CHAPTER 47
The man in the blue padded jacket was impressed with the young girl. Even hiding behind the pillar, he had a clear view of her.
It was a spectacular routine. He wondered if she had invented it herself, or whether it was that stuffy ringmaster who seemed to think so much of himself. Dirty old man, probably. He knew the sort. Never took his eyes off her.
She moved with such grace and ease. So thin you could almost see through her. Probably anorexic. A lot of young girls were nowadays. He didn't mind. Some men only liked women with a bit of flesh on them, but he wasn't fussy. She had been scared of him last time but that was only because she was young. This time, she'd know who he was, that he wasn't frightening.
The fire was a great idea. Fire was exciting. Maybe she'd thought of that idea herself? It was brilliant, that entrance of hers - spinning herself over and over like that, towards the fire in the centre of the ring, just missing it every time, then finally ... ooooh! Right over the flames! He giggled and rubbed his hands, then clapped a hand over his mouth. No noise! What have I told you before? Been thrown out of here once already, silly boy.
He could watch her forever, he thought. That would be his dream: just her and him. There shouldn't be all these people watching her perform. That great ugly hulk of a man in the front seat, with the little woman beside him, and the man in the suit with the briefcase and the mobile phone - who did he think he was? No, none of them should be allowed near her. She needed protecting from their ugliness. He wasn't ugly, never had been. Women found him attractive, even though they pretended to be frightened of him. That was what women did, wasn't it?
As a young lad he'd been told off for frightening his sister but she wasn't really frightened. They never were really, only pretending to be. Really, they found his games as thrilling as he did. He was imaginative. No one could call him boring.
If he had his way now, he would get rid of the ugly, boring people in the front row, and all those dirty workmen standing around watching his girl, with their shirt-sleeves rolled up over their dirty, hairy arms. He shuddered. It was unspeakable: Beauty and all those beasts.
This girl's skin was so smooth and white, her neck so slender.
Once she got to know him and trust him, she would be bound to him and him alone. Then she would dance for him whenever he wanted, round and round the leaping flames of their undying passion.
Lulubelle was nervous, performing in front of Arto's agent. He looked out of place in a circus, she thought, with a briefcase and all. He must be important.
Her timing was crucial, with this new entrance routine. She could feel the heat of the flames as she hurtled towards it, counting the turns, pacing the length of the backward flips; it had to be perfect. She had done it enough times to get it right but would she lose her nerve now? Applause from Arto and his wife. Was the agent clapping as well? She thought he was. She landed upright, the other side of the fire, and faced them - arms out, palms upwards, eyes laughing, mouth smiling - the picture of confidence. No hint of the question in her mind: was I all right?
She was. Arto and his agent were walking towards her, all smiles.
He was impressed, she could tell. It was going to be okay.
She had heard from him on the same day as the initial interview and try-out for that TV programme about special children. He said he would like to see her perform - just on Arto's say-so. And now he had seen.
'Well done!’ he said. He shook her by the hand. 'I think we can say we're in partnership!’ He shook hands with Mr Mannfield.
'I hope you're not going to steal her away from us,’ said Mr Mannfield jovially but there was an edge to his tone.
'No way,’ said the agent smoothly. 'She's doing good work where she is, and the other bookings will only create publicity for her act here - and for your circus.’
Mr Mannfield stroked his moustache. 'We have quite a reputation already,’ he said. 'We know how to nurture young talent here.’
'I'm sure, I'm sure,’ said the agent. 'Now Arto, where can we go for a little talk with this talented young friend of yours? Your caravan? Splendid. Of course, Mr Mannfield, of course - come and check the contract for yourself. I assure you, it in no way contravenes your own rights over the artiste in question ...’
The artiste in question was sweating.
'I'll go and have a wash first,’ she whispered to Marisa.
'Come take a shower,’ Marisa offered. 'We go ahead now, Arto, okay? You follow. These men,’ she confided in Lulubelle, 'they take their time; they talk! You have time for shower in our caravan.’
'Okay, thanks.’ She was a star now, with an agent of her own. It was only fitting that she should take a shower in Marisa and Arto's glamorous bathroom, instead of having a quick wash at the little sink in their own caravan. 'But I'll just run home and tell Lucinda where I am,’ she said. Lucinda would want to be in on signing the contract. There might be a little celebration drink if everything went well, she had said this morning.
'Yes, child, go tell your mother. Invite her come, yes?’
'Yes, right.’ You try stopping her, Lulubelle thought; she'll be there, invite or no invite! She skipped over a guy rope and ran for the caravan. A group of children shouted her name, and she waved. 'See you later! Can't come now!’
Looking over her shoulder at them, she had turned the corner before she saw him ahead of her. Count Dracula. That's what he'd called himself, last time. She had been wrong to imagine it must have been somebody else in the Big Top that day. She would recognize him anywhere - even, as now, with his face in profile, looking the other way. He hadn't seen her.
She ran, behind the Waltzers, past the shooting range, across the helter-skelter compound, through the rows of caravans and trailers. What if he was following her? She wanted Lucinda but she didn't want him to know where they lived. Would he remember the caravan? It was the same one they had had at Bepponi's. But it had been dark then. Would he recognize which caravan belonged to them?
Turning sharply, she ran in the opposite direction, away from their home, towards Arto's. Arto's van represented safety.
She could hear laughing. Was it coming from behind her? Was it him?
Careering into Arto, laughing at something the agent was saying, she let out a scream.
'Hey!’ he said. 'What's wrong?’
'Someone's following me!’
'Where?’
Clinging to him, she turned and pointed in the direction from which she had come. There was no one there.
'Who was it?’ said Arto. 'Someone you know?’
'He's gone now.’
'I go find him.’
'No, it's okay. Let's go in.’ She didn't want to make a fuss in front of the agent. He might think she was a hysterical girl. And after all, what harm could come to her while she was with Arto the Incredible?
Genius Page 47