Threadbare- The Traveling Show

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Threadbare- The Traveling Show Page 6

by Alexandra DeMers


  “Purchasing an expensive electric machine is out of the question,” Coronado exclaimed. “We’d have to hook it up to the generator, and the cost of fuel alone would—”

  “I will see what I can come up with,” René cut him off and gave him a wide-eyed look in warning. He didn’t want the illusionist’s attitude to leave a poor first impression on the girl, and fortunately, Coronado relented. He returned to his wine glass with a scoff.

  Now that she was full, Amandine realized that she also felt very tired. She looked across the fire for Sangria, but the contortionist had vanished.

  “She probably escaped to her trailer,” Coronado said, following her gaze to the empty chair. “Needed to defend it from foreign invaders, I’d imagine.”

  “Come on.” René stood up with his bowl in his hand. “We’ll make sure she lets you in.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Coronado growled. “I’m going to have another glass of wine while I finish my notes.”

  “That reminds me,” René said, shaking his spoon. “I think I may have found a solution to our pyrotechnic problem.”

  “Really? And this solution, it came to you just now, did it?”

  “Help me escort Amandine to her new trailer, and I will show you how I think we can get that display you wanted.” He turned and started walking, shoveling stew into his mouth. “And birds!” he added with his mouth full. “It will be like a phoenix rising from the ashes with a flick of your wrist.”

  Coronado sighed, shut his notebook, and followed René while Amandine trotted behind.

  Sangria’s home was an old shepherd's hut, painted dark red with a depiction of a sultry, long-haired woman holding a violin in her lap. René knocked a cheerful cadence on the door.

  “Sangria! Ma chérie, s’il vous plaȋt, open the door. Our new seamstress is out here, and she would like to share this cozy trailer with you.”

  “It is quite lovely,” Amandine murmured, admiring the empty, painted flower box that was tacked beneath a clouded yellow window.

  A shadow appeared at the door, and Sangria shouted, “I just spoke with Margaret and as it turns out, the other girls will be taking her in their trailer instead.”

  “Whatever you say,” René shrugged. “Amandine, you will like Margaret. She's like a big sister to all of us, and she will make sure that you are comfortable.” He winked at her, cleared his throat and said loudly, “Come on, señor. Let's introduce Amandine to her new roommates.”

  Suddenly, there came a small crash from within followed by shuffling, scraping, and the lock finally turning.

  Sangria leaned in the doorway, examining her red nails with her small hips thrust out to one side. She wore a lacy nightdress beneath a black kimono and her long hair was let down to her waist. “Oh, Mister Coronado, you’re here as well? How nice it is to see you.”

  “Sangria,” was his disinterested reply.

  René nudged the illusionist. “Antonio is here because he was truly concerned that his new friend settles in comfortably. Isn’t that right, señor?”

  “Nothing could concern me more,” he sighed, impatient with René’s little game.

  The contortionist mirrored his sigh and gave her hair a casual toss. “Well, you know, sometimes Margaret smokes in the trailer. It’s terribly unsafe and the smell will never get out of your clothes. Perhaps the dressmaker should stay with me. I think I might have some room on the floor.”

  Amandine didn’t realize that she was supposed to respond. Sangria sighed even louder and dragged Amandine inside.

  “Fantastico. I hope everybody’s happy now.” Coronado patted his pockets in search of a match for the unlit cigarette that dangled from his lips. René raised his hand, flicked the air, and the end of Coronado’s cigarette magically flared to life.

  The illusionist stared dumbfounded at the flame.

  “How did you do that?”

  “I told you I worked out a solution,” René laughed. “I was lying about the birds, though.” He let Coronado roll up his sleeve and examine every inch of his arms. As Coronado tugged him away to better study him in the light, René called out, “It seems we have a bit of work to do before we turn in. Good night, ladies!”

  With that, the men were gone, and Sangria slammed the door behind them.

  The wagon was tiny. It would have been cramped for a single person, but it had been adapted to fit two. Two beds, one above the other, made up a large portion of the back of the trailer. There was also a vanity table, barely wider than her lap, opposite a small wood stove and some storage space which contained piles upon piles of clothes.

