Whistling For The Elephants Part 5

I have to be honest and say that I wasn't that keen on Rocco when he was alive. He was really too drippy for a pet. But now he was dead I felt bad. I kept thinking about Sweetheart crying and I wanted to do something to help. Anyway, the funeral had kind of been my idea so I went to the only place I could think of. I had often parked my bike against the window at Torchinsky's Funeral Parlour on Main (Est. 1928) while I went to get a piece of pizza from Tony's. Tony didn't want bikes in front of his place because he liked to show off in the window, tossing dough in the air and making it land on the tray. Putting your bike in front of Torchinsky's was okay. It wasn't like Torchinsky's had a big display which you could obscure. They couldn't exactly do embalming or whatever to bring in the customers. The window was done in basic black with a large framed map of the cemeteries in the area marked with their religious denominations. It made it look as if they charged by distance of delivery.

There was organ music playing when I entered but otherwise the place was as quiet as you would expect for the departed. I can't say it was exactly cosy - but it was a place of embalming. In my great Chinese order embalmed things were second only to 'Those Belonging to the Emperor'. The store had to be an important place. A leatherette sofa stood against one wall with framed photographs of floral tributes hanging all around. There was a large wooden table with several small boxes on it which Mrs Torchinsky was polis.h.i.+ng. She looked up at me as I opened the door.

'So what do you think?'

'About what?'

Mrs Torchinsky held up a miniature coffin complete with bra.s.s handles. 'The new oak. I think it looks nice.'

The coffin was maybe ten inches long and three inches wide. It was perfect but I couldn't think what you would use it for.

'It's a little small,' I said.

Mrs Torchinsky laughed. 'It's only for display. Unless maybe you have a dead gerbil. You don't have anything dead, I'm right?'

'No, but I wanted to ask about a small, you know, box. It's for a dog.'

'For a dog?' Mrs Torchinsky shook her head. 'On this we should one day retire.

The organ music stopped and a scratching sound started behind the curtain. The record had finished. From the next room I could hear rhythmic banging. Maybe someone was trying to get out of one of the oak coffins.

'Builders,' said Mrs Torchinsky. 'Building a new chapel of rest. In our lifetime we should get some rest.' She was a comfortable-looking woman but kind of pinched in at the waist. Her grey hair had been given the general direction of a bun but it had rebelled and hung in wisps all around her plump face. It wasn't a bad thing. It sort of hid the hair which grew on her top lip. She had quite a moustache. I had to remember to ask Sweetheart if Mrs Torchinsky looked like the bearded lady she had talked about. I didn't know how much beard a woman could have. Mother got little hairs on her chin. I knew that, even though she always put the tweezers away if I came in when she was using them. Mrs Torchinsky put down the baby coffin and moved a black cotton drape to put the record back on. From beside the record player she got her coat and hat.

'Ralph!' she called to the back of the store. 'Ralph, I gotta go out and get cookies for the builders.'

A surprisingly loud voice boomed from the back. 'They want cookies they should build a bakery.'

'You got customers.' Mrs Torchinsky put on her coat. 'For a dog.'

'A dog I can do,' yelled the voice. 'A dog would be good. Bite the G.o.dd.a.m.n builders in the a.s.s. Are you people never going to be finished?'

The question was answered by more banging. Mrs Torchinsky b.u.t.toned her coat.

'My husband will see to you.' She turned to go, then turned back. 'I'm sorry for your loss. May the dog rest in peace.' It was very professional. She smiled, pleased with herself It was fascinating. It made her moustache spread sideways. She left. I waited for a moment until Ralph Torchinsky appeared. He looked like an undertaker. He was dressed like an undertaker. He just didn't talk like one. But the surface picture was great. In his late fifties, he was kind of spooky-looking. He had a slight deformity on his back and you couldn't tell if it was just a stoop or an actual hump. It pushed his bald head down, as if he spent all his time making sure clients stayed below in their graves. He wore fantastically thick spectacles with gla.s.s you could have cut from a whiskey tumbler. Maybe he couldn't see into the graves at all. Maybe the stoop and the bad eyes had developed from years of trying to look sympathetic and efficient at the same time, or maybe he had always had it, I don't know. He wore grey striped pants and a tailcoat with an old-fas.h.i.+oned wing-collar s.h.i.+rt. Over the top of his funereal outfit he had a white lab coat. I wished I hadn't come. Maybe he was in the middle of cleaning up some dead person. I was sure I could detect the waft of something chemical about him. Anyway, he looked the part of a funeral man but the voice was bad casting. It was much too loud.

