The American Fiancée

One wooden table. Two chairs. Two arms. One referee.

The only people who remained in the wooden stands had no choice but to be there. The rest of the crowd stood before a stage draped in red, white, and blue and waited to see how the arm-wrestling match would unfold. At the other end of the fairground were stalls and paddocks, where prizes had just been handed out to the cattle and poultry. A turkey answering to the name of Jeanette and an ox called Moby Dick had taken home top honors. A special mention was awarded to the owner of the proud peacock. And to Old Man Whitman’s great distress, poor Adolf had come third in his category.

“He’s a fine-looking animal, is your Adolf, but he’s no match for the competition.”

The judges had shown no mercy to Whitman when he burst into tears. No match, his Adolf? Adolf, whom Whitman had bottle-fed since birth, cuddled, pampered, and loved? They needed their eyes tested. There was just no way! Are you sure? I don’t think he’s any smaller than the others, far from it. And what about his color? Did you see his rich, deep brown? And those big eyes of his? The intelligence behind those eyes. You could almost call it determination. Yessiree! Determination in spades! I demand to see the fair president!

Old Man Whitman had lost it. He was fuming with rage, panting for breath, clutching his left arm, desperately looking around the paddock—anywhere—for someone to stand up for him, lend him moral support, tell him it was all a dream, nothing but a bad joke. Alone in the paddock, waiting for his owner to come get him, Adolf brooded. He was a sensitive soul, feeling Whitman’s every emotion as his own, as though the two were one on a metaphysical level. Whitman wrapped his arms around Adolf’s neck, whispering words of consolation into his ear between heartrending sobs. Embarrassed onlookers began to drift away. And the animal, just like Whitman, began to feel that the dice were loaded, that he was part of a sorry production whose sole aim was to hold him up to ridicule, to humiliate and insult him. And to what end? Why such injustice? Adolf began to stamp his feet. He could no longer bear to see Whitman sobbing. He grew restless, and instead of returning quietly to his bullpen, he broke into a run, all forelegs, letting out a bellow, a D-sharp announcing the end of the world.

Up on stage at the other end of the fairgrounds, Louis Lamontagne, sitting across from The Warsaw Giant, was thanking the heavens that he wouldn’t have to face his trusty companion Podgórski. His squint would no doubt have put him off, perhaps even have left him rolling around with laughter. Of all the feats of strength he had accomplished, this arm-wrestle would live longest in his memory. Getting the better of The Warsaw Giant would be no mean task, but he was counting on the energy the crowd was sending him to unsettle his rival and give him the upper hand. He would stare at him with his teal-colored eyes, show him pupils like those of the stained-glass Madonnas and martyrs the sun shone through in Catholic churches. Would he fall under his spell? The Giant awaited the signal from the master of ceremonies, eager to be done with this trifling Canadian who, not content with stealing his fellow countryman away from him, was now resorting to cockamamie stories to get the crowd behind him. Who said this greenhorn was handsome? And what of the moustache that made him look like he was trying too hard to be Clark Gable? Wasn’t that enough to give everyone a good laugh? And what gave this young upstart the right to be winking at the ladies in the crowd? Ladies? I’ll give you ladies. When I’ve smashed your wrist against this table, when the boards have shattered under the phalanges of your fingers, when I’ve ground your metacarpus to a pulp, you’ll see why they call me The Warsaw Giant. If the crowd had been able to read the two men’s thoughts, it would likely have booed the Giant for all it was worth.

“I love you, Horse!”

It was a woman’s voice. Beth stared hard at the grass, ashamed to death of her sister. The Giant frowned while the emcee’s frail little hand clutched the men’s wrists.

“Ready and go!”

The first few seconds were unbearable for the Ironstone sisters, the Giant almost managing to pin Louis’s hand to the table. But Louis, having lost his composure for an instant, recovered himself at the last moment to pull his wrist up and away from the table. The Giant’s strength was colossal. Straining for all he was worth, Louis felt his toes spreading apart like the five arms of a starfish. Red in the face, muscles bursting at the seams, the two strongmen put on a spectacular show for Gouverneur, one that would surely last no more than a few seconds. Prayers went up. People shouted the Canadian’s name. The Giant foamed at the mouth. Some onlookers began to take bets, while others quite simply lost their heads in the suffocating heat. They wanted one thing and one thing only: for a winner to be declared so that they could go jump into the water to cool off. They shouted, they yelled, they kicked up such a racket that both men struggled to keep their concentration. The Warsaw Giant rolled a rather worrying black eye. An eye that had never been so big, so black. It was the eye of an animal. Just as Louis thought he had mustered enough strength to overpower his opponent, a frightful howl came up from the public enclosure.