  Sangria sat on the bottom bed and brushed her hair while Amandine went for the top. The bed was made up with plump pillows and a dark patchwork quilt. Amandine was glad for this because she hadn’t thought to bring any bedding of her own.

  “Get off,” Sangria hissed. “You sleep on the floor.”

  Amandine stopped and sat cross-legged on the mat in front of the pot-belly stove.

  “For a dressmaker, you sure don’t dress very well,” Sangria hounded her. “You look like a flapper. Those clothes look like they might have been popular twenty or thirty years ago.”

  “They were,” Amandine replied. “They belonged to my mother and were the only clothes left in the house that fit me.” She smoothed the material of her ocean blue dress with pride. For such an old garment, it still served her well. “I admit, I didn’t go out much during the war. I didn’t realize that it had become fashionable to wear your underwear out in public.”

  “I don’t wear my underwear out in public.” Sangria clutched her kimono closed over her chest. “That was my costume. I have to wear something that won’t restrict my movement.”

  Amandine pulled off her dress and stockings. She changed for the night into a simple white shift and covered herself with her father’s jacket. She tried to settle in as comfortably as she could, but her suitcase was a poor substitute for a pillow, and she could still feel the knotted wood floor through the thin rug.

  “Speaking of performances, I heard that you want to be the star of the festival show,” Amandine said, attempting some friendly conversation.

  “I can’t imagine what you would know about our show, but you heard right. And I will be.” She pitched her hairbrush into the vanity and slammed the drawer. “It’s my only hope of ever getting out of this dump.”

  “What’s stopping you?”

  Sangria hesitated. She didn’t want to divulge too much to the girl that she had already decided was her enemy, but just as Amandine had suspected, Sangria loved nothing more than talking about herself.

  “Marmi is what’s stopping me. She hates my act, but I don’t know what she expects. I’m just as good a dancer as the other girls. Better, even. I’ve been trained my whole life.”

  “Perhaps it’s the presentation itself, then.”

  “What in the world are you talking about?”

  Amandine rolled onto her side and propped herself up on one arm while her roommate climbed into bed. “The spectacle. The display that captivates audiences. My father always told me 'Apparel oft proclaims the man.'”

  “I don’t follow your meaning. I work hard to look my best, and I don’t think my act can possibly be improved upon.”

  “You are beautiful,” Amandine agreed. “Which makes me wonder why the wall outside is billing you as the ‘Knot Freak.’”

  Sangria winced. “I asked René to paint off the 'freak' part.”

  “Well, I think that with a few dramatic, inexpensive changes, you can become something else. Take the ‘freak’ part out of your show, and you could be the ‘Love Knot.’ An unobtainable object of attention and desire. A fantasy. An impossibility.”

  Amandine could tell that she had Sangria’s attention.

  “I know you don’t want me here, but if you give me the chance to help you, I promise that the next time you talk to Marmi, she will make you a part of the new show.”

  Sangria hesitated. It sounded
too good to be true. “How long would that take?”

  Amandine twiddled her thumbs. “To make a whole new costume? Two hours, maybe.”

  There was a silence. Amandine knew that Sangria was considering her idea because she hadn’t turned the lamp off yet.

  Finally, she said, “So, theoretically, you can change my stage persona tonight?”

  “Yes, but I can’t do much without anything to work with. No fabric, lace, ribbons, make-up, nothing.” Amandine sighed, and suddenly realized what she was doing. She was manipulating Sangria much like René did.

  “I have some!” Sangria blurted. “Let’s make a deal. You give me something to show Marmi in the morning before we leave, and I might be able to free up a bed for you.”

  Amandine shrugged. “I could use some place to unpack my things as well.”

  Sangria leaped out of bed and turned out a dresser drawer that was brimming with lacy underwear. “Is that good?”

  Amandine sat up and stretched her arms over her head. “Delightful. This will also be a perfect opportunity to show Marmi what I am capable of.” She threw her coat on over her shift and examined the clothes on the floor. “Alright, you said complete freedom of movement is necessary in your performance. You already have the right idea: less is best, but we really can’t have you prancing around in your underwear anymore.”

