by Ellie Marney
I can’t do that. And the reason I can’t do it calls me on the phone about five minutes before I close my books for the morning.
‘Hai Ren, ini Mamah telepon kamu.’
‘Iya, Mamah. You know I have number recognition on my phone, right? I know it’s you when you call.’
‘Oh iya, kamu lagi ngapain ini? Baik baik saja kan? You are really going well?’
‘I just finished studying, mama. How is everyone at home?’
‘Semuanya sehat di rumah. Rizal and Lucia are both well–Rizal called me last night. And your father is taking time from universitas soon. He has not taken a vacation for years. Will you come home for a visit while your father is on vacation?’
‘What are the dates?’ I tap my pen on my notebook. ‘I’m not sure, mama. I’ve taken a job offer–’
‘As a therapist?’
She sounds so hopeful it makes me feel guilty. ‘No, mama–you know I won’t get a therapist job until I’m qualified. I mean here, at the circus.’
‘Oh.’
She’s disappointed. I try to glam up this new opportunity. ‘I’m taking workshops in the city, mama. It’ll be twice a week, and it’ll be a big difference to my wages.’ I cross my fingers. I don’t know if the workshops will be good money. But I can hint that they’re a gold mine to my mother, to make her feel better. ‘And it’ll be a good opportunity to meet students–I might even find some private clients.’
This is a complete fiction. I don’t want to teach contortion or yoga privately, but nobody needs to know that. It’ll be a chance to do something different, though: a chance to get off the lot. I’m starting to feel like my dorm room, the mess, and Practise Shed Two are my entire world.
‘You’re a very industrious girl, Ren,’ my mother says. ‘You make your father and I very proud.’
This immediately makes me feel guilty again for burnishing the truth. ‘Thank you, mama.’
‘We still worry about you, working at that place.’
‘Klatsch’s is a good place, mama. They take care of their performers–I feel very lucky. You don’t need to worry about me.’
I chit-chat with my mother for a few more minutes about anything other than circus. We talk about Santi’s exams–my sister is studying at a local college–and my father’s work as a professor of Indonesian language at the university. We discuss whether my older brother, Rizal, and his wife, who live in the next state, will move closer once they have their baby. I lead the conversation on a roundabout path that circles lightly around the subject of me and the show without ever going into too much detail.
‘Your Uncle Agus is coming to stay for a short while next month,’ my mother says.
‘Really? I thought Uncle was in Bali?’ My uncle runs an import-export business, and is slightly skeezy. According to Sorsha, everyone has a slightly skeezy uncle. But mine is special because he has a position of influence in our family: in my mother’s custom, her elder brother has some say in the running of her household.
‘He will be with us for a fortnight. Maybe a month.’
‘That’s nice.’ This isn’t a Skype call, so I can roll my eyes. Hosting Uncle Agus for a month? My father will be thrilled.
‘He said he would like to see you before he returns to Bali.’
‘It might not fit with work, mama. Let me look at the schedules.’
‘You can make time for your uncle, Ren. And you’re not performing at the moment–it would be a good time to come home for a visit.’
I curse all the news outlets and online sites that reported on the fire at Klatsch’s. It makes it very hard to lie effectively. ‘I have to fit in with training and study, and now these workshops, mama. I’ll see what I can do.’
‘You’re my youngest daughter, Ren. I miss you every day and I worry about you.’
‘I miss you too, mama. But you shouldn’t worry about me. I’m fine.’
In my experience, the best thing to do when you’re feeling stressed is: a) train, b) study, c) eat chocolate, followed by d) train some more.
A phone call from home qualifies as a stressor. Normally I’d plunge myself into routine, but my routine has changed since the fire.
I used to stretch and study in the mornings, then train properly between breakfast and midday, then have a rest period before the start of four p.m. performance preparations. Now everything has been thrown out of whack. There’s no performance, so my afternoons and evenings are unoccupied. I don’t like unoccupied time. I need something to do, and luckily the workshop preparation is a potential distraction.
