by Ellie Marney
‘Call ayah, tell him lunch is ready.’
I wander back down the hallway to the small front room with the big windows, where my father can usually be found. He’s standing by his desk, which holds neat stacks of folders and papers for marking, plus a laptop. The burning Dji Sam Soe in the large ashtray on the edge of the desk sends up an eddying grey ribbon.
I stand in the doorway. ‘Ayah, you smoke too much.’
My father’s back is to me, but I hear the smile in his voice. ‘You say that every time you visit.’
‘It’s still true every time I visit.’
‘Ren…’ He turns, one hand gripping a book. His expression is soft and serious. ‘Before you see your uncle, I wanted to say that you don’t have to agree to what he’s offering.’
A coil of disquiet unfurls in my stomach. ‘Apa?’
Away in the kitchen, my mother’s voice calls out. Both my father and I turn our faces in that direction, before looking back at each other.
‘You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,’ my father says quietly. ‘That’s all.’
‘Um…okay?’
My father nods, as if he’s said his piece. ‘Ayo. Kita makan sama yang lain.’
We head back to the kitchen together. Santi is washing her hands at the kitchen sink while mama fusses over the table. My sister is dressed in housepants and a Minnie Mouse T-shirt, her hair tugged back in a messy bun.
‘Reni, Reni!’ She wipes her hands and gives me a hug. ‘Kangen sama abege yang satu ini–haven’t seen you in ages.’
Santi is twenty-three, a part-time student of business management and a full-time slob. She works at a little fashion boutique at a local shopping centre to subsidise her addiction to fad iPhone games, and still lives at home to save money on rent.
‘How’s school?’ I ask, and in a lower voice, ‘Are you seeing anyone?’
‘Eh.’ Santi shrugs. ‘School, school–bleh. And I was meeting this guy, Peter, for coffee a few times a week, but it didn’t work out, putus deh.’
It’s not until we’ve all sat down at the table that my uncle appears. Stocky and moustached, he has the same bright-dark eyes as my mother but none of her reserve. He’s sluiced back his thick, black hair, and still has the hand towel draped around his neck, above a yellow polo shirt.
‘Reni! Anak, anak bandel! Haha, it’s great to see you!’
His jeans have ironing creases in them. I hate the nickname he was for me–Naughty Child–and I especially hate that my mother has adopted it. But I am nothing if not polite.
‘Hai, uncle.’
He claps his hands. ‘Makan yu, lapar banget nih.’
We discuss my uncle’s arrival, compliment my mother on the lunch, and talk about Bollywood movies for a while–Uncle Agus saw a new one during his flight over. If my uncle were a food, I reflect, he would be durian candy: strong-flavoured and offensive to some, with none of the authentic juiciness of fresh durian but rather a sickly-sweet residual after-taste.
He’s slippery like durian candy, too. It’s not until near the end of the meal that he mentions the proposition he has for me.
‘So I have been discussing this with your mother,’ he starts, leaning on the table. ‘You know I have a hotel now? I have a hotel. I am the general manager of Hotel Lusa Deluxe–four-star accommodation, pool, restaurant, lounge bar, one block from the beach… It’s a great place, yeah?’
I can see my mother is impressed with this. I want to google it before I form an opinion. I just nod my head demurely. ‘It sounds lovely, uncle.’
‘It really is. And do you know what? A spot has opened up. We need a regular performer for the hotel. Six nights a week, we need someone to put on a show at the lounge bar for patrons. So of course I thought of you!’
I can see where this is going. ‘It’s nice you thought of me, uncle, but–’
‘I thought, ‘This would be a great opportunity for my niece! She could have her own show!’’ He lights up a kretek at the table. My father and Uncle Agus both smoke Dji Sam Soe cigarettes, and this is the only point at which their Venn diagrams intersect.
‘Your own show, Ren.’ My mother is already excited by this idea. ‘Think about it. No splitting profits with the circus. You could decide what you want to perform!’
