The Museum of Extraordinary Things(58)

The animal workers lived in nicely furnished apartments above the animal arena. Bonavita invited Coralie to his apartment for tea; his wife and daughter were visiting friends in Manhattan. Coralie hesitated, wondering if he read the same thing in her face that the tattooed lady had divined. Did he see her as a whore, expecting more than the kiss the night watchman had begged for? And yet Bonavita seemed a perfect gentleman, even though he was so attractive movie stars wrote him love notes. When Coralie sat at the table, he served orange pekoe tea, asking if she would like lemon or cream. His disability did not seem to affect him or his thoughts about himself, and this alone amazed Coralie. Soon enough, she learned that he possessed the kindness of a truly great animal trainer. He confided that animals never responded to cruelty; trainers who used that method would one day find that their charges turned upon them and be maimed by the beasts they had beaten into a false docility. Bonavita proclaimed that human beings were not the only species that cried or formed deep attachments. He made reference to a Captain Andre, the trainer of Little Hip, the elephant who was the mascot of the park, leading the opening day parade every year. In Bonavita’s estimation, Andre was a genius of a trainer, and in return his elephant was so resolute in his loyalty he would bellow all night if not allowed to sleep in Andre’s room.

Coralie felt comforted by these stories of men’s devotion to their charges. If a beast could be treated with kindness and respect, perhaps there was hope for her as well. Bonavita’s animals were treasured companions, rather than possessions to be shown off and displayed. Bonavita took her to see Black Prince, his pride and joy, the lion he had raised as a cub. Prince was sleeping on a cushion. When his trainer called his name, he looked up lazily and yawned. Before Coralie knew what was happening, Bonavita had opened the cage and slipped inside. The lion rose to his feet when he spied his trainer. When they met in the center of the cage, the creature let out a sound that sent chills down Coralie’s spine. He then leapt up to an enormous height, a black mane framing his ferocious face, his huge paws balanced on his trainer’s shoulders. Certainly the trainer’s deformity did not make him any less than any other man. He was, by far, the most courageous individual Coralie had ever seen.

Still, she imagined she would see his death before her very eyes. The cage was open, and Coralie wondered if she would rush to the trainer’s defense if tragedy struck, or if she would watch, paralyzed, as he was eaten alive. But the lion only rubbed his head against his trainer and seemed to embrace him. “That’s a good fellow,” Bonavita said. He pushed the lion off and afterward scratched at his mane with the palm of his hand, which the beast greatly appreciated. A deep rumbling came from Prince’s throat and chest.

“Come inside,” Bonavita urged his audience of one.

Coralie’s heart dropped. But she thought of her dream, how she had feared to make the leap from the ledge in the woods, and then, when she had expected to crash to the ground below, she fell into the blue water and knew she had been made for another element entirely.

She stepped inside the cage.

“Don’t scream or shout,” Bonavita said softly. “Ignore him.”

Coralie was still as the lion studied her. She dared not take a breath as the beast approached.

“I knew it.” Bonavita was pleased with himself and how good a judge of character he was. “You have a form of bravery inside you.”

The lion’s scent was of straw and an earthy wildness. He rubbed his head against Coralie, and as he did, Coralie felt her own wildness. She sensed that all her waking life had been a dream, and that it was only in this moment that she had at last opened her eyes.

When Bonavita called to Prince and clapped his hands, the lion went trotting back to his cushion. Coralie left the cage so that Bonavita might bring the lion his breakfast, the half-frozen carcass of a cow, which the lion attacked with studied intensity. Coralie noticed there were several coarse hairs on her skirt, some golden and some black. Her heart was still pounding, yet she felt overjoyed at having been so close to such a fierce creature, and one as great as Prince.

She asked Bonavita what allowed him to be so fearless in the presence of his lion, especially having been attacked earlier in his life.

“Oh, I fear him,” Bonavita assured her. “He could kill me if he wished. He and I both know that. But the lion that attacked me was misused and ill treated before I had him. I raised Prince from the time he was first born. There is a connection in that sort of companionship, a trust that goes beyond his nature, and mine as well I suppose.”

Coralie asked if Bonavita’s wife wasn’t afraid at each one of his performances, some of which included a dozen tigers and leopards surrounding him in a ring.

“I am good to my wife and to my daughter, but they understand me. In my experience you can only have one great love, and I have chosen mine.”

Coralie was certain that real love was nothing like the life she’d known, the lust of the exhibition room, the shadows lingering on the wall, the rasping sound of the tortoise in its pen, so calm and patient in its confinement, the men who had stalked her on the other side of the tank, then been ushered away as if they were mere figments, rather than flesh and blood.



The animal trainer had thought she was brave, but in her daily life Coralie remained a mouse. Her anger became self-directed, her wounds self-directed as well. When she was angry she stuck pins into her own flesh, but unlike the Human Pincushion, who had been with them for several years and who drank an elixir of nettle, blackberry, and lotus to stanch his wounds, Coralie bled. She felt the pain. In the evenings, she served her father large mugs of rum, so that he would close his eyes and dream and there would be peace inside their house. She shocked herself by considering how easy it would be to lace his drink with arsenic, which was stored in the garden shed and used to keep the rats away. She fled the house, frightened by the sheer wickedness of her thoughts.