'So you lost your dog?' he bellowed. 'What kind of dog was it?'

'It wasn't actually my...'

'I hate this music,' announced Mr Torchinsky loudly. 'Why can't we play anything else? Forty years I've been listening to G.o.dd.a.m.n organ music. In all those years I never figured out why people want you to be so G.o.dd.a.m.n quiet in funeral parlours. It's not as though you could wake any of the clients. Band music. That would cheer people up. I love band music. Sousa. There was a man. Come.'

He gestured to the curtained arch which led through to the back of the store. I had suddenly lost my nerve. Seeing a dog dead had been enough. I mean, it had actually been quite interesting but I didn't want to graduate to the real thing. You know, people.

'Mr Torchinsky... it's not even my dog and the thing is...'

'Come,' he repeated and disappeared out back. I had too many English manners not to do as I was told. Through the cloth arch there was a corridor with several closed doors. Here the dead no doubt lurked, with fixed grins on their lips and formaldehyde up their noses. At the end of the corridor, double doors led into a large room where two workmen were sitting drinking root beer. There were bits of wood and sawdust everywhere.

'Please G.o.d no one should die before you finish your G.o.dd.a.m.n soda,' yelled Mr Torchinsky as we pa.s.sed by and out a door at the back. The place wasn't what I had expected. Behind the dark store there lay a large open lawn. Beyond it was a substantial gla.s.shouse which stood like a relic of some Victorian era. Mr Torchinsky hurried over the lawn and opened the door. I was right behind him. Heat rose up and hit us as we entered. It was a remarkable place. Far removed from death, it was awash with life. To say that the place contained birds does not begin to do justice to the collection in the interior. It was a Santa's grotto for the ornithologically inclined. There were birds everywhere. Birds of every shape, colour, size and flying ability. There were the bombing Biggles types and the quivering victim types. Mr Torchinsky stood surrounded by them. He took a small portion of something and put it on his tongue. A small bird came and sat on his finger and he fed it from his mouth. Now I could see what the white coat was for. A white coat made whiter by bird droppings.

'See this, see this,' called Mr Torchinsky. 'A Hungarian thrush. I have done it, you know, I have done it,' he said, spitting bird food in every direction in his excitement.

Mr Torchinsky began a small dance. He jigged, singing to himself.

'I've done it. I've done it. I will be the person to introduce into the United States every single bird that William Shakespeare ever mentioned. Look at my babies. There are robins, wagtails, skylarks, starlings, hedge sparrows, dunnocks, song-thrushes, missel-thrushes, blackbirds, redwings, my Hungarian thrush, nightingales, goldfinches, siskins, bullfinches, great t.i.ts, Dutch t.i.ts, dippers, corncrakes, parrot crossbills, house sparrows, cherry birds. Four thousand European songbirds. Think of that. My wife, she has no idea. Such a show I could make before I am too old.

'That time of year thou mayst in me behold, When yellow leaves, or none, or few do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.'

A red bird landed on Mr Torchinsky's bald head and slid off, making him laugh. 'Aren't they wonderful? Even in death there is life. Come, we deal with the dog. Such a sadness when a dog dies. Maybe you should think about birds.'

We went and sat in Mr Torchinsky's office. It looked like any other office except it had several urns on display and a 1968 calendar from the National a.s.sociation of Morticians highlighting particularly busy times of year - after Christmas, Labour Day, that kind of thing. Framed on the wall was a picture of a large, square house. The one from the painting. I wasn't sure how to explain about Rocco so I started with the picture.

'Is that the Burroughs House?' I asked.

Torchinsky nodded. 'The wrong business I went into. Boots, that was where the money was. The Burroughs they made a fortune out of boots and what did they spend it on? Orangutans and elephants. Boots wasn't enough. John Junior he had to go into show business. That's the old house. I went to work there when I was fifteen. I always liked it best. The new place was too fancy. That,' he tapped the photograph, 'that was a solid house. John Junior built that one to impress his father and you know what his father did?'

