Hottentot Venus (14 page)

—No. All’s not lost. We will manage without him . . . Until he comes back, of course.

I pretended to believe him. I knew only that I loved Master Dunlop as I had loved the Reverend Freehouseland—with the passionate single-minded trust of a nine-year-old.

But I wondered if it wouldn’t have been better for everyone if I had never overheard their conversation and he had just told me Master Dunlop was dead . . .

Every class of people from dukes to sweepers mingled in a stampede of movement and noise at 225 Piccadilly, which proudly advertised a show for every taste and every class. People dressed in their Sunday best came to gawk at a living male child with four hands, four arms, four legs, four feet and one torso born in Manchester, a pair of Bohemian sisters joined at the pelvis, a Welsh female dwarf, forty-four years old and thirty-six inches high, a bearded woman, German Lilliputians and of course a fat lady. There were piano players, singers, a strong man and the “Wonderful Fistic-Stone-Breaker” who could lift five hundred pounds with his teeth. There were clairvoyants, tarot readers, fortune-tellers and an exhibit of the royal Ashanti golden stool, captured by the British during their African campaign of 1809.

I was sure I had passed the frontier of the real world into the thing-that-should-never-have-been-born land as Master Hendrick escorted me through the maze of stands, platforms, tents, pagodas and stalls, each with a pitchman hawking his wares to the jeers, cheers, whistles and simple exclamation of the crowd. Any day would find a certain measure of princesses, dukes and earls, actors, servants and clerks, merchants, tailors and bankers. Each exhibition had its price, from a penny to several shillings. The fat lady was seven feet tall and weighed six hundred pounds. At the other end of the scale was Mademoiselle Camancini, the Sicilian fairy who weighed twelve pounds, was thirty inches in height with feet hardly three inches long and a waist of eleven and a quarter inches around.

The tiny mortal, whispered Master Hendrick, had received more than two hundred visitors at three shillings apiece last Thursday and the editor of the
Literary Gazette
had fallen abjectly in love with her. But all I saw was another thing-that-should-never-have-been-born with a wracking cough, a voice like the whine of a baby lamb and haunted eyes.

—There is a rumor, he continued, that Mam’selle is not French at all, but Irish, but even so, such a minute form sustaining the function of life, is sufficiently astonishing . . .

I turned my head to look at a beautiful tall Englishwoman with pale eyelashes and red blond hair wearing the latest gossamer clinging high-waisted dress with a heavy fringed cashmere stole thrown over her shoulder. Instead of a bonnet, she had on a high turban held by a rhinestone clasp holding an ostrich feather. She stared back at me curiously, immobile, tapping her parasol.

—Her manager, Dr. Gilligan, continued Master Hendrick, is a doctor who lives in our same hotel with his wife and mother-in-law. He takes care of the fairy on her travels and pays attention to her health. He’s taking . . . Are you listening, Saartjie? He’s taking her on tour to Liverpool, Birmingham, Oxford and Manchester—with her family’s consent, of course. They live in Dublin.

At the mention of Manchester, I grew pensive. Would I ever see Manchester and the grave of the Reverend Freehouseland? Would I ever recover the ten pounds I had been robbed of? My inheritance?

—The Royal College of Surgeons have offered, if any misfortune should occur to cause the child’s death, to give him or the family five hundred pounds for her remains for the purpose of dissection and the use of her remains for science—but wait until we open! We’ll charge more. She costs two shillings and an extra shilling if you want to pick her up or fondle her. Look, here it is, we’ve arrived.

At the very end of the hall stood a wide alcove festooned with red curtains just under a high square window. Inside, there was a platform about three feet off the ground. The floor was wooden and sprinkled with sawdust. Directly behind the back curtain was a small windowless dressing room and a door leading to the communal courtyard outside. It was called the courtyard of miracles because all the circus attractions gathered there to eat, smoke and talk.

—This is our stand, Sarah, bought and paid for. The handbills are being printed now and the posters painted. I have ordered exotic plants and palms and a map of Africa in relief. Over the alcove will be written in bold letters, “The Venus Hottentot, the first of her race ever to set foot on English soil!”