‘I do that already, mama,’ I point out.
‘You could complete your correspondence studies just as easily in Bali as at the circus. Think how pleasant it would be to live at the beach!’
‘I would love to live at the beach,’ Santi says. ‘Waaah, Ren, you are so lucky.’
She’s already groaning at my good fortune before anything has been decided.
‘You will have your own rooms,’ my mother continues. ‘No more dorm living, yes? And the money is good–almost as good as what you’re receiving now, for fewer performances.’
‘As the general manager, I am the one who negotiates and distributes wages,’ my uncle says, smiling broadly. ‘I will make sure you get a good contract. And you can automatically deduct a percentage to send back home each month–I can arrange it.’
My face is determinedly neutral. ‘So you will have control of my finances?’
‘I will take excellent care of you,’ Uncle Agus says, still smiling. ‘But what am I saying? You’re my niece! Of course I will take care of you!’
My father meets my glance across the table. I feel sick to my stomach at the idea of my uncle having me under his thumb in Bali, but I can’t say no outright, at least not yet.
‘That’s…a very generous offer, uncle. Let me think on it for a while.’
‘How long do you need to think?’ Santi scoffs. ‘Aren’t you going to jump straight away?’
My mother hushes her. ‘Ren, your uncle is giving you a wonderful opportunity. Take some time, but don’t wait too long. He needs to contact the hotel soon. Now, is everyone ready for coffee?’
Much later in the evening–with my pyjamas on, and my teeth brushed, and my hair coiled on the pillow of the pull-out bed in Santi’s room–I let myself think about Uncle Agus’s proposal. And I realise that the reason I haven’t allowed myself to think about it until now is because it makes me feel angry. I’m not usually an angry type of person, so the feeling catches me by surprise.
But I am angry. My uncle has proposed this scheme, which seems to benefit him considerably more than it benefits me, and my mother seems to believe that the whole thing is a great idea. It suggests that my mother is more interested in how she can maintain control over me than in my own wishes. And also, by implication, that she feels I’m incapable of forming my own opinions and making my own choices.
I’m also angry at how my sister sat there and enthusiastically nodded her head at everything, and how my father sat in silence while the whole matter was being discussed. He didn’t stick up for me once. Although he did give me advice about it before lunch commenced, so maybe he felt that he’d done his part, and didn’t want to butt heads with my mother and my uncle over the table. Which kind of makes sense.
The room in here is stuffy with the central heating on. Santi is snoring in the higher-positioned bed beside mine. I sigh and push my hair away from my sweaty neck. There’s no getting around it. Whatever decision I make about this, it’s going to be awkward. If I say yes, my father will be displeased and I will be unhappy. If I say no, my uncle and my mother will be fractious. I’m going to offend someone, regardless of what I do.
I don’t like this feeling. And I don’t like this stuffy, airless room.
I get up carefully from the squeaky pull-out bed and pad over to the window, open it. Cool air brushes my forehead, soothes my cheeks and the skin at my collarbone. It’s such a relief, I do something I haven’t done since I was a kid: I climb out the window and onto the roof.
The roof tiles are cold, but familiar. Settling myself on the gritty ti
les, cross-legged, I watch the stars above the house. Try to breathe out my resentment. Try to let some of the emotion ease away.
After a while, I climb back through the window and go back to the bed. I lie there for a long time, wishing for things I can’t have, until I finally drop off to sleep.
My father returns me to the lot at lunchtime on Sunday, as agreed.
I had to pull away hard, because my mother wanted me to stay. She and Uncle Agus were suggesting strongly that right now would be a great time for me to make a decision. I bit the inside of my cheek and explained that I needed some space to consider things, and that I had also made a commitment to perform today at the Cadell’s mini-show.
As soon as I walk back through the lot gate, I breathe more easily. Business here is going on as usual. Tradeworkers are bustling in and around the Spiegeltent, which is starting to look less like a Meccano set covered in tarpaulins and more like a glamorously new-improved circus tent. Backstage crew are walking across the lot briskly as they prep for the mini-show. Performers are either absent in training, or scurrying to finish last-minute chores before showtime.