I shook my head.

'Died just before it was finished, because life's like that. John Senior, come all the way from Ireland. Made the most beautiful boots and had a daughter who never walked. Poor Phoebe. Ain't life like that too? So then Billie comes along and John Junior he is crazy for her, bam, down comes the old house and up goes the new. Crazy time. I should never have listened to them. So many people were dying those years before the Crash. Everyone thought there was money but it was all falling apart. I was young. John Junior was always looking for an angle. He said to me, "A funeral parlour, now would be a good time for a funeral parlour. I'll set you up." I should have gone into boots. Factories making boots, then I would have made money. Or liquor. Booze was the big money. You heard of Prohibition?'

'No.'

'Made John Junior a lot of dough. The wrong trade I went into. Though death we had plenty of toward the end. People beaten to death in speakeasies, people having "accidents" off the top of skysc.r.a.pers. Too much high living. I laid her out, you know.'

'Who?'

'Billie. John Junior's wife. G.o.d, she was beautiful, even at the end. Most beautiful thing I ever saw. Here, look.' Mr Torchinsky stooped down some more and reached into a drawer at the bottom of his desk. He rummaged for a moment and then brought out a large paper bag. From inside the bag he carefully removed a magazine and laid it in front of me. It was a copy of Vogue from 1925. On the cover a young woman looked out grinning. She was gorgeous. A kind of living poster for what the jazz age wanted to be. She wore a khaki s.h.i.+rt with the sleeves rolled up, a blue-and-green-striped tie and dark pants tucked into knee-high leather riding boots. I guess the outfit might have been considered somewhat shockingly masculine for the time. Billie, however, looked very female and very fabulous. Her short blond hair with its Marcel wave was a feminine full stop to a formidable costume. Beside her, looking calm despite the fame, stood a huge tiger. A banner proclaimed the woman: Billie Blake, Tiger Tamer. I suppose it was a cliche of the jazz age really - a 1920s woman, young, blonde, exciting, living life on the edge - but I thought it was thrilling.

'Greatest female cat trainer of all time,' declared Mr Torchinsky. 'And she had some compet.i.tion then. In her time it was a growing business. I think there were more than fifty animal trainers in the US in the twenties, but Billie carried the flag. Such an instinct the girl had for it. Mr Torchinsky picked up the magazine and leafed through it tenderly.

'And you knew her?'

'Oh yes, I saw her in the cage many times. So beautiful. It was something to watch. Not that I think her family was pleased. They wanted her to be a nurse, but she couldn't do it. She had this thing about blood. Forgive me, but a nurse who can't deal with blood is like an undertaker who worries about ghosts. I think she graduated and everything but then she had a kind of breakdown. Her father, who was a big noise in bicycle wheels, sent her to California to recuperate. Bicycle wheels, such money in that too. Boots, bicycle wheels, things in factories. Me, I'm an undertaker.' Mr Torchinsky sighed as he looked at the faded, rich people having a good time in the old publication.

'John Junior only saw that magazine and decided to marry Billie. I remember when I met her. When John Junior brought her home to the house.'

After her breakdown, Billie had been packed off to stay with her uncle Lief and his daughter Grace, Grace Gerritsen. Grace was a year younger than Cousin Billie and not anywhere near as beautiful. What she was was tall. 'Statuesque', people said, when they were being polite. She was also fantastically strong. Built like an Olympic rower. It gave her a kind of magnetism a lot of people found attractive. Until Billie arrived, Grace had led a rather solitary life. She was studious and liked to read, especially history. She didn't go out much, but Billie changed all that. The two young women hit it off right away and it didn't take long for Billie to make sure they were the talk of the town. Two independent women with money to spend and the energy to spend it. It was the summer of 1922 when Grace, then seventeen, and eighteen-year-old Billie went to visit Selig Zoo in Los Angeles. There they saw a stuntman wrestle Rajan, a huge four-hundred-pound Bengal tiger. It was the most exciting thing either of them had ever seen.

The stuntman was called Roth and Billie asked him if she could come in the cage with Rajan. People didn't know about wild creatures then, and anyway Billie was legendary for not giving up when she wanted something. She plagued Roth until he relented.

