The Museum of Extraordinary Things(7)
“Our creature will be whatever people imagine it to be,” he’d confided to Coralie. “For what men believe in, they will pay to see.”
The Professor brought her with him in his search. He often struck a more satisfying deal when he presented himself as a family man. He had a scant few weeks before the season began in which to find a wonder that would satisfy not only his customers but also the press. They went first to the docks in Red Hook, but there were no giant squids or whales as large as leviathans, no albino sea lions or jellyfish of enormous proportions. On the far west side of Manhattan they went to the meat markets, where the cobbled streets ran with blood from the many slaughterhouses nearby. Among the carnage there might be skulls and bones that could be sewn to the pelts of living creatures. While the Professor went through the markets, the liveryman stayed to guard their cart, for a ragtag gang of men scrutinized the rig. They eyed Coralie, calling out rude remarks. She often carried a knife in the pocket of her dress when she was out in public, and was glad to have it in her grasp now. It was the same knife she had used to draw blood when she cut through the webbing on her hands.
The street was desolate, and the gang edged closer. Coralie felt her heart grow heavy, but, as it turned out, the liveryman chased off the mob with a few well-aimed rocks. He was a burly, silent man who had spent hard time in Sing Sing for crimes he wouldn’t disclose. After the mob dispersed, he came to check on Coralie. She said she’d like some air and leapt from the carriage so that she might stand beside him, though she knew her father would have disapproved of her doing so. The soles of her boots were soon dyed red with butchers’ blood, which ran between the paving stones.
“I’d never eat a living creature,” the carriage man said, surprising Coralie with his ease of conversation, for he’d never spoken to her before this day. “They’ve got as much soul as we do. More if the truth be told.” A sparrow perched above them in a leafless plane tree and sang boldly. “See there.” The hired man pointed with his thumb. “That’s heart and soul.”
When the Professor returned empty-handed they continued on to the morgue at Bellevue, a dim and wretched place that the liveryman referred to as the bone house when he was instructed to set off in the hospital’s direction. To gain entrance, Sardie would state that they were looking for his poor daughter’s beloved mother, who had disappeared. They had done so before, much to Coralie’s shame. If they were at first turned away, Coralie would weep and appear distraught; the guards would then pity her and allow them to view the unclaimed dead. This time, however, as they walked up the granite steps, Coralie found she could not cry. She had begun to fear they would be punished for their conniving ways if indeed God saw and knew all of mankind’s deeds. Perhaps there was a hell below this earth, and they would burn in it for all the lies they’d told.
The Professor took Coralie aside when he saw her difficulty. “If you cannot cry, then I can see to it that you’re able,” he said. He caught her arm and squeezed it affectionately. “Not that I would ever have cause to do so.”
Coralie then understood what she must do. She pinched her own arm, hard, bringing bright tears to her eyes.
Once allowed in, they searched the morgue, though the smell was overpowering, and the contents horrifying. The Professor gave Coralie his linen handkerchief to place over her nose and mouth. There were several women laid upon the marble slabs, one so covered with blue-tinged bruises Coralie quickly turned from the sight. Another section was filled with children, unclaimed and unknown, their still, pale forms veined with cold, but, like ice, they appeared to be melting, their features pulled into expressions of sorrow. “None of these will do,” her father muttered. Back in the street, Coralie felt faint. She no longer thought she would have to pinch herself if she were again commanded to cry today.
They went on to an area called Frenchtown, where women and children were sold by the hour for sexual use and pleasure. There were evenings when only clients in formal evening clothes were allowed in and the whores were trained to speak with men of the upper classes and wore the most elegant and revealing gowns. Some of the houses were fitted with velvet couches and beds covered with silk duvets; others were filthy, dimly lit, tragic storehouses of sorrow and flesh. Within such places, some of those on sale were considered more desirable if they possessed abnormalities, exactly what the Professor wished to find. Coralie waited in the carriage while her father visited two of these wretched houses, one where boys were clothed in dresses, wearing rouge and color on their lips, the other a grim tenement filled with girls dolled up in oversized gowns, costumes that only served to show how very young they were. Neither house was the least bit interesting to the Professor, and he left both quickly enough. But at the second house he was followed by a heavyset man who had with him a child no older than six. The man did his best to get the Professor’s attention as he toted the girl in a rope sling, for she had neither arms nor legs.
“Here’s what you’re looking for,” the man shouted. “She’ll be to your liking. You can have her for a fair price.”
The child had begun to wail, but one smack from her caretaker and she hushed quickly enough. She appeared too stunned to cry any more. The Professor shook his head and stalked away. Still, the brutal man called after him. “You said you wanted a monster. She’s right here! Look no further.”