The performance is at four. I have to stretch, after missing my usual routine this morning, and I have to check my costume. Cadell’s has organised a bus to take all the Klatsch’s performers to the event space. It leaves the lot at two-thirty, so I have about an hour and a half to make sure everything is in order.
Walking along the Parade Road to the dorm, I pass the mess just as Sorsha and Colm are about to enter it. Sorsha darts over to the mess verandah railing and waves at me.
‘Ren! You’re back! Are you coming in for lunch?’
I cup my hand over my stomach. ‘I’ve had twenty-four hours of mama shoving food at me. If I eat any more between now and the performance, I’ll vomit.’
She grins. ‘Okay, then. See you on the bus!’ She turns away, turns back quickly. ‘Oh, by the way, Zep Deal asked about you at breakfast.’
I stop walking. ‘Zep asked about me?’
‘He wanted to talk to you about something? Or–’ She rolls her eyes. ‘Actually I don’t know. He was doing his mystery-man impression. But maybe you want to find him and see what’s up.’
I thank her and keep walking. I have a bunch of chores, and I don’t have time to stop and see Zep, although the concept is sorely tempting. But chores! Argh. My brow is mid-furrow when I realise something: Zep texted me. I have his number in my phone.
I yank my phone out, find his number and type a message as I walk. I’m back on the lot. Need to do chores. Sorsha said you wanted to see me?
I’ve only gone about four steps closer to the dorm when he replies.
Welcome back.
He included a smiling emoji. I smile at it, because smiling emojis encourage return smiles. I’m not smiling because Zep seems to be happy I’m back on the lot. That’s just silly. He’s not even here to see me smile.
While I’m smiling, he texts again. How was family visit?
My smile droops. I don’t know how to reply. Then I realise there’s an emoji that is sufficient for my needs. I send an emoji of a smiling poo.
He replies almost immediately. That good huh?
Before I can formulate a reply, he texts again. I want to hear about it later. How glam is this event? Full costume?
I consider my reply. I would happily watch him perform in the black-and-white plaid shirt and braces he wore on Friday night–mm, braces. Or even the grungier outfit he wore to Cadell’s for the workshops would look good. Or, my brain suggests naughtily, he would look mighty fine performing in just those black trunks he sleeps in…
I’m considering this option so thoroughly, I almost walk into the porch posts near the women’s dorm.
I right myself and type back. More glam than the workshop but not full show glam.
After a beat, he replies. Thank you.
You’re welcome.
He texts again quickly. Won’t see you on the bus. I’m getting a ride with Fleur. She wants to talk legal stuff.
Legal stuff–of course. The court case against his father is still ongoing. I squash down my disappointment about not seeing him on the bus. I need to get my brain in order.
I text back. Ok. I think for a moment, text again. Part of me knows I’m just texting to continue the conversation . Malu abis. I have no shame. Do you have costume options?
The bubbles of his reply come immediately. I have options. See you at the show.
Excellent. He has options. I think about Zep, and what his options might be, as I go about my chores. I try really hard not to think about him performing in his black trunks. But my brain is distracted all through my stretching practise, all through my costume check, and as I shower and dress and apply performance slap.
I try to school my brain into submission. By the time I make my way to the patron car park, where the bus to the Cadell’s gig is waiting, I have almost succeeded.
Almost.
The ‘wing’ area for this mini-show is not big enough.
I can attest to this, because I’m in the wing watching the performances, while mentally preparing for my spot. But the back and side-stage curtains aren’t really wide enough to conceal much of me. My costume is not inconspicuous: a kaleidoscope-patterned bodysuit, with my hair done in two long braids and tied with bright velvet bows, and my face painted Pierrot-style. Luckily this area is dark, and the stage lights are focused on Fabian and Vi as they finish their tumbling act.