'You have to sign a release form,' said Roth. 'I ain't havin' your friend here crying when Rajan turns you to corned beef' Billie laughed and signed. She wouldn't let Grace do it. She was like that. Always protecting her. Playing the older one. A small crowd gathered as Roth opened the cage door and let Billie in. Rajan was lying in a corner at the back of the cage. He got to his feet as Billie entered and began to pace round her. Billie stood her ground and let him approach. Grace stood entirely still, watching. The crowd was silent. Then Rajan lowered his head and gently b.u.t.ted Billie on the leg with his fore head. She reached out and petted him. He promptly lay down and fell fast asleep. $350 later, the two women owned a tiger. It was no problem for the zoo. For that money they could get a new tiger and have money left over for a flock of penguins. Things were different then.

John Junior arrived in California in July of 1925 with two purposes. To do some deals with Hank Forepaugh, owner of the Fantastical Forepaugh-Sells Circus, and to bring home a wife - Billie. By then Billie was quite a name. She had even been in Vogue magazine. John had never met her but he hated detail. That was what Milton, his money man, was for. John Junior had only been in the entertainment business a couple of years but he was already making a big noise. When he arrived at the Sacramento site where Forepaugh-Sells was currently raking it in, Hank Forepaugh was more than happy to give him the big tour. The two men and Milton emerged from a small side tent. Hank was in full flow.

'I am telling you, the public cannot get enough of the Ubangis. It is the biggest side-show attraction ever. They are fabulous. From West Africa. French, ain't it? Who knows? Anyhow, there's thirteen of them including Queen Guetika or somethin and two guys. The rest are women and they are fantastic. They have these lips like saucers. Apparently it's, what do you call it? Tradition. In their culture, you know in Africa, they figure women are beautiful if they have these huge lips. Really. They split 'em open when the girls are babies and stick discs in them. Then they get bigger and bigger discs till they have these flabby lips.'

Milton mopped his brow with an initialled handkerchief 'Imagine them going down on you. I mean, I was thinking with those lips.

Forepaugh shrugged. 'What the h.e.l.l do I know? I don't care. The public can't get enough of 'em. I stick 'em in a side tent and folks can buy fish and unpeeled bananas for a nickel to feed to them. They eat it too. Whole raw fish and unpeeled bananas. If you're interested we could talk.'

'Excuse me. I'll be right back.' Something had caught Milton's eye.

John Junior stepped over the pools of mud round the big top. He was skirting round what he really wanted. Immaculately dressed as ever, and any elephant looking closely at him would have known the truth. John was in musth. He was searching for a mate so hard that he was practically leaving a scent trail. He stayed smooth though.

'What do you hear about Barnum?' he inquired of his fellow promoter.

Hank shook his head. 'Gee, they say he got a mermaid from some j.a.p fisherman in the Fiji Islands. A genuine preserved mermaid. The real McCoy. That guy gets so many breaks. Imagine that landing in your lap.'

John shook his head. 'Seen it. It's actually the head and upper body of a monkey very carefully sewn on to the tail of a large fish. It's good though. He's making money.

Hank sn.i.g.g.e.red. 'b.a.s.t.a.r.d.' He paused and sucked on a large cigar while he contemplated. 'I got a spare monkey. What kind offish?'

A formidable-looking woman emerged from one of the side tents. She wore a hat so large and so feathered with confidence that it probably could have approached on its own. The woman's hair was pigeon grey and pulled back into a traditional chignon. She wore a black dress. Very long and very proper.

'Mr Forepaugh!' she called in the clipped, forceful manner of the English aristocracy. It was a voice accustomed to calling servants across fierce drafts in large family houses. 'Mr Forepaugh.' Hank sighed and hid his cigar behind his back.

'Mrs Lintz. How delightful. Is everything okay?'

'No, Mr Forepaugh, it is not, as you put it, okay. There is a monkey in that enclosure which is quite clearly unwell.'

'Yeah, oh yeah, the monkey. Don't worry. I have great plans for the monkey. Mrs Lintz, may I introduce John Burroughs Junior? John, this is Mrs William Lintz, she's from England. She takes in sick animals from circuses and stuff'

Animals are my hobby and my life, Mr Burroughs. We have a moral duty to see that our animal friends lead a good life,' interrupted Mrs Lintz.

'Indeed.' John tipped his hat toward the elderly woman.