I go to see Andi Jones, the PR lady who Fleur was talking about.
‘Here’s the proposed schedule.’ Jones thrusts a piece of paper into my hand. ‘Two nights of classes per week, just for two weeks before the re-open. It’s pretty light.’
‘And it’ll only be a small group intensive, right?’
‘There are twenty people enrolled for your first class,’ Jones says.
‘Twenty?’ I get a little head rush. ‘Twenty. Okay, that’s fine. I can work with twenty.’
‘They’re all employees of Cadell’s, so I guess they’re checking out your class and getting some executive stress relief at the same time.’ Jones hands me a clipboard of paperwork. ‘Sign here and here. That will cover your insurance. You don’t need a WWC check because you’re teaching adults, so hooray. Now, let’s talk equipment.’
I leave Jones’ cabin near the mech yard, walk east down the Parade Road, nervous at the concept of teaching contortion stretches to adult executives. But I have lots of ideas for the class, too. I can make it fun. We’ll have props–mats and ropes and bolsters–if I can dig them out of Prac Shed Two in time to get them ferried over to the office building where the classes will be held.
There are actually three practise sheds along Tinpan Alley, the side street that leads downhill from the laundry: Practise Sheds One and Two on the left hand side of the alley, and Practise Shed Three on the right. One is for trapeze and wire work, Three is where Seb and Dita and Colm practise lifts; it’s set up with a home gym in one corner and a special area near the back for the freak artists to get their flame on. Prac Shed Two is for acrobats, and lately it’s been very quiet. Fabian and Clare and Vi are continuing their training, but Lee and Annie are both out of action.
I let myself in the little shed door, planning to walk through the curtain to the storage dump at the far right wall. But the first thing I hear is…swearing.
‘Mother fucking motherfucker.’
The voice is a deep roiling hiss. There’s a sound like a series of snaps, and a rapid-fire riffle of paperwork, like someone is flicking the pages of a book. Then more swearing.
It’s too much for my natural inclination towards nosiness. I peek through the gap in the curtain.
Muffle a gasp.
Zep Deal is wearing the same jeans and boots and grey Henley from breakfast. His physique is lean–his face, side-on like this, is severe as well, with dark eyebrows and thin lips. His hair wants cutting. He’s standing beside a small, baize-covered card table strewn with flat white rectangles: I can’t tell exactly what they are from this distance, but I’m going to go out on a limb here and assume they’re playing cards.
As I watch, Zep pools all the cards together with his fingertips. He makes a short stack, which he then fans out in his left hand. He makes the fan slowly, flicks his wrist to bring the fan closed. Does this again twice more: fan open, fan closed; open, closed.
I’ve tried to fan cards–it’s hard.
Before I’m done being impressed, Zep opens the fan again. Then he snaps his wrist forward, and one of the cards flies out about three feet. Two others flutter to the ground near his feet.
‘Fuckity fucking fuck.’ Zep’s voice is soft, but it has a throaty maleness that I like, despite the X-rated content.
I bite my lip.
But I have to pass right by him to get to the storage dump. And…this is really too much kismet to ignore.
I gather my courage and step out from behind the curtain. ‘Um, I think you missed a few fucks there.’
‘Jesucristo!’ Cards go flying as Zep spins; they flutter down onto the table, the floor. His eyes are wide, his face wary. He’s got three fanned cards in each hand, like he’s somehow going to fight me with them.
‘Sorry!’ I put my hands up. ‘Sorry–I didn’t mean to startle you. It’s just me.’ I wave at the storage dump. ‘I came to collect some props. I’ll get out of your way in a minute.’
‘It’s fine.’ Zep’s clutched cards disappear somewhere as he rubs his chest with one hand. ‘Sure. Help yourself.’
‘I’m really sorry for interrupting you.’
‘You’re not interrupting anything productive.’ He shakes his head at the card table. Then he really looks at me. ‘You’re Ren Putri. I remember you.’
‘From the fire. Yes. I remember, too.’
