by Ellie Marney
I turn and look up in time to see Cecil, his expression contorted with rage. He’s bleeding from a half dozen small nicks and cuts where Zep’s cards have found their mark.
Then Cecil makes an ugly grin, steps towards me, and my brain freezes.
But as soon as Cecil moves, black cards fly into his face. Cards are whirring, the sound of their passage through the air like the buzz of angry wasps. Cecil roars, waves his arms. Then one card finds its target–Cecil makes a short, high scream and claps both hands to his eye.
Colm Mackay appears in the ring out of nowhere. He grabs Cecil in a headlock from behind, begins dragging him offstage towards the red wing curtains. Calliope music revs to life in the gallery, and the patrons cheer.
I don’t know what to do now. My whole body has gone numb. A warm arm goes around my shoulders and I jerk, turn.
‘Are you okay?’ Zep’s panting, his face absolutely white, which makes the thin red slash over his cheekbone stand out even more. ‘Ren, get offstage. Go with Fraser.’
‘Come on, Ren. Up you get.’ Fraser is a tall, amorphous black shape with a calm voice. It’s only because I know him that I let him help me up. Applause is thunderous in the tent, bouncing off the canvas.
I turn back. ‘But–’
‘Come on, mate, we gotta get off before the rubes figure out this isn’t a gimmick.’
And he’s right–the audience is still cheering wildly. Fraser puts his arm around my waist and helps me walk. We get clear of the spotlight and reach the wing curtain, duck around it.
I almost smack straight into Fleur, who’s waving her arms like she wants to behead somebody.
‘Where the hell is security? What the actual fuck happened out there?’ Her attention switches to me, as she drags me further into the backstage area. Her expression is pinched, furious. I don’t think she’s angry at me. ‘Are you okay? Are you hurt? Ren–are you hurt?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘No, I’m not hurt.’
The backstage area is in uproar. Colm and Marco hold a squirming Cecil down–he yelps as they truss him with rope. Ring crew are calling to each other, people are dashing around. Bennett is nearby, talking on the phone, his face agitated and his other finger in his ear, trying to hear.
‘Ren.’ Fleur tugs a headset over her hair, touches my cheek to get my attention. ‘Ren, talk to me in English, please. Are you hurt?’
I didn’t realise I’d replied in Indonesian. ‘I’m…I’m fine.’
‘She seems okay,’ Fraser says. ‘Fleur, Terry’s calling for me.’
‘Sure. Goddammit.’ Fleur masters herself, nods once for Fraser to leave, then steps away from me for a moment so she can cue the next act.
My knees wobble, and I sink to the floor. We’re still pretending that Cecil’s attack was a part of the show, I remember, and the show must go on. Zep is closing out his spot in the ring, which is a consummately professional thing to do, but I wish he was here with me.
‘Okay. Okay.’ Fleur steps back and drops to one knee beside me, puts a hand over her headset mic. ‘We’ve called the police, we called them when the fight started. Ren, what happened?’
My breathing is fast and my vision is swimming a little, so I try to focus on her face. ‘Where’s Malcolm?’
‘The other guy? Archie and Seb have him near the ticket booth. Fuck.’ She pulls the headset away, swipes a hand to her nose, her eyes red. ‘You wanted to tell Zep. You were right. I made a bad call. If you hadn’t been in the audience, Zep would have had no warning at all–’
She looks as if she’s getting upset. ‘Fleur, it’s all right. You didn’t make anything happen, it’s not your fault–’
My words break off when the red curtain billows. Zep explodes from behind it, scattering ring crew as he pushes his way forward. ‘Where is she? Is she hurt? Is she–’
I hold out my arms, my chest aching too much to call for him.
He takes a great gasping inhale when he sees me. Then he sprints for me, careers to a halt and drops to hold me by the shoulders. His eyes scan me minutely.
‘Are you hurt? Are you okay?’ His cheek is filmed with sweat and bright blood.
‘I’m not hurt. You’re bleeding–’
‘What?’ He touches his face, glances at his fingers, seems surprised to find them tipped with red. ‘It’s… I can’t even feel it. You’re really all right?’