Master Hendrick went on excitedly but I myself was strangely subdued and silent.

—Couldn’t we wait until Master Dunlop is returned? I asked.

—Goodness no! And waste all that rent! No, no. I’m doing everything the way Alex had planned it down to the merest detail—You shall wear, for the sake of decency, a silk mousseline sheath so formfitting and so exactly matched to your own color it will be like a second skin. Your leggings and moccasins, your jewelry and pearls, your apron and the leather mask to hide part of your face as you requested, are all ready. We open this Monday without fail.

—Why do you think he hasn’t written all this time or sent word that he is safely arrived?

—Why, Saartjie, didn’t I tell you? I got a letter from him yesterday. I’ll read it to you when we get home.

I was elated. He had not abandoned me. Back on Duke Street, Master Hendrick took out a piece of paper, began to read the letter from Master Alexander to me:

My dear Sarah,

Please, don’t worry. Everything is going exactly as I have planned and I
have had some success although I may have to stay away longer than I had
planned. I regret not to be there for your triumph, but I am sure Hendrick
has everything under control.

When I return, we will plan a traveling show to see England, which
is much more than just London. Country folk have never seen such a spectacleand several businessmen have made inquiries for bringing you to
their factories in the north of England.

Don’t eat too much chocolate nor imbibe too much gin. Be home soon.

My precious one, lovingly.
Alexander Dunlop.

I listened quietly to the words of Master Alexander. For the first time in my life, I wished that I could read them for myself. But I was decided. I would obey him and I would wait for him. My dream of freedom, fortune, a new way of life was not in vain. I determined not to be a dog-in-the-wind, but to stick to my goal. All this I silently promised myself. I would be somebody one day and the haughty English who despised me and had conquered my country, would pay gold to see the original landlords of the Cape in the flesh. The insignificance of my former life, my former slavery, my poverty would be washed away. I would invent a new existence that mattered, become a real person, able to exhibit my true nature. I would be recognized as a human being with dignity and power over my destiny. I began to believe this growing sensation of strength, of purpose, of having the last laugh—anxiety had disappeared with Master Alexander’s reassuring words and the fact that he would be coming back soon.

Master Hendrick drew a satisfied breath of relief, as if to say there was so much to do and so little time, he didn’t need a revolt from me just now. There were the two-shilling admission tickets, the letters to the Academy of Science and the Royal College of Physicians . . . He cursed Master Alexander for leaving him in the lurch and with all the risk! He would regret it someday, he swore. He changed his shirt and cravat before leaving to deliver the throwaways and check the text of the advertisements he had placed in every London newspaper. When he left, I nervously braided feathers for my apron. It was Shit moon, I thought, the month the Khoekhoe gorged themselves on fresh goat’s milk—four months since I had left the Cape.

Morning Post,
THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 20, 1810

The Hottentot Venus has just arrived. She can be viewed between one o’clock and five o’clock in the afternoon at number 225 Piccadilly. She comes directly from the banks of the Chamtoo River, at the frontier of the Cape Colony. She is one of the most PERFECT specimens of this race. Thanks to this extraordinary phenomenon of nature, the PUBLIC will have the occasion to judge to what extent she surpasses all the descriptives of historians concerning this tribe. She is dressed in the costume of her country with the ornaments usually worn by her people.

She has been examined by the outstanding intelligentsia of this city. Every one of them has been astonished by the sight of such a marvelous specimen of the human race. She has been brought to this country by Hendrick Caesar and their appearance will be brief, beginning Monday next, September 24, the tariff being two shillings per person.

When the curtain drew back for the first time and I walked onto the wooden stage and became the silent, unmoving, unblinking object of the audience’s gaze, the silence was like a cannibal’s mouth. My skin burned as if I were standing in a circle of fire or the glare of the morning sun on Table Mountain. I was more than Africa for them, I was a thing-that-should-never-have-been-born. I was everything they, thank God, were not. I wore a leather mask which hid half my face, as if the entire vision of me was too monstrous to contemplate. It was my idea. I thought to hide my shame. The mask stopped the audience’s gaze cold, leaving them floundering naked like hooked fish on the edge of a great mystery while it cloaked me, who was truly naked, within a veil of even greater mystery. I was a sold-out, sensational success from the start. In a few days, I was famous all over London. Crowds flocked to see me. So many visitors crowded into the small stall that the police had to be called to control the flow. In the first week, Master Hendrick took in five hundred pounds. Songs, poems, penny posters, cartoons and newspaper articles soon abounded. My master couldn’t believe his eyes or his good fortune.