“Adoooooolf!”

The cry was repeated, swelling until it became a clamor through which appeals to God himself could clearly be heard. Alarmed at a din that no longer bore any resemblance to shouts of encouragement, Louis and The Warsaw Giant stole a glance at the crowd. And what a sight they saw: Old Man Whitman running along behind his bull calf as it galloped full tilt toward the terrified spectators.

There was no doubt about it: the animal was charging straight toward the stage, apparently excited by the red, white, and blue banners adorning it. The crowd split in two like the Red Sea before Moses’s staff, leaving the Ironstone sisters alone at the foot of the stage, petrified, staring at the furious bull as it charged at them, head down. The calf stopped twenty yards from Floria—now reduced to no more than a squeal—hypnotized by her red skirt. The shouting and screaming stopped suddenly. The crowd could actually be heard breathing in time with the calf. Then, without warning, it rushed forward! Alexander Podgórski, courage his only guide, dashed out from backstage where he had been watching the arm-wrestling contest and swept in like an acrobat before Floria and Beth. His years with the circus had not been in vain. Squinting like crazy, he stood there, his huge arms wide, waiting for the bull to advance. He didn’t have to wait long. It charged! It struck! Its little horns gored the Pole! The animal was furious! The crowd ran for its life, leaping over fences, escaping the frightful carnage as best it could. Podgórski was unsteady on his feet, but still standing. He didn’t see the second charge coming. And now Adolf’s violent blow knocked the poor boy to the ground. It was the painful snapping sound of Podgórski’s bones being trampled by Adolf that brought Louis Lamontagne out of his torpor. The despairing shouts were growing louder.

“Help him! Do something!”

Lamontagne was only too happy to oblige. He planted himself directly in the path of the animal, which looked up at him. God was again called upon, more insistently than ever. And perhaps the devil, too, because the bull had less luck with the Canadian. Wild with rage, Adolf ran full tilt at Louis. The strongman stepped aside at the last second, and the calf went crashing into the oak planks. The animal disappeared beneath the stage, seemed to whirl around once or twice, and let out a bellow that was amplified by the wooden structure that held it prisoner. Then Louis quickly made up his mind and slipped beneath the stage himself.

“Don’t go, Horse! It’s still alive!” Floria cried.

And that’s exactly what Louis was hoping for. He stuck his head out and shouted something at the master of ceremonies, who had hidden underneath a tarpaulin at the first glimpse of the animal steaming toward them. He handed Louis a thick cable that had been used to attach one of the strongmen to an Oldsmobile. The Canadian dived back in under the stage. A thunderous but short-lived battle ensued, of which nothing at all could be seen. The calf bellowed, stamped its feet, struck out. Louis could be heard swearing in French. Then nothing. After what seemed an eternity to Floria and Beth, Louis slowly emerged into the daylight, dragging the bull behind him, its feet bound tightly and its eyes round with surprise. In no time at all, twenty armed men surrounded the animal, each vying to be the first to plant a bullet between its eyes. Age won out.

“But that’s my Adolf. You can’t just—”

Nobody listened to another word from Old Man Whitman. Four shots rang out. Adolf was no more. The words “filthy beast,” “good riddance,” and “may the devil take him” traveled from mouth to mouth. A silent crowd formed a circle around Podgórski’s body. Someone went to look for a priest. Podgórski was rid of his squint once and for all, his belly torn open, his ribs broken. Beth, tears in her eyes, held his hand, and, kneeling down just in time to bless his soul, a Catholic priest mumbled a few words in Latin over the orphan so far, so very far from Warsaw. The body was still twitching. A death rattle rose high into the American sky. Louis approached, repeating in French the prayers the priest had reeled off in English as though to be sure they were understood by God, because French Canadians are the only people in the world who believe that God is a French speaker. And Podgórski went on dying, determined to leave the world behind him.

“We only die twice, Podgórski,” Louis muttered pointlessly, forgetting in his grief that a miracle is no longer considered a miracle if it happens too often. And in vain he intoned “our daily bread, our daily bread, our daily bread, our daily bread” until he was led gently away.

