‘Kyoto. But I travelled a bit as well. I spent some time in the south of the country, around Nagasaki. And I started off in Tokyo, of course. But mostly Kyoto.’
‘I was in Singapore about six months ago,’ she said. ‘But that’s the closest I’ve ever been to Japan. Is your wife Japanese?’
I was a little taken aback by the question but she smiled sweetly and nodded towards my hand which was holding my glass as I drank from it; the gleam of the thin golden wedding band caught my eye. To my surprise, I found myself regretting the fact that she had seen it. ‘Yes,’ I said after only the slightest pause. ‘Yes, we met in Kyoto. She was born there. Are you married?’
‘Not any more,’ she said, looking away and exhaling quickly. ‘Not since yesterday. You obviously don’t read the tabloids.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, feeling it was the appropriate remark, and referring to the divorce and not the comment about my reading habits, which confused me.
‘Don’t be sorry,’ she said quickly, in a tone which made me think that her next two words would not be the truth. ‘I’m not. So where’s your wife, Mr Buffalo Bill? What are you doing sitting in a hotel bar at three o’clock in the afternoon?’
I laughed. ‘She’s working, I guess,’ I said. ‘She’s a language professor at New York University. We’re just here on an exchange programme, only for another two weeks actually. Then we’re going to Colorado for nine months before going home.’
‘To Japan?’
‘Paris, actually. We live in Paris.’
‘World traveller,’ she said appreciatively. ‘Quite the jet-setter.’
I laughed and could feel myself blushing. ‘Not really,’ I said. ‘Paris is home, I think. It’s just that Hitomi got this opportunity to come here for a year, to the States I mean, and it seemed too good a chance to pass up.’
‘Hitomi’s your wife?’ I nodded. ‘And what do you do then? Are you a language professor too? Is that how you met?’
‘I’m a writer,’ I said. ‘A journalist anyway. I’ve written a couple of travel books, that’s all.’
‘Anything I might have heard of?’ I gave her their names. ‘Sorry,’ she said.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘They weren’t exactly bestsellers, but I do okay.’
She nodded. ‘You know,’ she said after a moment, tapping the top of her book with her finger. ‘He killed himself when he was only forty-five. Completed what he thought was his best work, his life’s work, and then committed seppuku.’ She was referring to the book’s author.
‘Yes, I’ve seen his grave,’ I said, lying for some reason, for not only had I never seen his grave, but I didn’t even know where he was buried. He could have been cremated or buried at sea for all I knew. I dreaded her asking me further questions about it but fortunately, she didn’t seem interested in those details.
‘It’s a strange thing to do, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘Most people who kill themselves do it because they feel like they’ve failed at something. That they’ve got nothing to feel proud of themselves for. Mishima did it for the opposite reason. He did it because he knew he’d succeeded. He’d written his books, he’d said what he wanted to say. And there was nothing left to live for. What do you think of that, Mr Cody?’
I was unsure. She was staring directly at me and I felt that my answer was important in some way. ‘I think it’s a stupid thing to do,’ I said. ‘He was young, he had a lot to write about yet. A lot to say. I couldn’t do that. Maybe he should have just stopped writing books and started living instead.’
‘But then you just write travel books,’ she pointed out. ‘It’s hardly the same thing, is it?’
‘No, I suppose not,’ I said. I felt unsettled, even slightly insulted, but drawn to her nonetheless. From the day that Hitomi and I had met I had never questioned my devotion to her. I had loved her from the start and, although during our separation I had slept with other women, I had never considered myself unfaithful for such events had been merely physical actions, not mental, not emotional. Perhaps that’s an easy get-out for me, but it’s how I felt. For when we were together, I had never been unfaithful and never planned on being. But then I had never found myself as drawn to any woman in the way Hitomi drew me; and although we had just met, I knew that I was desperately attracted to Eleanor Nightingale.
‘I wish my husband had killed himself,’ she said. ‘It would have been easier for all of us. He’s quite well known, you see. Very rich. Likes to think of himself as a philanthropist but he’s just an attention-seeking, publicity-hungry bastard, that’s all. We divorced yesterday and he’s not been kind to me.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ I said.
