Elephant Man - Christine Sparks [8]
The words of the man in the tent came back to Treves. “A wicked birth … monstrous.” More monstrous than the worst nightmare brain could conceive. But even as pity and disgust warred in him, ambition rose up and joined them. This was it, the thing he had been looking for, the spectacular specimen that would turn all heads his way.
“I’ve seen all I can—” he said to Bytes, “—down here.”
The rings rattled, the curtain fell back into place. Doubtless behind it the Elephant Man had reseated himself to wait for the next gawking visitor. Bytes began to lead the way out.
“Down here?” he queried.
“I’m a doctor, Mr. Bytes. I work at the London Hospital, where I also lecture in anatomy. A man like that could be—very interesting to medical science.”
“He’s not for sale,” said Bytes at once.
“I don’t want to buy him from you. Just—hire?”
They had reached the shop. Bytes held the lamp closer to Treves’ face. “For how long?”
“A few hours. I just want to examine him and make some notes. Later I might want him back again.”
“At a good price?”
“Of course,” said Treves in disgust.
They settled on a shilling for every visit, and Bytes agreed to have the Elephant Man ready when a cab called the next day.
“Now what can you tell me about him?” said Treves.
Bytes shrugged. “Only what his last owner told me. He’s English and his name’s John Merrick.”
It came as a small shock to discover that the creature had a human name like any other man.
“Any idea how old he is?”
“About twenty-one, I think,” said Bytes. “But how could anyone tell?”
“Is anything known about his parentage? Where in England was he born?”
Bytes shrugged again. “The last bloke said he was born in Leicester, but I don’t know how he knew that. He didn’t seem to know anything else.”
“But his mother and father—were they deformed in any way?”
“Search me. No idea.”
“Well if so little is known about his parents,” said Treves impatiently, “why are you so sure his mother was knocked down by an elephant ‘on an African island’?”
Bytes gave a ginny chuckle and nudged Treves knowingly. “Come, my friend, I don’t have to pretend with you. The public likes a little drama—a little showmanship—with its exhibits.”
“Then I can assume that this elephant story is a total invention?”
“It’s as good a story as any,” said Bytes. “Look at that bit of bone coming out of his mouth, like a trunk. He looks like an elephant.”
Treves grunted, satisfied. He had never placed any reliance on the too-convenient story of an elephant charge, and it was useful to know that Bytes had no evidence for it. The trunklike protuberance of bone on the face was sufficient explanation of how the story had started.
They had reached the street by now, and as soon as they stepped outside Treves began to drink in the fresh air. It was like wine after the atmosphere of the cellar. He tried frantically to clear his brain. As soon as he produced his purse, Bytes thrust out his hand for the coins Treves dropped into them.
“There’s the shilling in advance for tomorrow. I’ll send a cab at 10 A.M.”
“He’ll be ready.”
“Here is my card.”
Bytes pocketed the card, then seized Treves’ hand in a greasy shake.
“Now we’ve got a deal. We understand each other—my friend. We understand each other completely.”
He gave him the look of a conspirator that made Treves long to wrench himself away. Instead he bid a polite goodbye and turned down the street.
The afternoon had passed silently into dusk while he had been in the shop. The ale houses were open, spilling their light onto the glistening streets outside. Treves found one that he knew to be more salubrious than most and entered. He was pleased to find it still almost empty. He wanted a quiet moment alone.
He took his drink and settled in a dark corner where he was unlikely to be disturbed. His brain was reeling with the triumph of discovery. If he had been a superstitious man, he would have pinched himself to make sure the afternoon’s events had not been a dream.
He had it—the thing he had been searching