Lucía took to the stage like a duck to water. The instant her tiny leather boots hit the boards, she knew how to entice her audience with a crafty blend of banter, continuous motion, and goofy antics. With every ooh and aah from the crowd, she revved up her tomfoolery.

Zoila stood near the stage and tried to give Lucía a cue to slow down, but Lucía ignored her—and upped the ante. She encouraged the audience in their agitated applause as she attempted some unusual tumbling of her own creation.

Zoila inched closer and whispered to Lucía, “You still have many, many performances to go. Sit down on your little chair and talk to the people instead, why don’t you?”

“Because they came to see me, the frijol saltarín,” Lucía answered pointedly, “and not you, the armadillo. So move out of my way, why don’t you?”

The sting of Lucía’s words numbed Zoila. Her small charge had never spoken to Zoila with mocking animosity and she’d never referred to herself as a Mexican jumping bean either. Granted, Lucía had to be worn down from dozens and dozens of performances; the slump of her narrow shoulders mirrored the damp and limp curls on her head, but she’d never been rude to Zoila. With each additional levée, Lucía grew more animated and dangerously daring, particularly in those performances when she had to compensate for General Mite’s funereal attitude.

At first Zoila assumed Lucía’s hyperactivity was a result of the excitement of the Philadelphia Centennial Exhibition sideshows, but at the Odd Fellows Hall levée in Baltimore, Lucía attempted to do a cartwheel into General Mite’s unopened arms. Fortunately, Lucía landed softly and everyone laughed at her spontaneity and comic timing. On the evening of that pratfall, Zoila had applied poultices that had eased the pain and bruising. If they had been back in Mexico, Zoila would have brought in a sobadora, the indigenous massage experts who could work wonders with their hands, applying home-made ointments, but in the succession of American cities where the troupe performed after Philadelphia, Zoila felt increasingly suspicious of medical doctors. The thought of another Dr. Mott putting his hands on Lucía repulsed her. Zoila never relinquished the image of the embalmed bodies of Julia Pastrana and her baby as an omen of the evil unscrupulous scientists could inflict on people they designated as freaks, the missing link between ape and man, the distorted. Such human oddities could be injured and mutilated, and exhibited world-wide in the guise of science.

It was unfortunate that Lucía’s injuries didn’t occur in Philadelphia or New Orleans, because both cities were renowned as pacesetters in pharmacology, in both the British model and in the Spanish model, as far back as 1769. Her most significant fall had been in St. Louis, Missouri where impetuous Lucía had not waited for Zoila to help her down a stairway. The Daily Globe reported: “As she is only twenty-one inches high, it was a more serious mishap to her than it would have been to most women.”

Just as Zoila was confident of her own girth and vigor she was equally concerned about Lucía’s frailties. When she escaped from Papantla down to the coast, Zoila had to hike ravines and canyons, carrying a sturdy suitcase above her head, but she’d known that her strong body could take such an arduous journey. On the other end of the spectrum, Zoila knew that Lucía’s constitution required meticulously measured nourishment and a large dose of rest, neither of which she was getting in this hectic schedule of cities and performances.

Zoila felt up to the challenge of caring for a physically vulnerable charge but, day by day, she was losing control because of Lucía’s careless antics. Since audiences loved Lucía’s shenanigans, and because the newspapers embellished her performances, Lucía persisted with abandon. She went to particular extremes to engage General Mite in her performances. The Washington D.C. Evening Star gushed: “the amazing reality of these pigmy prodigies cannot be conceived of from pen descriptions, for no language is potent enough to picture such atomized fragments of the human family.”

While the audience applauded Lucía, Zoila attempted to approach her again, but Mrs. Uffner yanked Zoila back, away from the stage, and unleased a hoarse—and coarse— admonition.

“Shut your bone box, girl,” she hissed. “Ain’t nobody here wants to hear you or see your drumsticks, only Lucía’s spindly legs.”

Mrs. Uffner hammered the heel of her own shoe on top of Zoila’s foot.

Zoila ignored the pain of having her foot nailed to the floor and wiggled her ten fingers at Lucía, in their mutually agreed silent sign of duress. But Lucía ignored the sign, turned to face the opposite direction and tap-danced her way back towards General Mite’s corner of the parlor stage. He looked ashen in anticipation of another one of Lucía’s overt signs of affection which Zoila knew he found unladylike and intimidating. When Frank Uffner read newspaper articles about the couple in a booming voice in front of the entire troupe, General Mite inevitably left the room. He hated to hear that the Daily Globe reported of the “possibility of another marriage of dwarfs, the midgets, General Mite and Lucía Zarate, now acting the part of devoted lovers. The little lady, however, does most of the wooing. It promises to be a mitey small affair.”