‘Don’t be too sorry,’ she said with a laugh. ‘It’s not like he’s left me destitute or anything. I mean I’ve got more money than I’ll ever know what to do with. It’s just the way he treated me that makes me … makes me …’ Her lip curled slightly and her fist clenched. She stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray and she stared at me fiercely, reaching across and taking my hand. ‘Do you know why he left me?’ she asked. I shook my head. She thought for a moment, deciding whether to tell me or not. ‘He left me because our sex life was unsatisfactory.’
‘Really,’ I said, surprised by her candour and unsure how to deal with it. ‘That’s a shame.’
‘Isn’t it though,’ she muttered in a cold voice. ‘We were married for two years and he tells me I never satisfied him. That’s a shame too, isn’t it?’ I blinked; I didn’t know what the correct answer was, nor how to answer truthfully.
‘Maybe you’re better off without him,’ I tried.
She laughed. ‘I loved him more than I loved my own life,’ she said, smiling. ‘Why am I telling you this? I don’t even know you. There were things he wanted me to do,’ she continued immediately, ignoring her own question. ‘Things I wouldn’t do. I told him why. I have things in my past that make me … stop cold, Mr Buffalo Bill. Do you know what that’s like? Do you? To stop cold?’
I shrugged and thought better of it, shaking my head instead. ‘No,’ I said simply. ‘No I don’t.’
‘I told him what those things were, you see. I opened my heart to him like I have never opened my heart to a man before and because of that, he left me. Well then. He’s a lovely man, clearly. He thinks he’s this great universal character, a unique and beautiful fucking snowflake. He’s nothing like that really. He’s a cold man. He has ice in his veins. I think he must have been dreadfully hurt as a boy to treat people like he treats them. He’s also a very stupid man.’
‘Sounds like you’re better off without him then,’ I said, employing cliché to atone for my inability to help her. I couldn’t stop staring at her, despite what she was telling me. The pink flush in her cheeks aroused me. I wanted to take her hand and tell her that it would all be okay in the end.
‘Yes but I love him. So how stupid is that. And that was several months ago,’ she said. ‘He’s barely spoken to me since, except through lawyers. He’s left me feeling like only half a woman. He’s left me feeling … filthy,’ she said, the word coming from deep within her, her tone descending octaves as she spat it out. ‘I hate him. He’s an emotional retard. I’ll never love anyone like him again.’ Silence descended on us for several minutes. She lit another cigarette and drew on it heavily; I could almost hear the nicotine entering her lungs. ‘How old are you, Mr Buffalo Bill?’ she asked eventually, and I told her: twenty-eight. ‘And when did you say you’re leaving New York?’
‘About two weeks,’ I said, swallowing nervously. ‘Less than, in fact.’
She nodded. ‘All right,’ she said in a steady voice. ‘I have a room upstairs. Do you want to fuck me?’ The line came out of her mouth awkwardly, but she held her slightly embarrassed gaze to mine after she had said it. She meant what she had said, I knew. And she meant it the way she had said it. It was a clear offer. No conversation, no flirting, just a simple offer. ‘Yes or no,’ she said bluntly as she waited for my answer.
‘I don’t much care either way. Just give me a straight answer.’
‘Yes,’ I said.
Nate Salsbury sat waiting for my great-grandfather in the bar of the Marchfield Hotel, near Central Park in New York City, tapping his fingers restlessly against the tablecloth. He had barely slept the night before and couldn’t resist yawning, even as the waiter approached him and asked him whether he would like a drink while he was waiting. He asked for a beer, hoping that it would keep him lively. Although he had met with Bill on a number of occasions already, he knew that this was the day when they would decide once and for all whether the wild west show would come into operation. The outcome of this meeting was far more important for Nate than it was for my great-grandfather; at this time, early in 1882, the melodramas in which Bill appeared were continuing to be the most popular entertainments in the city. He had no specific need to dissociate himself from them and begin a new venture, particularly one which would involve a substantial amount of money on his part with no guarantee of success. Nate had fewer options. He had blown his inheritance, such as it had been, on frivolity and had little to show for it. He did however have a good idea but needed a partner. Buffalo Bill, he believed, was the right man for such a role.
