“Sure. You got them from Mars Boulder, right?”
“In a way.”
“What do you mean?” Webern sipped his Chartreuse. He thought of the monks, bent over their cauldron, secrets passing between them in the bubbling steam.
“The gypsies’ performances were a banquet of sensory delights—delicately prepared but hastily displayed. One element, however, never failed to enthrall the humble villagers who came to pay us homage: Molara’s sword dance.” Dr. Schoenberg’s lips now shone with a pale green gloss, as if he was succumbing bit by bit to a subtle poison. “The family owned an ancient blade, a gypsy sword that had once slain cruel noblemen and honoured bandit kings. In her dance, Molara writhed as though in ecstasy, swinging it by its hilt, balancing it on the delicate flesh of her forearms, cradling it like a lover. Though the sword was old, it still shone with an otherworldly light; its edge cut easily through swaths of falling silk.
“Even in my earliest days with the gypsies, I knew that I would one day return to America to launch a production of my own. As I journeyed with them across the continent, I came to believe that Molara’s sword—or one of its equal—would transform any performance into a timeless work of art. But knowing how precious the blade was to them—the most cherished of all their possessions—I did not want to cause undue concern. And so, one night, I slipped from Molara’s bedchamber with the bejeweled scimitar in my hand.
“I found an ironsmith who promised he would forge me a new sword, identical in every way to the one of ancient beauty that I presented to him—identical, but new. Indeed, it was more than I had dared to hope, except for one stipulation: he needed to retain the ancient sword until the new sword was forged, to copy the original in every detail.
“The gypsies greeted me with suspicion when I returned to camp; they already knew their sword was gone. I told them that I had tracked the thieves for miles, but had finally lost the scent. Molara’s cousin doubted me, but the others took me at my word. I was their daughter’s betrothed, after all, and an ardent student of their craft. Only to Molara did I reveal the truth. She returned with me to reclaim the swords when his work was complete.” Schoenberg’s moustache drooped. “But the ironsmith refused to deliver them to me. I have rarely seen such malevolence. He declared I never paid him for his work.” Schoenberg glanced at Webern sharply. “But I did.”
“Sure,” Webern said. But as he gazed at the swords, he thought of Brunhilde—the incident with the cashbox—the expensive bottle of Chartreuse. “I believe you, Dr. Show.”
“I paid him in advance, every penny that I had,” Schoenberg said bitterly. He reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a tattered paper, small and faded, with deep creases like a map’s. “And if anyone doubts me, you can tell them I showed you this.”
He handed it to Webern. The receipt’s words were foreign and the numbers just a scrawl, but Webern looked at it for a long time. He traced one finger over an ancient rusty thumbprint.
“He claimed it was merely a deposit, that I owed double the amount. Perhaps there was some misunderstanding—I spoke little of his language, and he none of mine. Perhaps I thought that with some negotiation . . . well, it’s difficult to recall. At any rate, he demanded from Molara payment of another kind.” Schoenberg took back the receipt. “Her charms were quite apparent, you see. I thought it unseemly, of course, but she couldn’t bear to return to the camp empty-handed. Her cousin had been questioning the locals; no one knew anything of the bandits I’d so vividly described. Even her brothers had begun to look at me askance. I imagine Molara thought, without the sword, her family wouldn’t allow me to continue accompanying them on their travels. And as for what he asked—it wasn’t as though she was unschooled in such matters. She was a dancer, after all.”
“You—sold her to him?”
Dr. Show folded the receipt and put it back into his pocket. “I wouldn’t characterize it quite that way, but . . . I suppose. Temporarily.”
“Wow.” Webern held the taste of Chartreuse in his mouth; the herbs burned there like medicine.
“We returned to camp with sword in hand—the duplicate I kept concealed beneath my cloak—and celebrated the bandits’ defeat with feasting and revelry. All had been restored, or so I believed.
“But after that day, Molara’s manner toward me changed. She read the basest motives into my every gesture, demanded assurances, wept freely at all hours of the night. Even her dancing suffered. She felt, I suppose, that I saw her as a common prostitute, rather than a bride. Of course, to me she was neither. No tie bound us other than the force of our passion, and when that faded, I said adieu. Or rather, I left under the cover of darkness, to spare us both an unpleasant scene. I of course planned to take the sword the ironsmith had crafted for me, but the night of my departure, I reconsidered. I saw myself reflected in that blade, and it disconcerted me. The likeness I saw there bore no resemblance to the man in my self-portraits. Perhaps it was the unflattering light.
