"Tell me about China," Fancy asked Wu when she finally conquered her fear of the strange man with the queer blue dress and the screeching voice that held all but the most intrepid at bay.
"History of China like old man's memory," he replied. "Distant past more vivid than present. Ancestors more important than anything." That was all he would say that day before he shooed her away, but she noticed he said it very clearly.
"Why is it you pretend you can't speak American?" she asked him the next morning, feeling bold. "What you said to me last night sounded just right—not like the pidgin talk you're always scolding at people."
Wu put down the huge tin coffeepot he held, and much to Fancy's delight he bowed from the waist and said, "Woe to the man who tosses pearls before swine." He hadn't smiled exactly, but some inner mirth had shown out through his enigmatic eyes. She had seen it, as he had intended her to.
"I'll keep your secret for you," she told him conspiratorially, "if you'll tell me about China."
Wu had bobbed his head a few times in quick succession and replied, "Fair bargain," before going on about his work.
Since then, Fancy had learned much about the Chinese. He was not at all the caricature he'd invented for the benefit of those he considered his inferiors. He knew many things only a man of education could know, and his philosophy was different from any she'd heard about; he didn't even believe in heaven and hell.
"Learn to live correctly in this life. Not worry about next," he told her, dismissing the whole idea of a Christian hereafter. How like these primitive Americans to have only one all-purpose God, when any fool could see that many were needed to keep the universe in harmony.
"What are you cooking?" Fancy asked, sticking her nose past his shoulder and sniffing at the lumpy mixture in the bowl.
"Cook poison biscuit," Wu replied sourly. "Kill everybody, chop, chop!" Fancy giggled. When Wu talked pidgin to her it meant either that others were within earshot or that he was hopping mad.
"Ay! Mouth and stomach do more harm than good. It was mistake for heaven to endow us with them."
"What exactly happened to make you so mad?"
"Dog-vomit dwarf accuse Wu of stealing food money. I will put dog droppings in his soup and his tiny testicles will wither and fall off!"
Fancy's eyes widened. She was used to Wu's invective—usually his bark was far worse than his bite—so, impulsively, she leaned over and kissed his cheek, then scampered off in the opposite direction.
A small, unobtrusive smile curved the cook's thin lips. Of course he had stolen the food money and tucked it into his strongbox. The food he fed these foreign devils was plenty good enough for their unsophisticated palates. What would they know of the delicacy of a hundred-year egg or the precious flesh of the aba-lone? What need had they for more than biscuits and venison, rabbit, beef, and trail onions?
Pearls before swine indeed, he thought contentedly as he finished drying the last of the utensils he had used to feed the players, and hung the large slotted spoon on a peg near the door of his wagon.
He had played the fool so long now, the charade was like a cloak he wound about himself in the morning and discarded at night. Wu the unpredictable... Wu the fierce-tempered... Wu the crazy Chinese cook whose whims must be catered to— these were the roles that served his larger purpose. Wu the shanghaied laborer, no better than a coolie. Without thinking, he touched the amputated pigtail he always used to illustrate the tragedy of his plight. He chuckled as he did so.
"No pigtail," he would say in exquisite mock distress. "No go back to China!" China was the last place on earth he intended to go. China, with its Manchu maniac on the throne and its insidious dangers for one who had flown too high and been shot down. China, with its endless family obligations that could not be met by a patriot on the run. Oh, no. Wu would stay right here in America, where fortunes could be made by any man willing to work for them. Eventually, any of his family left alive would be taken care of and his face restored.
Work and plan. Work and Scheme. Work and pretend to be a fool. That was what it would take. As long as no man took him seriously, no man would bother to thwart his efforts. Ten years already had been spent on this circuitous but inexorable route to the future.