Cadell’s has set up a marquee inside a convention centre. They’ve actually done a remarkable job of capturing the feel of a real circus tent. Floor carpets have been covered over with thick canvas wailings. Lights inside the marquee are dim, with spots flashing on the ring area. There’s even a layer of sawdust on the ring floor.
The ring is semi-circled by banks of seats, although the seats aren’t elevated gallery-style, like in the Spiegeltent. Waiters move through the space carrying trays of champagne and canapes for the clients we’re helping to impress. About two hundred people are sitting watching the action, or circulating in the tent making business-talk, pausing when the acts come on at intervals.
Not everybody is performing at this event. Gabriella is absent, as transporting her horses was too difficult. Sorsha performed second: she did a wire act. None of the other trapeze artists are scheduled to perform, because setting up a full trapeze rig in the Cadell marquee was too complicated.
Seb and Dita and Colm are here, and have done two different strength routines. Gordon and Chester and Bill are behind the back stage curtain, prepping for an abbreviated freak act. Fleur is here, acting as ringmaster and helping Bennett stage manage and generally representing her dad. She’s currently standing on the far side of the ring, in her leotard and a tailcoat jacket and high heels, sampling the fancy champagne.
And now Zep Deal takes the stage.
I didn’t see him when I got off the bus, only during the pre-performance set up. He looked tense, his eyes dark and anxious. He was wearing some kind of white shirt, I noticed, but I was more focused on his hands: they were raised in front of his chest, fingers clenching and unclenching. I wondered if he was still getting tendon pain, but then I realised that wasn’t it. He was nervous. I figured if I were about to give my first public performance in three years, I’d be nervous, too.
We were separated by a bunch of other performers and ring crew, so I couldn’t speak to him or call out. But I caught his eye and gave him two thumbs up, and mouthed, You. Will. Be. Great.–nice and slow, so he’d get it. He swallowed, nodded, and his lips shaped the word Thanks. I smiled at him. He exhaled deeply and smiled back, although his smile was small and wan.
But now he’s out there in the ring and I don’t know what he was ever worried about. It’s no exaggeration to say that he is killing it.
The first part of his act is simple shuffling. He’s micced
up, and he keeps a light, casual patter going as he manipulates the cards, engaging with the audience. His movements become progressively more complex as he starts making the shuffles more showy, as he adds extra decks, until he’s practically juggling waterfalls of cards.
His hair is messily tousled, and he’s wearing his fedora low over his eyes. At least one of my fantasies is a reality: he’s wearing the black braces over a white shirt, which is unbuttoned over a white undershirt. He’s also wearing skinny black jeans that have silver zips running up each side, and he’s kept the motorcycle boots.
But it’s his skills that have me entranced. He’s good–I mean, really good. The cards in his hands are moving like they’re alive. As he flicks his wrists, they fan in patterns, fly up towards the ceiling, and–at some point he must have introduced some flashpaper cards–explode into showers of fireworks.
The groups of people who have been more focused on business-talk fall still as Zep’s act continues. It’s becoming obvious that we’re watching a magician, a true fingersmith. By the time Zep starts sailing cards out over the heads of the audience, everyone in the marquee is transfixed.
He scales cards all the way into the far corners of the tent, aiming at places that audience members suggest. He makes wry jokes, asks for volunteers to provide targets. Ring crew distribute carrots to audience participants, and Zep does a little show-within-a-show as he pretends to psyche himself up to scale the cards at the audience members. He flexes his fingers, feigns concern that he might hit someone by accident, makes a couple of dud throws. Then he calls for quiet.
The music in the tent settles into a low drumroll. Everyone is holding their breath.
Zep spins, and the back of his white shirt whips against his waist. His elbows snap and his hands flick out, and cards fly: ten flicks, ten cards, some of them flashpaper, so golden sparks cascade through the air. But I hear the staccato snick-snick of paper cards–transformed by velocity into spinning blades–as they meet their targets. The carrots in the hands of each audience member are neatly topped in turn.