General Mire saw himself as an up-and-coming, gentleman farmer. He envisioned his future self as happily married to a demure little woman, one who also cherished the quiet life on a farm far, far away from the raucous cities he reluctantly toured with the troupe. He’d agreed to humiliate himself in these lowbrow charades in order to save money that would support his soon-to-be dignified self. His own father was an astute man who did not let Frank Uffner pull the wool over his eyes when it came to his son, Francis. He made sure that General Mite’s earnings were paid regularly and accurately.

“Francis, my boy,” he would often remark, the only person Zoila ever heard calling General Mite by his given name, “if only you could force yourself to act the fool or at least learn to impersonate famous people, you would have as much wealth as General Tom Thumb.”

“Can’t and won’t,” General Mite uttered.

“But you have a fine voice, my boy, by golly! Why not sing with the little señorita?”

“Nope.”

“Francis, are you saying you’d rather pass on earning extra money for your future?”

“Not worth it.”

“Well, then Francis, sit like a lump on a log and let the señorita dance around you. Let some of her sunshine beam down on you.”

Francis sat sullenly. Here he was again onstage in another filthy city with the whirling tornado from Mexico staring at him with her big whirlpool eyes, suffused with mystery and mischief. The other members of the troupe gossiped that in Mexico there were sacred sink-holes gorged with water—bottomless and murky—disguising the remains of human sacrifices. They teased General Mite that Lucía would one day take him swimming in one of those cenotes and he would never be seen again. Just the thought of it made him shiver with apprehension, as if by making eye contact with Lucía she would hypnotize him and he would never live out his own dreams, only her own unfathomable fantasies. So instead of playing along with her and entertaining the audience together as he was paid to do, General Mite froze. People laughed at his shyness and they egged him on:

“Give her a kiss, why don’t you?” they shouted.

Lucía understood the word kiss in English and she puckered up her lips and ran towards him with open arms. Fortunately for General Mite, Lucía read his jittery body language and changed her mind. Instead she simply continued to dance and sing around him, ignoring his woebegone mien. In contrast to General Mite, Lucía loved the overwrought newspaper articles which described them in minutia. On January 3, 1879, The National Republican in Washington D.C. described the couple in detail:

General Mite, Age 14, weighs 9 pounds. He is a healthy, bright, active, intelligent, and handsome young gentleman, pronounced by the medical profession, the clergy, the press, and the people to be the most extraordinary human wonder that ever existed since the world was created.

Luca Zárate, Age 15 years, weighs 4 ¾ pounds. She is the incarnation of the tiny female humanity, and absolutely the smallest natural human being that was ever known to live since the creation of the world.

When she heard these magnified descriptions, Lucía frolicked about the room. Not once in all the newspaper articles did she ever hear the word chaneque, the word for the little people who ate your soul.

The newspapers illustrated her charm and in response, she sparkled again and again on stage. Lucía kept her eyes and ears open to everything and everyone around her— and she recognized her own stardom. Only General Mite seemed blind to her rays of sunlight. He seemed specifically distraught at the newspaper articles that described them as sweethearts. Lucía carried a folded copy of the February 28, 1979 Evening Star and recited its coverage:

The General, while strolling around a bandbox with Miss Lucía recently, popped the question, and she accepted it at heart.

Although General Mite had not asked for her hand in marriage nor had they strolled around a bandbox, the newspaper articles did plant a seed of independence in her mind. She decided to accomplish both in the near future; all she had to do was assert her star power. From this point forward, it would be she who would tell everyone, including Frank Uffner and Zoila, when and where she could step outside their stuffy quarters and see the world. But more significantly, she would capture General Mite’s heart.

On stage, Lucía addressed the audience in English in her signature squeaky voice: “You come to see little Mexican jumping bean, no?” Then she twirled and lifted her skirt, kicking up the heels of her now worn-down black boots. These were the same boots that had been custom-made for her three years earlier in New Orleans but now they were cracked around the toe box, the heels sloping in odd directions from so much tapping and stomping. Frank Uffner no longer spent money on updating her elegant doll dresses, nor did he have the exquisite red feathers on her hats replaced— and he most certainly refused to spend a penny on new bespoke dancing shoes.