Wu had stowed away and worked at the worst jobs a boat could force upon a man. He had jumped overboard in New York harbor and swum to shore. He had starved and then found work in Chinatown where every penny, every fraction of a penny, he had hoarded in his box. Finally, when the time was right and his credentials as a cook were secure, he had begun to work his way west, for west was where the gold was. Even in China there had been stories of men made rich by a single plot of land that held the precious metal—and the anonymity of the new and lawless territory pleased him.
Hadn't he heard in Chinatown of gangs of coolies being herded west to work as navvies on the railroads, or as slaves in the mines? Why would anyone question the motives of one more Chinese in a vast sea of yellow faces heading west? Hadn't the gods been with him in his enterprise so far? They had shown him the way to the circus. Wes Jarvis was a fool where money was concerned, an overgenerous fool, but he was a good boss. The circus was the perfect place for Wu, his eccentricities, and his black box to hide on the way west.
Certain no one was anywhere near, Wu bolted the door to the wagon, lit a joss stick of incense on the little altar he had hidden behind the cookpots, for it would be essential to keep the gods placated on his journey, and unlocked the fastenings of the straps that held the strongbox of his fortune to the floor of the wagon. Opening the lid, he reached within to feel the reassurance of the coins within his grasp.
There were times, of course, when he regretted what had been lost, but that was foolish. He counted the wastefulness of regret to be a Western stupidity. Destiny. No more, no less, had made the revolution of young men fail—the revolution that was to replace the old imperial China with a new reform. So the dreams had died unborn and the intellectuals had scattered. Many had died at the Court of the Son of Heaven; hideous, lengthy deaths. The price of failed revolutions was invariably grotesque.
Why was he alive and so many others dead? Destiny. And because he was smart and subtle and, above all else, patient... a day, a month, a year... time was of no importance to Wu. Survival was important. And subterfuge. And the gold he amassed, which made it possible for new dreams to take the place of old ruined hopes.
The gods were well aware of his journey and of his great gifts. They had set him on the path and equipped him well for it, but the endurance was his own. That, beyond all else, would build him his empire.
Wu closed and bolted the lid of his box and secured it to the floor. Satisfied, he pulled the small, precious copy of Lao-tzu from its hidden pocket and settled in to read the philosopher who could be of most help to him in his mighty endeavors.
Chapter 8
Gitalis climbed up onto the three-legged stool so he could reach Fancy's neck with ease; with surprisingly strong, deft fingers he began to knead the fatigue from her aching muscles. Fancy sensed that he liked the touching, and she welcomed the sensitive fingers. It wouldn't do to have a kinked neck for tonight's performance.
There was far more touching permitted among the circus people than she'd ever remembered seeing in her old life, she thought idly. Men and women embraced. People slapped each other on the rump in passing; sometimes even the men embraced. It was a wilder, looser world than the ordinary, but it was not without its own strict rules, as she was learning from Gitalis, who was the repository of all earthly knowledge.
"In the circus, people help one another," he told her. "What we have, we share; except our privacy. There can be little solitude when people live on top of one another, so we must guard against intrusion in ingenious ways. We create small privacies.... We pretend not to know who sleeps with whom, who gambles beyond his pocketbook, who covets another's success. Or wife." He shrugged his shoulders meaningfully and chuckled.
"If someone becomes blatant
in his follies, we try to help him— if he will not be helped, we ostracize. It is a strict society, but a just one. And you must remember, Fancy, we in the circus welcome those who would be defenseless misfits in the outside world."
Fancy strained her head backward against the dwarf's probing fingers and found that the kink was miraculously gone.
"Thank you for fixing my neck, Gitalis," she said, touching his shoulder affectionately as she left him, but he knew from the touch that she meant to thank him for the learning. Every time he was with her now, he tried to pass on some knowledge she should possess. She was an eager sponge.