When Bill finally arrived, almost thirty minutes late, there was a spontaneous burst of applause from the other diners as he entered the room. He acknowledged them cheerfully and shouted that they would be welcome at Another Scalp for Custer, his latest play, any night of the week and twice on Wednesdays.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said, shaking Nate’s hand briskly as he quickly ordered a meal from the waitress without so much as looking at the menu. ‘You should have ordered already.’
‘That’s all right,’ replied Nate, just happy that he had shown up at all. ‘I wanted to wait until you got here.’
‘I’m ravenous,’ said Bill. ‘Been stoked up with Mary Jameson overnight. You know her?’ He gave Nate a lecherous wink, suspecting that such talk would embarrass the younger man, who was prone to bouts of piety and self-denial.
‘The actress,’ said Nate with uncertainty.
‘The very same. Louisa’s been here for the last month and it’s been damn hard to get away from her. Anyway, she went back to St Louis yesterday for a week’s holiday and I saw my opportunity.’
Nate laughed nervously. ‘Speaking of opportunities …’ he began, but Bill cut him off with an angry shake of the head.
‘Oh don’t start that nonsense,’ he said. ‘Let’s at least wait until we have a bit of a food inside us before we talk business. That won’t kill you, will it? I’ve built up quite the appetite over the last twenty-four hours, let me tell you. What about you anyway? Haven’t you got a girl somewhere? A young man like you ought to have a girl. What’s the matter with you anyway?’
‘There is nothing the matter with me,’ said Nate in a slightly offended tone. ‘I prefer not to discuss matters of a personal nature, that’s all. I thought we were here to discuss business.’
‘All right, damn you,’ said Bill cheerfully. ‘Go on then. If you can’t speak civil for five minutes then let’s have it. What have you got for me?’
Nate sat back and cleared his throat. He had prepared this speech carefully over the previous twenty-four hours while his prospective partner had been whoring around and wanted to make sure that it came out right. ‘The wild west show as I envision it,’ he began, ‘would contain a number of different elements, all of which represent an aspect of life on the frontiers, a world which our audience has read about but has never actually seen.’
‘They can see it every night at the theatre,’ said Bill. ‘Why, my plays are packed every night of the week and you must have seen the number of imitators we’ve inspired. They’re everywhere. Not as successful, mind you.’
‘Yes, they can see it on the stage,’ agreed Nate. ‘But those performances last for just an hour and take place in a confined space. What we can do is bring them to a wider audience, literally. And those things which you simulate on the stage, why we can perform them for real.’ Bill nodded. They had discussed the basics of the shows before and agreed to them; the question came down to whether there was an audience for such a thing or not. ‘The important thing is,’ continued Nate, ‘to ensure that everything is as real as possible. So we have cowboys, sheriffs, members of Indian tribes, buffaloes, horses, all sorts of animals. We make sure that each plays the role they do in the west and perform in big arenas where thousands can come to see it.’
‘And who plays the roles?’ asked Bill. ‘Are you looking for actors to play them?’
Nate shook his head. ‘For the cowboys, no,’ he said. We can find real cowboys who want to earn some money and pay them to entertain. Why, you and Texas Jack Omohundro made a good bash of becoming actors, didn’t you, and these men wouldn’t even have to be acting. They just have to do what they do anyway. Of course, they have to be good riders and quick draws. Otherwise they’re of no use to us.’
‘And the Indians,’ asked Bill, already anticipating the answer. ‘Who should play them?’
‘That’s where we need the actors. If we need, say, thirty Indians, we hire more cowboys and perhaps some actors, paint and feather them like the Cheyenne savages, and the crowd will lap it up. Those who are actors can be trained to shoot. You could take charge of that, if you wanted.’
Bill pressed his beard close to his chin and thought about it. He sighed heavily, lost in concentration as he decided what decision was the correct one, while Nate Salsbury waited nervously for an answer. ‘It’s a good plan,’ he said eventually, allowing the other man to sigh in relief. ‘But there’s one flaw.’
‘Which is?’