Just saying that, I get a sudden flash of how it felt to be carried by him. His words: Hold on, chica… Should I thank him now? Apologise for coughing all over him? Is there a nice way of saying that? Is this pause getting too long? Yes, I believe it is.
I turn to the storage dump. ‘Okay. Props. I’ll just, um, do the props now.’
Zep gathers the cards on the table, bends for the ones on the floor. ‘Do you need some help?’
He’s probably trying to get rid of me so he can continue training in private. ‘Um, I don’t know? I need to locate things and put them in a pile for Jones to transport to Cadell’s. I’m doing contortion yoga workshops there.’ Oh no–that sounds like I’m bragging. ‘I mean, Fleur arranged it. To give us all something to do while the rebuild is on. And for extra income. Because some people are broke. And I’m babbling now, which is a thing I sometimes do, so I’ll stop.’
He seems less irritated now and more bemused. ‘You’re looking better than you were a month ago.’
‘Am I? I’m fine now. I’m great. Your card technique is lovely,’ I say, and I really need to learn when to shut up.
‘My card technique is for shit.’ He looks embarrassed. ‘I’m supposed to be prepping a new spot for the re-open. But…I’m way out of condition.’
‘How exactly does one get into condition for card tricks?’
‘My hands.’ He holds them up. ‘I’ve been working on engines for the last three years–my fingers are out of shape.’
‘Your fingers look shapely to me.’ Aduuuh, I should just go away and die now. ‘Urgh, that’s not what I meant to say. English comes out weird sometimes. I mean–’
‘I know what you mean.’ He smiles. ‘That kind of shapely in Spanish is en forma. It doesn’t have quite the same meaning in English.’
My mouth opens as I make the connection. ‘You spoke in Spanish. The night of the fire.’
‘My mother’s Spanish.’ He licks his lips, then his face loses its vulnerability. ‘I’m glad you’re okay. I should let you find your props. And get back to this.’ The way he sighs at the cards and the table suggests he’s been here a while already.
‘Yes, I should let you get back to swearing in private.’ I smile, but it makes me think of something. ‘What do you mean, about your fingers being out of shape?’
He curls his hand into a fist, shakes it out. ‘Just some joint stiffness. I need to train harder.’
‘If it’s making your practice difficult, maybe you need to train smarter, not harder. Maybe you need some exercises to strengthen the tendons.’
‘I’ve been rubbing liniment into my hands at the end of the day,’ he admits, ‘but it’s not helping.’
I step closer. ‘Show me.’
I just do it on automatic–take his hand, roll it over, dig my thumb in. His hands are long, his fingers tapered. His skin is warm and fine-pored. I rub my thumb between the knuckles of his index finger then down the metacarpals all the way to his wrist.
He winces, pulls back a little. ‘Ouch.’
I lift my chin at his hands. ‘Show me your range of movement.’
He demonstrates at a slow pace–pinching, grasping movements, fists, finger extensions, snaps of the wrist. ‘I figured I just needed to limber up again. It’s been a long time since I performed.’
‘If it’s been three years, that’s a while, sure.’ I bend his fingers back one at a time. He’s right-hand dominant. I rub the spaces between his metacarpals, both on top of his hand and in his palm. ‘Does this hurt?’
‘Yeah.’ He watches me work, his eyes flicking back to mine.
I slide my fingers between the fingers of his right hand, like we’re clasping palms, except my fingers are busy and his are relaxed. I squeeze at the limit of my reach, and then in quarter-inch increments all the way back along the top of his hand and along his fingers as I slip my hand free.
‘How’s that?’
‘That feels…better.’ He looks shocked.
‘You need cold on the joints, not heat. Try doing that on your hands yourself, alternating, then massage inside your palm and wrist like this.’ I show him where and how to rub. ‘Then ice your hands at the end of each session. If you want to, you can wear gloves at night to keep the joints warm afterwards.’ I see the look he’s giving me, like I’m some kind of miracle worker. ‘It’s not magic! I study sports therapy. I’m only in my first year, but it’s taught me a lot about range of movement injuries and recovery regimes.’