Louis was declared the winner and pocketed the tidy sum of two hundred dollars. Given the circumstances, there were no celebrations. Louis returned alone to his trailer, at once victorious and defeated. The Pole would be buried in the nearby cemetery the following day; the priest who had performed the last rites had agreed to officiate the funeral. The Giant promised to write to the nuns of Warsaw, who would long lament the fate reserved for their beloved strongman. But they wouldn’t receive the letter until months later, after the capitulation of Warsaw, in the midst of the martyrdom of Poland. Perhaps God had wanted to spare Alexander from having to watch his people die, they told themselves. The Giant didn’t go into detail about his compatriot’s death, referring only to an unfortunate farm accident. The recruiters from the US Army, astonished by Louis’s exploits, kept a close eye on him as he organized his friend’s funeral. They waited, patient as Sioux, for the young man to go back to his trailer. They even hung back and let Floria knock on the door and spend the night with the Canadian before introducing themselves.

Louis was lying in his trailer, alone in prayer. There was a knock at the door.

“Horse! Open up! It’s me, Floria.”

“I’m praying.”

“Let me pray with you then. I’m so upset. Such a narrow door for a man with such broad shoulders.”

“But we can’t stay here alone. Who saw you come in?”

“No one. Beth is with the priest. She wants to help with the funeral. She was very fond of him. No more than a wink from him and her heart would’ve been his. I would never have thought my sister capable of such a thing.”

“Floria’s your name, right?”

“Yes, as in Floria Tosca. It’s an opera. Do you like opera?”

“Never heard one. Can you stay with me a while?”

“Of course. That’s why I came. To keep you company. It’s really awful what happened to that poor boy . . . Why, you’re crying, Horse!”

“Who’s going to translate my stories? Just listen to me! My English is terrible. Who’s going to pull the trailer while I sleep? Who’s going to keep me company?”

“But your English is not so bad. Give it time. Let time take its course. Here, take my hankie.”

“Thank you. You’re very kind. Podgórski was a poor sleeper. Whenever he couldn’t sleep, he’d say, ‘Hey, Lamontagne, tell me one of your cock-and-bull stories from Canada.’ And I’d tell him a story, any story.”

“And he’d fall asleep?”

“No! He’d want to hear the end. Then he’d fall asleep. That’s how it was. He knew lots of my stories by heart. What a tiny nose you have, Floria . . .”

“Why the cheek of you, Louis Lamontagne!”

“I’m serious! I love your nose! It’s such a cute little nose.”

“And my legs are too thin. That’s what Momma always says.”

“Your legs are magnificent. And now you’re crying too.”

“Do you know what would do us good?”

“No, what?”

“A little whisky! If only we had some . . .”

“Well, actually I do. Right over there. The good stuff, from Canada.”

“Why, what a stroke of luck! I was just thinking that a Canadian must never travel without his whisky.”

“Would you like some?”

“Sure, why not? Twist my arm!”

“Here you go.”

Glug, glug, glug.

“Hey! Easy does it. Not so fast!”

“Oh! This whole business has me so upset. Thank you, Horse. Not only are you the handsomest man I’ve ever laid eyes on, you’re a gentleman too. Oh, your hand is so big and strong.”

“A woman in Michigan once told me that.”

“Kiss me, Louis.”

The night Podgórski died, it rained in Gouverneur. Torrential storms straight out of a Wagner opera. Thick clouds sent to cleanse the earth of the stains of humanity. Once Floria left to spend the night in Gouverneur ahead of Podgórski’s funeral, Louis slept like a baby amid the thunder and lightning. The US Army recruiters were waiting for him the next morning.

“Your mother was an American, we hear . . .”

Two years later, wearing an infantry uniform and having piled on a few extra pounds at Uncle Sam’s mess, handsome Louis set sail for England aboard a ship accompanied by a minesweeper, Will you love me all the time? playing in his mind, his knowledge of Europe amounting to no more than a blurry, quaint image of a small country densely populated with nothing but Polish nuns, strongmen, and mad dictators. Of all the members of his division, Louis Lamontagne was probably the only man there out of love for Poland. He was also the most attractive man aboard. That was beyond a shadow of a doubt.

It wasn’t until December 31, 1999, at the age of forty-nine, that Madeleine decided it was safe to open the letter from Floria Ironstone she had intercepted in 1958. She found two plea-filled pages covered with kisses. The word please appeared six times. Attached to the letter was a photograph of a little girl who had been conceived at the St. Lawrence County Fair in August 1939—Penelope Ironstone, who would wait for her father’s reply for the rest of her life. Madeleine never did try to contact her half-sister, thereby missing out on one of Louis Lamontagne’s most colorful stories.

Like Puccini’s heroine Floria Tosca, Madeleine Lamontagne wasn’t fond of competition. Although it must be said in her defense that most of the women who fell head over heels in love with Louis “The Horse” Lamontagne never did manage to completely recover. His daughter was no exception to the rule.