And she had real talent—too much for a tiny traveling show like theirs. Jarvis saw the gifts; he was training her speaking voice and teaching her to act, the old man was tutoring her in the stringed instruments, and already she had mastered the banjo and guitar. He, Gitalis, was coaching her lovely contralto singing voice into an instrument worthy of attention, training her vocal cords with operatic intensity and teaching her to read music with skill and sensitivity. And Magda... God alone knew what Magda was teaching the child, but like as not, it, too, was needed. Gitalis shrugged his child-size shoulders and checked his mental file for what needed doing. Go over Wu's accounting of their food supply, to see if that penurious devil was squirreling away a percentage of the food money again. Settle the dispute between Flute and Harp, the two halves were not speaking to each other. He must remember to tell Lena to be less conspicuous about her indiscretions with the three Marcatos. He ducked under the tiger wagon, a favorite shortcut available only to one of his size, and collided with Lena and Jose Marcato in a surreptitious embrace.
"You have nothing else to do?" he shouted at them in a mixture of Italian, Spanish, and English. "So you stand about trying to provoke Flute into shooting you both! Imbeciles! We do not have enough excitement in our show? Is that it?" The two mumbled startled apologies and rushed off in opposite directions.
"A traveling asylum!" he said aloud, slapping his forehead with the heel of his hand. He watched them go, then, humming one half of the duet in the third act of Carmen to himself, he went about the business of getting the circus through another night.
"Those three fools are fighting over you again, I see," Magda said with a judicious sniff, as Fancy entered her wagon flushed and breathless.
"They think I'm very pretty," Fancy replied with fifteen-year-old hauteur. "I can't help it if they all want me."
"Most men will want you, Fancy," Magda replied disdainfully. "Are you intelligent enough to make the most of that fact? Or so stupid you'll follow your private parts wherever they lead you?"
"Magda!" said Fancy, crestfallen. "I'm only trying to learn to be a woman."
Magda cocked an eyebrow at her and shook her head. "Come here, child," she ordered in a more congenial voice. "We must discuss."
Fancy sat down carefully, wondering what would come next. "We must discuss" was always the signal that Magda had something significant to say.
"To be a woman is to have great power," she began.
"You're joking, Magda. Women don't have half the rights of men."
"I said nothing of rights, you foolish girl! I speak of power!." Magda snapped the words as if speaking to a slow-witted child. "You mark my words: Sex is power as much as money is. Men have both, we have only one. So, we must be smarter than they are. Luckily, this is not hard for us."
Fancy giggled and Magda rewarded her with an amused look.
"You are beautiful, as I am," the older woman said. "In order to use that fact for your own benefit, you must do two things: Bridle your own lust and learn to control theirs."
Fancy felt color rise in her cheeks. She knew Magda spoke freely of forbidden subjects; indeed, all the circus people spoke of topics from which others shied. But she had not believed that words like lust were ever spoken among nice people. She looked at Magda, wide-eyed, not knowing how to respond.
"I know these things are not discussed in this land of Puritans. These Americans rut as often as all other men, but they hide the fact behind hypocrisy and pretend to be celibates! They are fools. Mothers tell their daughters nothing and the daughters go to their marriage beds shackled in ignorance. Then they spend their whole lives pregnant and die without ever having understood what I will tell you now."
"What exactly is lust?" breathed Fancy, barely able to speak the word aloud.
"It is what you feel between your legs when that imbecile Marcato caresses you."
Fancy started to protest, but Magda silenced her with a scowl.
"Do you think I haven't seen you flirting and fondling behind the wagons? Do you think I do not know how the blood boils in every man of the troupe when you wiggle your bottom and bat your eyes? Even the dwarf is half in love with you, the little pipsqueak!" Her accent made it sound peep-skwik and Fancy almost giggled, but stifled the sound.
"Do not protest! This is as it should be. What you must now learn is how to control this power that you have over men, so they will do as you wish. But to do this you must first of all accept your own sexuality. Your own body's cravings, Fancy, are very powerful—you will desire men as much as they desire you. A woman is more often undone by her own lust than by any man's.
"They will seek to own you. This, you must never allow. Such ownership is for peasants, not for us.
