Genius

by Clare Nonhebel

CHAPTER 37

  Breathless with sobbing, Lulubelle was trying to ask if Lucinda was all right but the words made her choke and Marisa silenced her. Arto, his bulky form half-filling the large van, lowered himself onto a stool which creaked under his weight, and left it to his wife to calm the child. His furrowed brow expressed concern but no anxiety about the outcome. The crisis had passed. He had done his part. Before too long now the cause of the problem would be sorted out.

  His confidence and Marisa's sympathy had the desired effect on Lulubelle. She snuffled into the tissue Marisa held out, stopped sobbing and started to breathe again.

  'Is Lucinda all right?’ she asked.

  'Lucinda?’ Arto was surprised.

  'I heard a shout from the Big Top.’

  'An intruder,’ said Arto. His English was noticeably more versatile than his wife's. 'Tripped over a wire, fused some lights. Mr Mannfield had him thrown out.’

  Lulubelle stared. 'Was it a man with dark hair, wearing an separate anorak hood with a puffa jacket?’

  'I don't know; I didn't see him. You thought the shout was for Lucinda - that she fell?’

  Lulubelle, again, felt disloyal. It was hard to talk about her mother to anyone. But Arto's face was calm, non-judgmental, and she had never seen Marisa gossiping with the other women. Were they safe or not? She took a deep breath.

  'You worry for her when she works?’ Marisa enquired.

  'No,’ said Lulubelle.

  When they seemed to be waiting for a further answer, she said reluctantly, 'She'd had a few drinks this evening. Normally, she'd never fall, of course. I mean, she is good, you know. The best really. Very professional. Better than any other trapezist I've ever seen in any other circus.’

  She was gabbling, trying to make up for the disloyalty of mentioning Lucinda's drinking.

  Arto was nodding his great bull-head slowly. 'She drinks often?’

  'Oh no, hardly ever. Not when she's working.’

  Those large placid eyes set in the huge face were hard to lie to, somehow. Lulubelle was reminded of a poster she'd seen in some town, advertising an art exhibition or something: The Ancient of Days, the picture was called. It showed a huge white-bearded man bending down with a measuring instrument poised above a formless world. Arto's face was like that man's face, whoever he was.

  'At least,’ she corrected herself, 'she used not to drink when she was working; only after the show, late at night. But lately she has been. And she keeps being late for rehearsals. And people don't like her because ... well, not everybody does. They get upset sometimes, you know. And if we lose this job,’ she finished in a rush, 'there's nowhere else to go, and I'd really hate to go back to the place we were before, even if they'd have us. And if Lucinda couldn't work any more, I couldn't earn enough for both of us.’

  Marisa and Arto were exchanging glances over her head. Lulubelle had the impression that none of this was news to them. Maybe they weren't as detached from the circus and fairground grapevine as she had thought.

  'I shouldn't be saying all this,’ she said. She slid off Marisa's lap. 'You mustn't tell anybody I said that.’

  Arto stopped her progress to the door by extending a hand the size of Lulubelle's head and gently holding it in front of her.

  'You don't worry,’ he said. 'We don't talk about it with others. But we talk about it together, okay? Marisa, hot chocolate and some cakes.’

  Marisa, all smiles, moved towards the beautiful kitchenette.

  Lulubelle, unable to resist looking again at the gleaming hob, the white enamel-lined sink and the full-sized fridge, followed. 'We won't be late for the show, will we?’ she said anxiously. She glanced automatically at her left wrist, forgetting that Lucinda had sold her watch, two towns ago now, when the money ran short.

  'Plenty of time,’ said Arto easily.

  'I'm not meant to eat before a performance,’ she said wistfully, watching Marisa open a tin full of little cakes. 'Are those home-made cakes?’

  'Of course,’ said Marisa. 'Arto only eat my cakes. Much too many,’ she chided, and Arto laughed. These two seemed to like each other, Lulubelle thought. They were different from the other husbands and wives she knew.

  'Very light, Marisa's cakes,’ Arto said. 'Very good before a performance. Don't worry, they don't make you become like me, not in one night!’

  Lulubelle giggled. She couldn't imagine being Arto's size.

  Arto and Marisa were delighted. 'So, laughing!’ Marisa applauded. 'Better already, yes? And better still after hot chocolate.’ She poured the hot milk (all milk, not milk and water, thought Lulubelle, awed) into three large mugs and Arto, balancing them on the palm of one hand, led the way back to the plush tasselled settees.