  The camp gradually came alive with the sun. After a comfortable night’s sleep, Amandine stepped out into the morning chill in search of breakfast. She found Sasha tending the fire, sitting on a jerry can and drinking coffee from a tin cup.

  “Dobroye utro, shveyachka.” He waved at her with his fire-poking stick. She noticed that he was dressed in only patched trousers and an undershirt.

  “Aren’t you cold?” Amandine shivered. Her brown crepe dress had no warmth to it at all, and she pulled her coat around herself a little more tightly.

  “Russians never get cold,” he boasted. He poured more coffee from the large kettle into his cup and held it out to her. “Coffee, shveyachka? It will help warm you.”

  “Thank you.” She briefly considered asking for cream and sugar, but then thought better of it. Sipping the bitter brew, she asked, “Tell me, what does ‘shveyachka’ mean?”

  “In English?” He scratched his shaved head. “It means ‘little lady who makes the clothes.’”

  Just as Amandine decided that she liked her new nickname, a group of women appeared at the fireside. All four were wrapped in embroidered shawls and started ladling steaming oatmeal into their bowls.

  “Dobroye utro, damy!” Sasha cried, but they mostly ignored him. “You will enjoy my special porridge. Piotr wasn’t here to ruin it this time.”

  “What’s so special about it?” the tattooed woman asked in a drowsy monotone.

  Sasha went to where a damp dish towel was sitting on the kitchen table. With a theatrical flourish, he flicked it aside and revealed a bowl full of freshly rinsed wild raspberries. The ladies murmured in delight and picked the biggest, brightest berries to add to their oatmeal.

  Sasha tugged on his suspenders proudly and beckoned. “Lyuda, bring everyone to meet the new girl.”

  Blowing and carefully nibbling spoonfuls of hot oats, the women came over to where Amandine was standing.

  “Schveyachka, may I introduce the most beautiful ballerina to ever get kicked out of Ballets Russes and my future wife, Ludmilla Fedorovna Snizhenova.”

  “Lies. Every word,” she said with a smile. Ludmilla was a wisp-like woman with white-blonde hair and small, pointed features. Her legs were incredibly long, and her movements were so graceful that she seemed weightless. She extended a hand with rosy fingertips, and Amandine was surprised when she shook her hand with a monstrously strong grip. She indicated the others with a graceful port de bras. “This is Margaret Mulryan. She is American, like you.”

  Margaret was the tattooed woman Amandine had noticed the day before. Her copper hair was set in rollers and a snarling dragon slithered out of the top of her slouchy men's sweater. She plucked her cigarette out of her mouth and mumbled, “Hullo.”

  “Margaret’s a freak-act like Sangria and Carmelita,” Ludmilla explained. “She got all of her tattoos from her last job.”

  “Made tea for an ink parlor,” Margaret said before Amandine asked.

  “She shares a trailer with Chitra Puri,” Ludmilla went on, introducing another. “She’s a dancer from Bombay.”

  “Good morning.” Chitra’s soft accent was like a stone dropping into still water. Her round face was the color of cinnamon, and her dark hair was braided into a rope that hung down to her hips. Amandine noted that although Chitra was wearing a traditional green saree and a gold ring in her nose, she wore an old blouse and trousers beneath.

  “Finally, this is May Song from Shanghai. We share that pink trailer over there.” Ludmilla pointed to their home, which had caricatures of the two dancing over blue chrysanthemums painted over it.

  May said nothing. She dipped her head to acknowledge the introduction, but kept her dark eyes solemnly downcast at her worn cotton pants. Amandine wondered if she was a mute or only very shy. She stood with her hair hanging like a straight, black curtain in front of her face, bent over and frozen, until the conversation continued without her.

  Sasha threw a thick arm around Ludmilla’s shoulders. In a stage-whisper, he said, “I noticed that shveyachka doesn’t have any dishes to take her meals with. Do you suppose you could...?”

  Ludmilla nodded and pushed her own enamel bowl and spoon into Amandine’s hands.