She gave him a small nod and then inquired, 'Would you be the Burroughs of the Burroughs Western Wonder Show of the World with Stupendous New Equine Features?'

'The same,' said John.

Mrs Lintz tutted. 'I went. It only has one horse in it.' John smiled. 'You don't say? Less work for the animals, eh? Lovely hat, Mrs Lintz.'

Mrs Lintz, unaccustomed to compliments, blushed.

Hank knew a good moment when he saw one and slipped away to his wagon, leaving John with the formidable woman. John could delay no longer.

'Would you care to see the tigers, Mrs Lintz?' He graciously offered her an arm.

Billie and Grace were both at the tiger enclosure. As usual Billie was inside the cage and Grace waited by the door. Billie and Rajan were locked in an embrace which drew sharp breaths from Mrs Lintz. She and John stood in silence as Billie concluded her workout by opening Rajan's mouth and putting her head in. As she released his jaws and stood up, Rajan's teeth snapped shut. Mrs Lintz gasped.

'Oh my dear,' she cried, 'isn't that dangerous?' Billie grinned through the bars as Rajan slunk off to a corner.

Absolutely. Very dangerous.' She leaned closer toward the elderly woman. 'Tigers have really terrible breath.' John laughed as Grace moved to open the cage door and let Billie out. Then she held a small basin for her, checked the temperature of the water and handed her cousin a small towel so she could wash her hands. Mrs Lintz was still somewhat taken aback.

'Don't worry, Mrs Lintz,' Billie chuckled as she splashed water without a thought. 'It's all make-believe with animals. You see, they think you are stronger than they are. It's my business to keep that idea going.' Billie finished wiping her hands and held the towel for Grace to take. The two women smiled at each other as Grace moved to empty the bowl. Billie looked at John. 'So, Mrs Lintz, who's your friend?'

'I do beg your pardon. Miss Blake, may I present John Burroughs Junior.'

Billie c.o.c.ked her head on one side. 'Of Burroughs Western Wonder Show of the World with Stupendous New Equine Features? I hear it only has one horse in it.'

John smiled. Apparently so. I'm new to this line.'

'New? What did you do before you launched into entertainment, Mr Burroughs?'

'Boots. I was in boots.'

Billie smiled. 'Burroughs Boots - The Best Boots Money Can Buy. And now the public stand in line for your shows wearing your boots.'

'I do hope so.'

'Now, Miss Blake,' Mrs Lintz beetled on. 'Your tiger...'

'Rajan.'

'Rajan. Is he well cared for by Mr Forepaugh?'

'I care for him, Mrs Lintz,' interrupted Grace. 'He is very happy.'

John looked at her for the first time. 'Happy? Is that a concern? Miss.

Grace looked him in the eye. 'Gerritsen. Grace Gerritsen.'

Mrs Lintz could hardly contain herself 'Concern! It should be the only concern.'

'I see,' said John, 'and pray how can you tell he is happy?'

Billie smiled. 'Easy, Mr Burroughs: he never tries to eat me.

It was obviously a pa.s.sionate subject for Grace. 'Of course we must worry if an animal is happy. Why-'

A fantastic noise erupted from behind the main tent and Milton appeared, running, with his pants halfway down his legs. He was desperately trying to pull them up but this was hindered by the speed with which he was running. Hot on his heels came Forepaugh.

'I'm going to kill you, you p.r.i.c.k!' Milton hightailed it round behind Rajan and stood looking through the bars and tugging up his pants as Forepaugh approached. The two men circled round, eyeing each other.

'Look, Forepaugh, I'll make you a deal.'

'You were s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g my wife.'

Milton didn't deny it. 'Must have been a misunderstanding. Listen, we could talk.'

'I am not talking with anyone who is f.u.c.king my wife.' By now Mrs Lintz had become quite faint. Grace helped her into the fresh air.

'What do you think?' whispered John to Billie as they watched the stand-off.

'I think he was probably s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g the wife.' Billie eyed the two men dispa.s.sionately and whispered matter-of-factly, 'Forepaugh'll kill him.'

'No, I know Milton. They'll cut a deal. 'John carried on watching Forepaugh and Milton and spoke out of the side of his mouth. 'I want you to come to New York with me, Miss Blake.'

'Why would I do that, Mr Burroughs?'