  'Your van is lovely,’ Lulubelle sighed. 'You must be really famous, Arto, to have all this.’

  'I work very hard, all my life,’ said Arto seriously. 'When I was young, I was thin and weak.’

  'You're kidding me!’

  'No, truly, Lulubelle. I was not a small boy, you understand. All my family are, what's the word - thick?’

  Lulubelle grinned. 'Not thick- that means stupid! Stocky?’

  ‘Stocky, yes. We are built big. But no muscles and no fat - not enough food, always, at home. Poor family. You know?’

  'Yes,’ Lulubelle said.

  'But I work,’ said Arto. 'I lift weights - not real weights at first, but sacks of coal, heavy bricks. More each day. I train myself. And as soon as I earn some money, I eat. My family say, "Arto, you are selfish. You eat what you earn. What about us?" And I say, "I am not selfish. I am eating for all of us. I am an investment for the family. When I am rich, you will all be rich as well. Trust me."’

  'Where is your family?’ Lulubelle asked.

  'All over the world.’

  'Don't you see them now?’

  'Of course I see them. Every year we meet. In winter, I go work in pantomime and then it is that everyone comes to see me - all my family, all Marisa's family, from all over the world. We celebrate Christmas. How we celebrate it!’

  Marisa was smiling agreement.

  'Are they all in showbusiness?’ Lulubelle asked.

  'Nobody. Only Marisa and me. Some have their own family business, some work for other firms, some have no work. But everyone is rich. I keep my promise.’

  'You mean,’ said Lulubelle, 'you give money to your family, as well as having all this?’

  They were both laughing. 'As well a house in south of France,’ said Marisa. 'As well a smaller house in Greece.’

  Lulubelle sighed. 'It's better being a strongman than a trapezist, or an acrobat, then. I'll never be that rich. But I will be famous.’

  Arto was suddenly serious. 'I think yes, you could be,’ he said. 'But it's no good waiting to be noticed. You must have an agent. You must do like I do and work in different places - theatre, variety, pantomime, television, go for competitions - not just work in circus. Even in circus, you must have a career plan. You move from one to another, across the world. You work everywhere; you play to different audiences; you don't waste your time. You become known.’

  'I have to work where Mum works,’ Lulubelle said. 'She's the one who gets us the jobs. I'm extra.’

  'But you are more talented,’ Arto said.

  Lulubelle looked shocked.

  'It's true,’ Arto said. He looked at Marisa but she was frowning slightly. 'I know these things,’ he said. 'Your mother is good, yes, but for how many more years? Trapeze work is not for ever. It's very ... exacting. And high wire, even worse. At high wire, she is not excellent, Lucinda, even now. At trapeze, she is very good but not exceptional. There are many others just as good - and younger, prettier, more reliable, who come to rehearsal on time, do not drink, do not chase the married men and anger their wives ...’

  Marisa was shaking her head at him in open disapproval now. ‘Arto, you don't say these things! It's not right.’

  'It's all right,’ said Lulubelle. She felt relieved. 'It's only the
things people say behind our backs. I know it really. That's what worries me - what will happen when Lucinda runs out of ringmasters to sleep with and can't persuade them to take on our acts? We don't get paid much as it is.’

  Marisa's eyes were sorrowful. 'So terrible to know these things, so young a child she is!’

  Arto shrugged his mighty shoulders. 'It's life. It's circus. You must look further than this, Lulubelle. You have talent, but you must start using it to the greatest of advantage. You must make own career, not following your mother's only.’

  'I've been on TV a few times,’ said Lulubelle defensively. 'And I might be getting an interview for a documentary on special children; we have to phone someone back this week.’

  'How did it come about, this TV?’

  'It started when someone came to the circus - the last one we were with - who worked in TV research for children's programmes and asked me ...’

  'Children's TV!’ said Arto dismissively. 'No. No good to promote you as a child star, no. You grow out of it too quickly. You must be promoted as an artiste.’

  'How?’

  'I speak to my agent tomorrow,’ said Arto. 'I tell him all about you. He will listen to me.’

  'He listen always to Arto,’ Marisa confirmed.

  Lulubelle could believe it. 'If I was as big as Arto, I expect people would listen to me,’ she said. 'Even Savage did, didn't she?’