  “I can’t take your breakfast,” Amandine exclaimed.

  “Take it,” Ludmilla insisted. “Keep it until you get your own. I have another set. You are one of us now, and it is important that you understand that we are family. Even with her awful attitude, we consider Sangria our sister.”

  Sasha hooked Ludmilla around the waist this time, drawing her even closer. She tolerated his attentions with a weary smile. “And I am Papa, and you are Mama!”

  Just then, Piotr returned from washing in the creek, and he slapped his brother repeatedly until he released the ballerina. “Lyuda maya, is this man bothering you?”

  Sasha’s retort was cut off when he noticed something across the camp, and his face screwed up in confusion. The others turned to see what was wrong.

  Sangria had emerged, dressed in the improvised costume Amandine had made the night before. Her hair was chopped short in a severe straight bob, and her face was painted with bold kumadori makeup. She wore a striped corset with the bones removed and the front cut out in the shape of a heart, baring her stomach. The rest of her limbs were wrapped in scraps of black lace, mesh, ribbons, and her shadowy new look was completed with a pair of gloves and ballet slippers.

  Sangria approached the group coolly and gave a little turn, posing against the kitchen table like a pin-up model. When her presence was met with stunned silence, she jerked her shoulders up and demanded, “Well?”

  “It would look better at night with stage lighting,” Amandine blurted.

  Everyone turned their bewildered faces back to her, so she hurried to explain.

  “I made that. I thought of Japanese kabuki theater for her makeup, and I wanted to do something seductive and a little scary. Let’s face it, the way she can bend is a little of both.” When no one responded, she nervously exclaimed, “It’s for her festival audition!”

  Chitra spoke first in a hushed, worried tone. “What will Marmi say?”

  “That’s exactly what I intend to find out.” With a lift of her chin, Sangria sashayed off to Marmi’s tent.

  Amandine drummed her nails onto the side of her bowl for a few seconds before she timidly asked, “So… do you like it?”

  “Shveyachka,” Ludmilla beamed. “When can you start on our costumes?”

  Inside the white tent, Marmi dropped her pipe in disbelief. She leaned forward in her chair with her fingers laced over her mouth as she watched Sangria demonstrate her movements in her n
ew costume, doing complete backbends, splits and even sitting on her own head. All the while, nobody spoke until the wind chime jangled.

  “Marmi! I have your tea,” René called out. He backed through the door carefully, guarding the tray he carried, but he nearly dropped it in astonishment when he finally turned around and saw somebody coiled like a snake on the floor.

  It took him quite a while before he finally recognized the other person in the tent as Sangria. She had become something darker, more sinister, and yet so captivating. René couldn’t understand it; the only thing that had changed was her clothes, but there was something different in her eyes as well. She turned her stare up at him, and her red lips curled with newfound confidence and triumph. That look made René’s stomach turn, and he suddenly wanted to leave.

  Setting the tray at Marmi’s side, he picked up her pipe from the carpet and said, “If that is all, madame, I will make sure everyone is ready to move out.” Without waiting for a response, he made a hasty exit from the tent.

  Once he was outside, René scanned the camp for Amandine. He saw the dancers heading back towards their trailers, knocking on doors to wake the others as they passed. Piotr was tasting the oatmeal that Sasha made and promptly spit it out, earning a bombardment of insults. Carmelita was making her customary morning shuffle for the privacy of the trees. Finally, he spotted Amandine sitting on the steps of her trailer, eating her breakfast and looking over some notes she had taken in a leatherbound blue journal.

  When she saw him nearly running to her, Amandine felt a rush that warmed her insides quicker than the cup of coffee. Giddy, she asked, “Where’s the fire, René?”

  He fumbled for words before he finally said, “You did that to Sangria, didn’t you?”

  The girl blushed and poked at her oatmeal until the raspberries left pink streaks in the bowl.

  “Aha!” René exclaimed. “I knew there was something special about you! I knew it the moment I saw you!” He pointed excitedly to the head of the camp. “I was just in the tent with Marmi, and she is either just as amazed as I am by her transformation... or very angry. But I don’t really think she is angry.”

 

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