‘I’m okay. I’m okay.’ My throat closes suddenly and I make a sob, swallow it. Reach for him.
‘Ren.’ He gathers me up, warm and essential and alive.
‘I was…’ My teeth are chattering. ‘I was so scared for you, astaga, ngeri banget waktu dia cabut pisau itu…’
‘I’m here, querida, I’m here.’
We hug for a long moment, then Fleur squats beside me. ‘Ren, the clowns are on now and your spot is up next. I don’t think you should perform. We’ll rearrange the spots–’
‘I can perform.’ I wipe my eyes. ‘I’m not hurt, I’m okay. Give me a minute.’
‘You’re too pale,’ Zep’s frowning. ‘Fleur’s right, you shouldn’t go onstage.’
‘I just need a minute. Bentar aja. And maybe a drink of water.’
‘Can we get water over here?’ Fleur calls out. ‘A couple of water bottles?’
I hear the music in the ring change register. I clamber up to standing while holding Zep’s arm.
Zep’s eyes are wild. ‘Ren–’
‘I’m okay,’ I say. ‘Just let me hug you for a minute’
His body is searing hot, and humming with adrenalin against mine. In the midst of this hug, I have a sensation like I’m falling forward. I get a sudden understanding of what I nearly lost–the concept of Zep’s absence–and the idea tilts the world off its axis for a second.
I force myself to push back. ‘Okay. You’re okay. And I’m ready.’
‘You don’t have to go out there,’ Zep says.
‘You did.’ I hold his arms. My voice is hoarse, but it’s important that I tell him this, that he knows it. ‘That was brave. And I’ve never seen a performance like you gave. It was incredible. That’s what the people out there will remember. They won’t remember Cecil or Malcolm, or anything to do with Angus’s stupid vendetta. They’ll only remember you.’
I kiss him on the lips, let his steadying hand go. He and Fleur are watching me, worry etched all over their features. I accept a water bottle from a crew member, take a cool swig, hand it to Fleur.
Then I face the curtains, take a shallow breath, and slip through them.
Ten
I steal through the wing curtain, into the corridor behind the rows of bleachers.
Bonnie and Carey and the rest of the clowns are still performing. I walk briskly around the perimeter of the tent until I reach the centre aisle, go forward to the middle rows.
This is where I fought with Malcolm, but my jacket is gone–the only evidence of our scuffle is a few scrapes of sawdust on the floor. I tear my eyes away, grasp the bleacher poles and haul myself up to the seats.
The lady in the closest row whispers an apology. ‘I’m sorry, dear, these seats are taken.’
‘Thank you, that’s all right,’ I whisper back.
I slip up the rail-side steps like a murmur until I’m at the top level of the bleachers, the eyrie seats. The patrons nearby–a middle-aged couple, a mother and two daughters–are riveted by the action below. I step up onto the back rail, holding the scaffolding uprights, then walk across the back rail to find the centre. Then I balance, and wait. Far below, at ring level, the clowns take their bows and the lights dim.
I close my eyes, control the shake in my hands. The fight, the aftermath, is over; this is all I have to concentrate on now. Audience applause tapers out. When I look again, a single spotlight shines down on a tall wooden stool, centre-front in the ring.
Soft bre
eze sounds, the tinkle of wind chimes, filling the tent. The gallery is quiet.
I step out, onto the edge of the nearest seat back.
Cooling whispers of wind and weather echo around the Big Top as my performance soundtrack plays. Warm light blooms over me as I stand on the seat back. The man occupying the seat appears surprised that he’s become part of the show. But I want everyone to be part of this show–everyone who’s ever wondered if maybe they could do more, be more.
This is the moment: I curve, curl myself forward, reach for the back of the next seat down, grab it with my hands. I’m bowed over the heads of shocked patrons, but I can’t let my momentum slow: I lift my legs up into a handstand, then curl my legs overhead in a great arc until my toes reach the next seat edge, the way I’ve done it dozens of times in rehearsal.
Like a Slinky going downstairs, I revolve over and over, from seat edge to seat edge, all the way down the bleachers.
Patrons whose seats I’m curling over shift sideways to make room; I don’t really register their close-up stares. The rest of the audience rustles as people turn to track my progress, their faces swivelling towards me like a hundred flowers towards the sun. The spotlight follows me as I get faster.