Zoila watched him carefully, and she knew that Frank Uffner’s eyes were always on the prize. If he kept his overhead low, if he fudged the ticket sale receipts, if he forgot to pay the more gullible of his performers for this or that, then he could accumulate the money he needed to lead a swell life. Apart from General Mite’s father, the only other person who could squeeze money out of him was Lucía’s father. Every few months, Señor Zárate would appear unannounced in the audience in this city or that. He would walk right onto the stage and lift Lucía into his arms.

“Papá,” he shouted at the audience, pointing to himself. He waited for their applause before setting Lucía back down on the stage. As soon as the performance concluded, Señor Zárate cornered Frank Uffner and picked his pockets. “More money,” he had learned to say in English.

“No más dinero,” Frank Uffner replied.

“I go Mexico with Lucía,” Señor Zárate pointed to Lucía, his tiny golden goose.

Inevitably, Frank submitted to Señor Zárate’s demands because the amounts that satisfied him were well below what Lucía’s true share would have been, assuming anyone could figure out Frank Uffner’s creative accounting system. It was the price of doing business—shady business. After Señor Zárate’s short visits, Frank refocused on squirreling away his embezzled funds in such a secretive way that even his wife would never figure it out. He couldn’t wait for the day when he would disband his troupe; then, he could also abscond with his cache and leave his battle-ax wife behind.

Frank Uffner took full credit for Lucía’s success. Early on he had spent his own money on Lucía’s wardrobe and on her photographs. He’d encouraged Eisenman to position her in more dramatic poses that emphasized her minute stature, knowing full well that the suckers filling the levées would gladly buy them. He reluctantly paid Zoila a pittance for Lucía’s care since he was afraid she might resort to violence if he withheld her measly pay. He had once tried to hug her bosom one early morning when his wife was not home and he thought he’d felt a dagger between her breasts. Ever since that morning, Frank kept an eye on Zoila not so much out of fear of her revenge, but primarily to make sure that Lucía would to be on stage on time, ready to captivate her audience.

Whenever he noticed that Lucía’s enthusiasm on stage appeared to be waning, or that her energy level had declined, he thrust another newspaper article at Zoila.

“Read this wee warning to our waning Lucía,” he commanded.

“I will do it later, sir. I have to get her ready for yet another exhausting day.”

“Watch your mouth, big girl. Read it nice and loud to me, and then I want to hear you tell her what it says in Spanish. Do I make myself clear?”

Zoila heaved a sigh, but agreed to read The Sacramento Daily Union Record article of January 13, 1877:

Two Pittsburg shoemakers recently tried the experiment of making boots from human skin. By arrangement with a medical college they secured skin from the stomach and back of a man killed suddenly by accident, tanned it nicely, and made two pairs of boots therefrom, the soles being made of ordinary leather. They proved to be warmer than boots made from the skin of a calf, and it is believed that they will be every bit as serviceable.

Zoila gasped. “Sir, this is too much for her delicate ears!”

“Finish reading it in English and then you best be telling her exactly what it says in Spanish.”

Zoila swallow hard. She noted that Lucía stood still, a bewildered look on her face, but she continued reading:

Now they want to use us for boots and shoes (the parents thus clothing the children in a new way), and pretty soon they will be making our finger-bones into necklaces and charms.

Zoila could not continue. She read the words Lucía Zárate at the end of the article. She closed her eyes and handed the article back to Frank Uffner, who shoved it right back at her; the newspaper now crumpled.

“Finish reading the article,” he shouted, and Zoila read softly, halting with every syllable:

At this rate General Mite and Lucía Zárate will find their destiny as paper weights.

“Paper weights!” he chuckled, “Ain’t that original?”

Frank Uffner snickered when he heard Zoila translate the macabre words to Lucía. But Lucía did not seem particularly upset.

“I know you didn’t translate it correctly. Tell her the exact words.”

“You hired me to protect her, and these words will devastate Lucía.”

“I want to see a Mexican jumping bean on stage today. Tell her!”

“Sir,” Zoila pleaded, “she will break down if she hears these words and you will not make any money. I’m here to help you make lots of money, roll-in-the-dough, as you often say, sir.”

“Don’t get sassy with me or I’ll give you a blinker.” He lifted his fist as if to punch Zoila in the eye. She shook her head and whispered something in Spanish to Lucía.

All Frank Uffner wanted was to see Lucía kick her heels up and look happy on stage. Lucía’s dog-eared appearance didn’t bother him as the crowds who came to see her seemed delighted just at the sight of her. He had single-handedly created her stage persona, and because of his genius as an impresario, her fame had spread worldwide. Soon, he and he alone would enjoy his well-deserved payback.