‘This is amazing.’ He does a couple of experimental wrist snaps. ‘Really. This is awesome. Thank you.’
Occasionally, I have a good idea, and right now is one of those glorious moments. ‘If you want more practise, why don’t you sign up to lead a workshop? It’d get you into a training schedule, and you’d get used to audiences again.’
He cocks his head. I’ve gotten his attention. ‘They’re paying you for the workshops?’
‘Yes. It’s good money.’
‘Money is always good,’ he says, considering. ‘You think they’d take a washed-up cardsharp as a workshop leader?’
‘You’re performing soon, so I don’t think you qualify as washed-up. And they’ve got a contortionist teaching yoga, I’m pretty sure they could find you something to do. You could teach basic card tricks, three-card sleight, shuffling–everyone wants to learn how to do a waterfall shuffle. Go see Andi Jones if you want to sign up.’
‘I will.’ He smiles, then inclines his head in a short-form bow. ‘Muchas gracias, Ren.’
‘Kembali,’ I say, grinning. ‘No problem.’
I leave Prac Shed Two, walking slow. Over the last month, I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about Zep Deal: the way he carried me out of the tent when everything was smoky, the way he spoke to me then, the rumours about him. He’s become a kind of mythical being in my head, like a unicorn or a garuda.
But he’s not a myth. He’s a real person. His fingers are shapely. He’s Spanish-speaking. He has joint stiffness in his hands. He swears. See? Completely real.
It’s not until I get back to my dorm room that I realise I didn’t locate the props.
Fuckity fucking fuck.
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Ellie Marney is a teacher and author of YA fiction, best known for her YA romantic crime trilogy, the Every series (Every Breath, Every Word, Every Move), and the companion novel, No Limits. Ellie promotes and advocates for Australian YA literature through #LoveOzYA, runs #LoveOzYAbookclub online, and has contributed to the highly awarded Begin End Begin: A #LoveOzYA Anthology. Her fifth book for young people, White Night, was released in March 2018, and the Circus Hearts series came out in the same year. She lives near Castlemaine, Australia, with her partner (also a teacher) and their four sons.
Find Ellie online:
Website: www.elliemarney.com
Twitter: @elliemarney
Facebook: Ellie Marney
Instagram: @elliemarney
#LoveOzYAbookclub on Facebook
Also by Ellie Marney:
Every Breath
Every Word
Every Move
No Limits
Begin End Begin: A #LoveOzYA Anthology
Circus Hearts 1: All The Little Bones
Circus Hearts 2: All Fall Down
Circus Hearts 3: All Aces
White Night
Acknowledgements
Thank you, first of all, to the readers. Without all of you, I’m just shouting in the dark!
Big ups to every single person who has supported me through the writing and creation of the CIRCUS HEARTS series: the women of the Vault, the women of the Sub-Binder, friends and buddy writers from retreat, friends from Castlemaine and surrounds.
My most heartfelt thanks to Alison Croggon, who is a rock. These books were made possible with the help of Lucy Marney. The covers are by Debra Billson, who is bloody awesome.
Special thanks and gratitude to Diem Nguyen, Lauren Rosenberg, Angelique Gouvas, Andy Johnston and Adeline Johnston. Shout outs and hugs to Amie, Jay, Cat, Kylie, Sarah and Lucy.
It was only possible to write these books because of the eternal love and patience of my family. Geoff, Ben, Alex, Will, Ned – love you all xx.
Notes on the language
Travelling show folk have their own slang, called ‘parlari’ or ‘parlyari’, which is a mixture of vocabulary from a number of different language groups in Europe and the Mediterranean. The parlari in these books is taken directly from the ‘shelta’, ‘cant’ or ‘gammon’ of traditional Irish tinkers, which was freely adapted for use in circus slang. Cant (or ‘jib’ in parlari), like all traveller’s slang, is part of a long heritage of private language used by traders, sailors, circus and fairground people, and others – the common thread of a population that is traditionally itinerant, lower class, and requiring a language unintelligible to outsiders.