‘The nature of the drama. When I first came to New York and started performing on the stage, the whole point of the thing was that it was to be a dramatic production. Nobody expected it to be real. The audience sat quietly, we came on in the spotlights, and pretended they weren’t there, held imaginary fights and after I’d killed half the people in the company, the curtains came down and everyone got up again to take their curtain calls.’
‘Well of course,’ said Nate, unsure what my great-grandfather was getting at. ‘What else would they expect from a play?’
‘Yes, but this isn’t a play that you’re suggesting, is it?’ asked Bill. ‘You’re talking about a more real entertainment than that. A circus of sorts. You want to show what the west is actually like, naturally in a dramatic context, but outside of a theatre. When you take it off the stage you owe the audience a little more validity.’
Nate nodded. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘But I don’t understand. What are you getting at?’
‘I think we should hire real Indians to be part of this thing. I think we should approach a tribe of Indians, go to the leader and offer them money to come in on it.’
Nate laughed. This had been his original intention but he had dismissed it as impossible. ‘They’d never agree to it,’ he said. ‘The wars are still going on. You can’t walk into a conflict like that and just ask a tribe to give it up and join a circus like this. They’d never agree to it,’ he repeated
‘Of course they would,’ said Bill. ‘You think the wars are continuing? You’re wrong, my friend. They’re over to all intents and purposes. Sure, there might be some skirmishes still breaking out here and there and the Indians may be refusing to move off their land into reservations, but they stand no chance of winning. They’re outnumbered a hundred to one. It’s just a matter of wills at this stage. Everyone’s standing their ground. Sooner or later they’ll do what they’re told and a few years from then they’ll just integrate into our own society. It’s inevitable. The majority will always win. I guarantee you that if we were to find the right Indian, if we can advertise that the right Indian is part of this thing, then we can make it the most successful show ever seen anywhere.’
‘And who would that be?’ asked Nate. ‘It would have to be someone famous.’
‘Who’s the star of th
e show?’ asked Bill quietly, smiling to himself, aware of what the answer had to be.
‘Well you are,’ he replied. ‘It’s got to be Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show, after all. It’s the name that brings in the crowds.’
‘Why?’
Nate raised an eyebrow quizzically. ‘Why what?’ he asked.
‘Why does my name bring in the crowds? What’s special about it?’
‘Because it’s famous,’ came the answer. ‘You’re famous. You’re a celebrity.’
‘That’s it, don’t you see?’ said Bill. ‘We need an Indian of the same calibre. Someone who is detested as much as I am loved but whose name is as well known. Someone inextricably linked to me.’ He paused for dramatic effect. ‘Any suggestions?’ he asked.
Nate laughed. ‘The only one I can think of who matches your description is Sitting Bull,’ he said. ‘The people hate him for his part in the death of General Custer and you’ve represented him in your plays. But obviously you’d never think of casting him?’
‘Wouldn’t I?’
Nate Salsbury stared at my great-grandfather as if he was mad. ‘You’ve got to be kidding me,’ he said. ‘He’d never agree to it for a start. And anyway I thought you detested him?’
Bill’s eyes opened wide as the food finally arrived and he lifted his knife and fork to begin, but not before pointing the tip of the former at his companion carefully. ‘Don’t ever underestimate what a man will do for money,’ he said. ‘Or for a little extra publicity. Principles, war, ideology … these things mean nothing any more. Celebrity … now that’s where the future lies, my friend. Buffalo Bill and Sitting Bull together in the Wild West Show. What do you think, Nate? Do you think people would pay money to see that?’
Nate smiled. He took this as a yes.
It was midsummer’s night and the Regis-Roc Circus was preparing for its largest annual show. Every year on that evening they brought all their entertainers together for an extravaganza. This year it was being held in Cornwall and, despite the fact that ticket prices were increased by twenty per cent on the night, they had sold out the Big Top within hours. The Rose trapeze group had prepared one of its more difficult routines, during which Ellen Rose would perform a double somersault in mid-air before being caught by her ankles by Joseph Craven as he flew past on the trapeze before she fell. They had practised it over and over again with the aid of a net and it always went perfectly. Although there were the usual nerves before the performance, there was a general feeling that it would be a success.