"Use your body for your own pleasure, Fancy, when you wish to. Choose the time and the place. Do not be at their disposal. No man, no government, no church must ever dictate the uses of your body, although many will try. It is yours alone, and you alone will answer for its use on the day of judgment. You may use it for your own pleasure or need, but never, under any circumstances, may you place your body's freedom under another's control.
"I will teach you how not to have a baby every year, but to do this you, not they, must maintain dominion over the urgings of your sexuality."
Fancy hadn't uttered a single sound since Magda had begun to speak.
"You must learn to seduce. And you must learn to turn away, the ones you do not desire without making an enemy. Men are more fragile than we—if their pride is hurt, they can be vicious. You must learn to leave them their dignity, even when you reject their advances. You must honor them for caring and honor yourself by maintaining the right to say no.
"Once you have learned to control the power you have over them, you must take care to use it well. All acts in the universe are ruled by the laws of retribution. You will reap what you have sown. You must sow wisely."
"Will you really teach me all I need to know about being a woman?" Fancy asked, her voice little more than an awestruck whisper.
"I will teach you," Magda said, "all but the most essential part."
"And what is that?"
"I cannot teach you courage," Magda said with great seriousness. "That you must learn for yourself."
"No, no, no, child!" boomed Jarvis. "From the diaphragm, not the throat! If you persist in speaking from the throat, you will grow nodes as big as turtles on your vocal cords and your instrument will be silenced!"
Fancy put down the script and strove to hold her temper. "That was from the diaphragm!" she shouted back. "That puny sound? Never!"
" 'A truant disposition, good my lord,'" murmured Gitalis from the sidelines.
" 'Give it an understanding,' " Jarvis replied softly, " 'but no tongue.'"
Gitalis nodded, amused, and went back to making his endless list.
Fancy finished the scene, the flush of anger in her tone spicing the lines. Her voice was developing nicely and her memory was formidable. Already she had a dozen roles and a full repertoire of recitations committed to memory. If she applied the correct discipline to developing her acting skills, she could go far.
A tiny knot of people gathered around the performers as Fancy finished her curtain speech; spontaneous applause greeted her closing lines.
" 'Season your admiration for a while,' " her mentor said disdainfully to the impromptu audience, shooing them away.
"Damn you, Jarvis!" Fancy exploded at him. "That was good and you know it."
"What use is good, when one is capable of great?" he snapped, then deliberately turned his attention to Gitalis and the other matters of the circus, leaving her fuming on the stage.
"She makes progress, Maestro," the dwarf said softly, as both men watched her stamp away.
"Indeed. And the higher her outrage, the better her art. The more I goad her, the harder she strives—if only to prove me wrong."
"You do not wish to break her spirit, of course."
" 'I must be cruel, only to be kind,' as the immortal bard would tell us. Far from breaking her spirit, I hope to teach her to control it. She is a passionate wench, my little man. She simply does not know it yet."
" 'Forbear to judge,' " Gitalis chuckled. " 'For we are sinners all.'"
Jarvis laughed in response and clapped the dwarf on the shoulder.
"Always the perfect quotation at your fingertips, my friend. I envy you your mind."
"As I envy you your body, sire. So we are even.
"What will become of her when she is grown?" the small man asked unexpectedly.
"She has genuine talent and burning ambition," Jarvis answered thoughtfully, "which is why she is worth goading. When the time comes, we must encourage her to leave us and go on to the real theatre. She is sixteen now, I think. Before the year is out she will be ready, don't you agree?"
"And the old man? She will take him with her?"
"Magda says he has not long to live."
"Ah, Magda and her prophecies! A 'tiger's heart wrapped in a woman's hide,' that one!"
"True enough, in some ways. But she cares for the girl and watches her future with misgiving."
" 'Then I shall think nobly of her soul, but in no way approve her opinion,' " responded the little man, pleased with himself for having found an appropriate retort.