When I reach the bottom of the bleachers, I spring up and run to my stool, sit on it and wave to the audience. I should be dizzy, but I’m not. Everywhere I look there are smiling, astonished faces–I can’t help but smile in return. The kids in the front rows are the best: their mouths dropped open, their eyes huge and round.
My stool is my stage now. And a very narrow stage it is, too, only as wide as my feet heels-together. But it’s enough space to show the audience what I’ve always been capable of. Like an angel on the head of a pin, my body twists and folds as I planche, roll, oversplit.
Here’s the most technically difficult move of the routine: I balance on my hands, my legs folded over my head in an extreme backbend, the stool half-tipped on two legs. Sweat is streaming off me now. I alter my grip and nudge.
The audience’s gasp reverberates through the tent as the stool tips on its side. My hands drop, catch and grip the stool legs, my pose still taut, poised like a drawn bow.
Still upside-down, I tilt the stool upright again, climb back to the seat. My arms are working hard. The natural-world soundtrack continues, and I continue to match it, flowing from each movement into a new one, like a caterpillar metamorphosing, its shape evolving. From bend to balance to fold, I’m aware of my body but I’m not conscious of it. My mind is thinking forward to the next move, and the next.
It’s one of those unique times, in performance, when my mind enters a slightly altered state. All my senses are heightened. I smell the beeswax polish on the stool, the sawdust in the ring, my own perspiration–my head is swimming with all these awarenesses, and the spotlight seems extra bright.
If I was conscious of my breathing, I’d get nervous. But I’m not, so I don’t.
The tendons in my arms are popped with strain by the time I fold out of a handstand-deep oversplit combination to settle myself back on the stool. These grace moves are the finale of the act. Now there’s gentle music playing. The kids who were round-eyed before are even more amazed now. I smile and wave to them, and they wave back.
I look like an ordinary girl. If I’ve inspired them to do extraordinary things, then my work here is done.
My last glimpse of the audience dims as the spotlight on me fades. Tracers in my vision–flares from the stage lights that have just gone out–make me blink in the blackness. The effect of the performance is so strong, it takes me a moment to realise that I have to get off this stool.
A crew member takes my hand to help me offstage in the dark. ‘That was goddamn amazing. You know that was amazing, right?’
I think Fleur is the one holding my hand. My ears are ringing from the applause. There’s a sharp pain, high on the right side of my chest. I must have strained something.
I can hardly feel my feet on the sawdust. ‘It was worth it. I know you didn’t want me to go onstage, but it was worth it.’
‘Ren, sweetie, I can’t understand what you’re saying.’ We’re getting closer to the wing curtain. Fleur’s face is a dark blur, her worried expression resolving more clearly as we near the backstage lamps. ‘You’re almost there, Ren, come on.’
I see people racing back and forth in the wings–quick movement, more noticeable than bright colour.
‘I think I need a drink.’ My voice has a weird echo. ‘And maybe my inhaler.’
‘Come on, Ren.’ Fleur’s arm is around me. She looks alarmed. ‘Goddammit, don’t you fall down on me, girl.’
The pain in my chest is worse. I lift my chin for air, but breathing is like inhaling knives. The curtain is further away than I thought. Then it parts, and Zep is there to usher me inside the wing. He looks frantic.
‘Water. And her inhaler. Where’s her fucking inhaler?’ His face is dramatic, like he’s shouting, but he can’t be–his volume is no more than a murmur.
I feel like I’m floating, which seems strange. ‘Ice. I probably need some ice for this strain–’
‘Somebody bring the paramedic!’ Fleur says to the wing in general. Her words sound far away, but her expression is charged.
Zep props me up, cups my head with his other hand. ‘In English, querida. Where’s your inhaler? Please, Ren–’
‘Jacket.’ It hurts to breathe. ‘In my jacket. Oh, sayang! Don’t cry…’
Zep’s voice cracks as he says something imploring in Spanish, kisses my cheek. ‘Keep breathing, Ren. Just keep breathing–’
More people nearby. The pain in my chest is louder now, so loud. There’s a needle-prick at my fingertip, pressure on my bicep. My breath is fast and tight, a small hunted animal. A plastic-smelling cup is suspended over my mouth and nose–I recoil from the taste of medicine, the sound of rough voices.
