Next, we check with Simon, which also gives me a chance to see the dog. I’d done that this morning before we left, and she had indeed glowed. I don’t even want to think how much effort that took—the washing, the scrubbing, the brushing—but the result was a dog he could walk down Robert Street without anyone looking askance. She’s an adorable little white terrier, now sporting red bows on her ears. The perfect New Town lapdog, and she even acts the part, daintily taking meat from my hand, like a princess accepting her due.
As for cowboys, we hit another dead end.
“There, er, are men who dress like that,” Simon says, with great care, sneaking anxious looks Gray’s way. “For, er, private performances.”
“Parties and such. Yes, I can see that.”
He relaxes a little as I veer from his real meaning, my tone telling him I understand.
“Would they advertise by walking about the Old Town dressed that way?” I say.
“I have never seen it myself, and if it happened, it would be at night, and only in places where they felt safe.”
“Got it. So not Greyfriars Kirkyard in the middle of the day?”
A faint smile. “No.”
On to the next person on our list. Tommy, the newsboy. We’d looked through the daily paper and hadn’t seen rodeos advertised, but Tommy will know more. We find him hawking his wares on his usual corner. His cart holds everything from copies of the daily paper to used copies of yesterday’s paper, plus pamphlets and chapbooks and even some broadsheets.
The Scots might be very literate, but print isn’t as cheap as it is in my day. Also, when I say “literate,” I mean they’re able to read simple prose, not necessarily able to read a newspaper front to back. So there are options for everyone. Can’t afford a new copy of the paper? Buy a used one from yesterday. Does the paper include more topics than you care to read about? Look to pamphlets and broadsheets for simpler—and more sensational—news stories.
One thing Tommy definitely has are our chronicles. Not that they sell like hotcakes. They’re still finding an audience—but since Gray is a longtime customer, there is one advantage Tommy has . . .
The moment Tommy sees us crossing the road, he sweeps papers from his stand and pulls out—with great reverence—a fountain pen, which he lays beside a new stack of Jack’s latest installment. Above the stack, a sign reads: The World’s Only Purveyor of Signed Editions of The Mysterious Adventures of the Curious Undertaker. Considering the books aren’t sold beyond Edinburgh, “world” is pushing it, but I actually suggested that, since it’s technically true. I also suggested the signed copies. It’s a novelty that people seem to appreciate, allowing Tommy to charge double.
As I sign, I ask about cowboy entertainments.
“No, Miss Mallory, I’ve heard nothing about that. I read all the papers that come through, and there are no rodeos or the like. Haven’t been for . . .” He trails off, as if thinking back, and I’m about to say it doesn’t matter when he says. “But there is Roy.”
“Roy . . . ?”
Tommy shrugs. “Fellow who lives near me. He’s always doing something up by the castle, to get money from tourists. He calls it ‘art’ but . . .” He shrugs. “Not any kind of art I’ve ever seen. Sometimes, he plays a cowboy. Showed me the whole routine once. Yeehawing and throwing a rope. Then he expected me to pay him for it. Art?” He shakes his head and looks at least twice his thirteen years. “That’s not art.”
But it is performance art. And it gives us a place to go next.
Chapter Eleven
After we’ve signed the new copies and left Tommy, I explain performance art to Gray.
“People do it at tourist spots,” I say. “Times Square. Central Park. Bourbon Street.”
“Central Park is in New York, yes?”
I nod. “So is Times Square. Bourbon Street is in New Orleans. Performance art is especially popular where you might find people who don’t travel a lot.”
“Gullible.”
“Naive and eager to see the sights. So maybe you dress up as a statue and stand very still. Or be a historical figure, giving a speech. Or be a character from a movie, taking pictures with kids. Or be a robot, acting . . . well, robotic.”
“A robot is . . . ?”
“A mechanical person. A human automaton.”
His brows rise. “You have not mentioned robots in your world.”
“Because they aren’t a thing. Not in the way people portray them. It’s like someone in this period imagining the future. In the mid-twentieth century, when we have cars and automatic washing machines and whatnot, people started imagining automated people to do things like clean your house.”
