there, and smelly, and dank, and Charlie found it quite impossible not to think of the deep, cold river water just on the other side of the thick clinkered struts and beams of the hull. The second deck, at the waterline, was where most of the animals lived: The cabins were small, and it seemed almost as if there was something huge in the middle of the ship and everything else had been stuffed in willy-nilly around it, to fit in as best they could. But it was a bit warmer, and through the thick portholes you could see greenish daylight and sky, usually. Tonight, in the reasonably flat waters of the river, the waterline crossed right along the middle of the portholes in the monkeycabin, so you could see sky in the top semicircle, and dark water in the bottom half. The effect was peculiar, and made Charlie feel a bit ill.
The upper deck, where the humans lived, basked in full air and light. Pirouette had said she had a cabin here on the port side, near Major Thibaudet, which she shared with someone she called Madame Barbue. (Charlie thought that was the name. He was having a bit of trouble with the names, and was pretty sure he would be calling it Tib’s Show, not Tiboddy’s Floating Philharmonic What-have-you.) Charlie decided to go and see Pirouette. She would know about dinner. She had the air of a girl who knew things.
So how to find her cabin? He asked a sailor, got lost, asked another sailor, got lost, and asked another sailor—who directed him to the door in front of his nose.
His knock was answered by what could only be described as a beautiful lady with a large, fine, curling, silky black beard.
He gulped.
“Hallo,” she said. She sounded French like Pirouette.
“Bonjour, madame,” said Charlie politely, but still gawking. How could a lady have a beard like that? Was it real? If it were fake, why would she be wearing it off-duty? And goodness, what a fine beard it was. He could even smell it—a faint clean tinge of lavender pomade.
“Are you looking for Pirouette?” she asked.
“Yes, madame,” said Charlie. He couldn’t stop staring. There were no strings that he could see, nor signs of glue.
Then quick as a bird, the lady took Charlie’s hand in hers (which was cool and gentle) and put it to her cheek.
“You can stroke,” she said, her smile curling up into the corner of her elegant mustache. “You like?”
Charlie couldn’t tear his hand away. Her beard was beautifully soft and silky, like a very young goat’s ears, or the curls between a calf’s horns.
“We are about to eat,” said the bearded lady. “You like to come with us?”
Charlie just nodded. Bearded lady. Okay. He could handle that.
Dinner took place in a long narrow chamber along the stern on the upper deck. Everybody took a dish up to the hatch and was given a dollop of food—tonight it was a stew with dumplings and green peas—and a piece of bread. Then they sat around eating and gossiping, and Charlie was able to see for the first time exactly whom he was heading out to sea with. There was a group of about ten tiny Italians, of all ages, with long noses and cheerful expressions, who Charlie guessed were acrobats of some kind. There was a rather fat woman with a squint, wearing overalls—“Snakes,” said Madame Barbue mysteriously. A cross-looking gray-haired man sat reading all through the meal. (“Mr. Andrews,” said Pirouette with a sniff. “He leads the bears.”) An enormous young man came in a bit late, with an enormous dish, and had three helpings (“Hercule. Strong man,” said Madame Barbue), and then a gang of energetic boys of about twenty, chatting loudly, playing around and talking about horses, with François the cowboy. (“The trick riders,” said Pirouette.) There were various children around the place too, Charlie was pleased to see: a downtrodden-looking boy with mud on his face, a curly-haired boy who sat with two squabbling clowns, ignoring them, and two girls of about nine who had to
The upper deck, where the humans lived, basked in full air and light. Pirouette had said she had a cabin here on the port side, near Major Thibaudet, which she shared with someone she called Madame Barbue. (Charlie thought that was the name. He was having a bit of trouble with the names, and was pretty sure he would be calling it Tib’s Show, not Tiboddy’s Floating Philharmonic What-have-you.) Charlie decided to go and see Pirouette. She would know about dinner. She had the air of a girl who knew things.
So how to find her cabin? He asked a sailor, got lost, asked another sailor, got lost, and asked another sailor—who directed him to the door in front of his nose.
His knock was answered by what could only be described as a beautiful lady with a large, fine, curling, silky black beard.
He gulped.
“Hallo,” she said. She sounded French like Pirouette.
“Bonjour, madame,” said Charlie politely, but still gawking. How could a lady have a beard like that? Was it real? If it were fake, why would she be wearing it off-duty? And goodness, what a fine beard it was. He could even smell it—a faint clean tinge of lavender pomade.
“Are you looking for Pirouette?” she asked.
“Yes, madame,” said Charlie. He couldn’t stop staring. There were no strings that he could see, nor signs of glue.
Then quick as a bird, the lady took Charlie’s hand in hers (which was cool and gentle) and put it to her cheek.
“You can stroke,” she said, her smile curling up into the corner of her elegant mustache. “You like?”
Charlie couldn’t tear his hand away. Her beard was beautifully soft and silky, like a very young goat’s ears, or the curls between a calf’s horns.
“We are about to eat,” said the bearded lady. “You like to come with us?”
Charlie just nodded. Bearded lady. Okay. He could handle that.
Dinner took place in a long narrow chamber along the stern on the upper deck. Everybody took a dish up to the hatch and was given a dollop of food—tonight it was a stew with dumplings and green peas—and a piece of bread. Then they sat around eating and gossiping, and Charlie was able to see for the first time exactly whom he was heading out to sea with. There was a group of about ten tiny Italians, of all ages, with long noses and cheerful expressions, who Charlie guessed were acrobats of some kind. There was a rather fat woman with a squint, wearing overalls—“Snakes,” said Madame Barbue mysteriously. A cross-looking gray-haired man sat reading all through the meal. (“Mr. Andrews,” said Pirouette with a sniff. “He leads the bears.”) An enormous young man came in a bit late, with an enormous dish, and had three helpings (“Hercule. Strong man,” said Madame Barbue), and then a gang of energetic boys of about twenty, chatting loudly, playing around and talking about horses, with François the cowboy. (“The trick riders,” said Pirouette.) There were various children around the place too, Charlie was pleased to see: a downtrodden-looking boy with mud on his face, a curly-haired boy who sat with two squabbling clowns, ignoring them, and two girls of about nine who had to
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