‘…and I’ve got respiration at forty-one, pulse at one-thirty-seven. Her GCS is only nine or ten–’
‘…level of dyspnoea, I’d say tension pneumothorax. Let’s get her to the cart–’
Movement. It’s like being stabbed in the chest.
‘…the boyfriend? You can come in the ambulance… Miss Putri, honey, we’re going to transfer you, now…’
A cool hand squeezes mine.
‘Hold on, Ren,’ Zep whispers. ‘It’s okay. I’ve got you.’
Flashes in the dark. Bright lights.
Zep stroking my hair off my face. People I don’t know, in surgical masks. Raw snatches of pain. My mother wailing, being comforted by my father.
Cool air over my lips.
The smell of bleach.
A drift of clove-scent again. I open my eyes. But it’s only my sister, sitting beside my bed, reading a magazine.
‘Ah, baru bangun, kamu.’ Her voice is throaty and soft. She puts the magazine aside and stands near my head. ‘You should have woken earlier, when mama and ayah were here. Guess I’m the lucky one, eh? You want something?’
I croak. It’s not much of a croak–just a slip of air. My throat is so dry I can’t swallow.
‘You want a drink? Hold on.’ Santi manoeuvres a straw to my lips. ‘A little more. Eh, udah, ya. The doctor said only small sips.’
The moisture in the straw is absorbed into the parched lining of my mouth instantly. It’s too much effort to talk. I let my eyes rove the room. Santi can translate.
‘Ya, you’re in hospital. The doctor said you’ll be here maybe five days. That’s longer than Rizal when he broke his collarbone that time.’
I wet my lips and blink.
‘They had to re-inflate your lung! Wow, drama.’ Santi grins. ‘Your boyfriend is hot. Mama kicked him out. Since when do you have a hot boyfriend and not tell me?’
My eyes must get anxious.
‘Eh, jangan khawatir, he’ll be back. He�
��s not going to be put off that easy.’
A touch on my palm. I force my fingers to work, squeeze Santi’s hand. She brushes back my hair and her features relax, and I finally see my sister for the first time in a while.
‘Ah, Reni.’ She picks at invisible lint on my pillow. ‘How’d you get so smart and so foolish, eh? It’s like you spend so much time in your head, you forget about yourself. You forget how we care about you, too. You gotta look after yourself, dek. You can’t be ignoring your health, and falling over at the circus, and being rushed to hospital…’
She gets a little teary. Santi never gets teary. She’s tough, I realise. She’s spent a long time being my scatter-brained, undisciplined, directionless older sister. I never noticed she was tough.
‘Okay, you just lie there and I’m going to read to you from this magazine.’ She pulls her chair closer. ‘It’s all stories about celebrities. You’ll get bored in about one minute, and close your eyes and fall back to sleep. Have a nice sleep, okay? You’ll feel better soon.’
She starts reading. I close my eyes. It takes less than one minute.
I have to lie semi-reclined, and they’re giving me some disorienting drugs because of the pain. My father jokes that it only hurts when I breathe, then he gets a bit overwhelmed and has to leave the room.
‘He’s just feeling bad,’ Santi says, shrugging as she tidies rubbish off the nightstand. ‘Because he was smoking when you came home, and now he’s worried he kicked off your asthma? Also, I think he’s realised that he’ll end up in here with you if he doesn’t quit.’
My mother returns, comes to the bed and pats my hand. ‘You will be fine. You will be recovered soon, and you will be back to normal.’
‘Give up the dream, mama,’ Santi says, flicking magazine pages. ‘Didn’t you hear what the doctor said? No strenuous exercise, no pressurised environments–that means air cabins at thirty-five thousand feet. There’s no way Ren will be flying to Bali.’
‘It’s still two weeks’ away,’ my mother objects.
A nurse comes in to open the valve in the tube in my chest. The tube is small and thin and the fact that it’s inserted in my chest, just under my right arm, continues to give me the heebie jeebies.