—Step right up, ladies and gentlemen, gentlemen and ladies, he would cry, for the thrill of a lifetime. Just arrived from darkest Africa, the true, the only, missing link of evolution, ladies and gentlemen, the Hottentot Venus, never before seen in fair England, a most perfect specimen of that race of humankind. Discovered in the newest English colony of the Cape of Good Hope, at the tip of southern Africa. Nubile, twenty-one years old, female, a true phenomenon of nature, the virgin Eve risen from the Garden of Creation to the first, primitive level of humanity. Step right up, ladies and gentlemen, examine the legendary Hottentot apron, her amazing hinder parts that are truly unique. Absolutely no fakery, only freakery here!
(Laughter)
Guaranteed authentic by the Royal Academy of Science! This shepherdess has lived amongst the most savage animals of the forests as one of them. She is real. She is unique. Her race is protected by His Majesty King George’s government as a scientific wonder as well as for its imbecility. Step right up, please, and behold the African Eve—the wonder of the Cape of Good Hope. She can be viewed for only two shillings per person. Two shillings only for a look at the female wonder of this century and the Hottentot apron. Limited engagement. Step up now!

From the first, I was astonished by the viciousness and the voracity of my audience. On the very first night, hundreds of people dressed to the nines pushed and elbowed the crowd, craning their already long necks, winking and chewing tobacco, shouting and waving, stomping and clapping, cheering and hurling epithets. My head swam, understanding nothing of the English cries and shouts the audience hurled at me. I appeared on the stage raised about three feet from the floor at one end. Then, at a cue from Master Hendrick, I walked forward, my body covered in a tight sheath of flesh-colored silk mousseline, and paced the length of the runway, my sighs and anxious glances at Master Hendrick turning into real sullenness if I was ordered to smile, or to play my guitar, or to sing or to jump or run or look this way . . . or that. Master Hendrick would invite the spectators to examine me to assure themselves nothing was fake. Some of them accepted the invitation by touching my backside or searching for evidence of padding. One pinched me, another walked around me, a gentleman poked me with his cane, a lady used her parasol to ascertain that all was “natural.” Master Hendrick sometimes used a long piece of bamboo to prod me around or move me forward or backwards. But worst of all, the laughter—raucous, lewd, predatory, and hate-filled—never stopped. It erupted at the slightest excuse, a stumbling foot, a tear, an epithet from a spectator, the shrill whistles and catcalls of the gallery.

I spied the same white woman I had seen on my first visit to 53. She was very tall and very narrow and dressed all in black as if she hated the frivolous colors of the current fashions, all those greens, pinks and lavenders . . . Black, at any rate, suited her. It went with her long pale face and beautiful gray eyes that were cool, and I imagined her hand on my brow would have been like the touch of ostrich feathers. Her gaze would have quieted a reckless fever. She was with another woman and I despised her because beholding me, her eyes had filled with tears, reminding me I was still human . . .

The “Hottentot Venus” soon eclipsed the other exhibits. Master Hendrick took in more than five hundred pounds the month of Speckled Ear, October. That, he exclaimed, was more than six thousand pounds a year. Crowds began to arrive clutching the penny posters that had begun to circulate or the newspaper caricatures asking for autographs, which Master Hendrick would sign “Venus” with the date or on which I would make my mark. I thought of the taunting boys of Cape Town, white farmers running amok with their horses and whips, the English soldiers with their rifles and bayonets. These people gaping at me were the same—the same race that had murdered my mother and beheaded my father with the same mindless cruelty, the same unyielding desire to devour and destroy. Yet they loved me. Sometimes I would whisper the ancient Khoekhoe incantation for the dead, “I am here for the pain. I am here for the desperation my pain brings me . . .”