experience of riding our sweet Gargantina, who has come to you directly from the mysterious Orient. They will speak of it to the end of their days! And you, young Galahad! A prize for your beautiful lady? A stuffed toy to remind her of you when you are far away? Test your skill and win her love! To the shooting gallery, Sir, and you shall prevail and be uppermost in her heart! Ah! I believe I spy some sporting gents . . . am I right, gentlemen? There stands our wheel of fortune, and good fortune can be yours. Step right up!”

Could it be that Higgins's close association with Lord Byron, back in London, has given his normally reserved character a certain flamboyance? One thing is sure, Higgins is always full of surprises.

I strut about and smile and wave at our lovely crowd. All my people are in place and ready. I wink at sturdy Eliza Lightner, tending the bar, brooking no nonsense from any patrons. The flatbed wagon will serve as a stage for my flamenco act later tonight, and now serves as a platform for Mairead and the Shantyman
—
she on pennywhistle; he on fiddle. If nothing else, we will have music; they are right now ripping through “Haste to the Wedding” in fine style.

Laughter and happiness are all around me. What was I worried about?

Rigger O'Rourke stands at the Chuck-a-Luck, with red ribbon garters on his sleeves and his top hat cocked on his head at a rakish angle. As I pass, Rigger gives me a knowing wink, reaches up, and gives the wheel a spin. “Lends a bit of dash, eh, Boss?” he remarks, and, indeed, it does.

“Round and round she goes, and where she stops, nobody knows . . .”

“Rinse, please,” says Higgins. Obediently, I duck my sudsy head 'neath the hot bathwater, and his strong fingers work at the roots of my unruly mop of hair.

“Ahhhh.” I breathe as my face breaks the surface, eyes squeezed shut against the soap. “Nobody has hands like you, Higgins. I shall miss you.”

We have visited two more towns since Wareham and are about to open in Taunton. We have been doing extremely well since the introduction of the midway, and I am most pleased. My people are happy and so am I. Higgins, alas, will leave us in New Bedford to return to Boston.

“The feeling is mutual, Miss, but I think that I shall be of more service to you there, in your current precarious legal situation, than continuing to act as an overpaid circus barker and following you and your circus down to your winter quarters to bask on some tropical shore, however attractive that prospect might sound. And Mr. O'Rourke has shown an aptitude for delicate negotiations with greedy town officials and should step into that role quite nicely.”

'Tis true. Rigger cleans up real good in a new suit, hat, shiny shoes, and spats. As his employer, I am pleased with his progress. Yes, well, more than pleased. I have always had room in my heart for a merry rogue, and he is certainly one of those.

“I suppose.” I sigh. “But it is such a comfort having you near me, husband John.”

He smiles at that, both of us recalling that time on the
Lorelei Lee
when we were briefly married and shared both a cabin and a bunk. Sort of married . . .

O'Rourke has shown himself to have quite the gift of gab. I have watched him at the wheel of fortune. He keeps up a flowing line of patter as he spins the wheel for the next round of betting. True, the odds are in the favor of the house, may it ever be so, but I think the success of that particular attraction lies in the subtle pressure of his knee applied to the bottom of the wheel as it slows to a stop . . .

“Number four! Alas, Sir! Only one off from your lucky number! Surely you will try again! See, the fine young fellow to your left has just won a handsome pot for his dear mother! The rent of their little cottage shall be paid! Won't his sweetheart be proud! Place your bets, gents. Here she goes again! Round and round . . .”

Of course, the “fine young fellow” is a shill, a roustabout who hasn't given his “dear mother” a dime since he ran off to join our merry band, and his sweetheart is Python Patty the Snake Charmer, but, hey, it's all entertainment, right?

 

Earlier this morning, I had met Higgins and O'Rourke on the midway just after they returned from a meeting with the town fathers of New Bedford. It went well, with an interesting twist.

“Yes, Miss. They agreed to everything,” said Higgins, while Rigger stood by, smirking. “There are no restrictions. It is a seafaring town, after all, greedy and up for anything.”

We all three had then looked up at the marquee above our heads, the one advertising
TONDALAYO, QUEEN OF THE NAKED NILE, AND HER FAMOUS FAN DANCE.

A heavy sigh from me, and a “Will you do it?” from Higgins, as O'Rourke put fingertips to hat brim and went off to attend to his duties, leaving me standing slightly red-faced in the dust.

Why did I put myself in this situation? Why did I blurt out that I would do the exotic dance? It's because I know what sells in this world, count on it. My charming little playlet,
The Villain Pursues Constant Maiden,
or
Fair Virtue in Peril,
was a total flop until we added the bit with the torn-off dress. I want my circus to succeed so badly, and I want to do my part. And, hey, it's just another kind of show, and I do like to give one hundred percent when in performance.

“I said I would, so I will,” I said, with chin in air, noble expression on face. “Everyone else is giving their all to ensure the survival of the Montessori and Mattucci Circus and so must I. The winter will be long, and even if we are resting up in sunny Georgia, there will be expenses.”