“In the years that followed, though, I thought of that sword often. In it, my own vision had, for once, melded with something even greater than itself, something which I grasped but dimly at the time: tradition, resilience, the honour of a birthright. I should have known that no good could come of leaving such a weapon behind.”
“So, what happened then?”
“Pardon?”
“What happened? To Molara, and the gypsies? Did you ever see them again?”
“No, no.” Dr. Show poured himself a few more inches of Chartreuse. “They scattered to the four winds after my departure, as gypsies are wont to do.”
“What did Mars Boulder have to do with them? How’d he get the swords?”
“Molara’s cousin, the keeper of accounts—he never cared much for me. Jealousy, I suppose. He and Molara had been inseparable since childhood. By some hopelessly jejune logic, he concluded that made her his own. Some years later, he voyaged to America, bringing with him what few relics remained from his days with the caravan. When he saw our circus advertised, he decided to exact his revenge. He sent me a letter, offering the swords at a discount—well, you know the rest.”
“Her cousin is Mars Boulder?”
“That’s what he calls himself now. It’s quite dramatic, really. He seems to think that I brought about the downfall of his family, and crushed the fragile spirit of his only love.”
“Jeez. What a nutcase.”
“Oh, I suppose there’s some truth to what he says. It’s hard to remember properly. I was young, you see. And no one delights in recollecting his own villainy.” Schoenberg’s eyebrows knit together. “Boulder’s made my downfall his profession. A popular career, it seems. He has some fierce competitors.”
“Don’t say that. Nobody wants—”
“Tell me, what did the others say to you before their defection?”
Webern took off his glasses and carefully wiped them on his shirt. “Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that, Boss.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. Since everybody else’s going to try and get jobs over there . . .”
“Yes?”
“I guess I was just wondering what you were planning to do.” Webern put his glasses back on. “If you were going to, you know, go on with your circus, or—”
Dr. Show looked affronted. He plucked at his bow tie.
“This is not the first time my vision has been tested, and it will not be the last. If you’re suggesting that I might despair over a slight such as this, you know little of the strength of my character.” He twisted one end of his moustache defiantly.
“No, no, that’s not what I meant. I know you’ll be all right and everything. I just was wondering where you were going to go, what you were planning to do. You know, for a job.”
“Ah. Well, I have my skills. Perhaps I’ll return to the continent. As I said, sometimes I wish I’d stayed.” Schoenberg mo
ved his pale fingers dexterously, manipulating invisible cards. Then a new thought occurred to him. His face climbed through what seemed like a preordained series of expressions, like notes on a musical scale, until finally he lifted his head and looked at Webern with a devilish gleam in his eye.
“My boy, have you ever visited Europe?”
Webern looked down at the drink in his hands.
“I can’t say I have.”
“But you must! To truly understand clowning, you must visit its very roots. Oh, the things I could show you, Bernie! On the continent, you’ll see the grand halls of kings, where jesters once plied their merry trade, and the cobblestone roads once traveled by wandering minstrels all the way to Rome. The circus there is like Chartreuse: the recipe is ancient, but known to few. You and I will learn its secrets. Perhaps we’ll even find Molara’s family and make amends. I could return the swords, at least. As I recall, her brothers used to perform a comic mime in utter silence, accompanied only by their sister’s flute—it was quite your sort of thing. What do you say, my boy? Shall we stow away on a steamer?” He glanced around, then laughed wildly. “After all, you said it yourself—there’s no going on like this.”
“Dr. Show . . .” Webern looked away from Schoenberg, over at the two swords that hung crossed above the trunk. One still shone; the other, opaque and battle-scarred, half-blocked its glancing light. “I’m sorry, but I can’t.”
“Oh, nonsense, of course you can.” Dr. Show waved his hand dismissively. “At your size, we can pack you in a crate quite easily.”
“That’s not what I mean. You see, Nepenthe . . .” Webern finished his drink in a gulp, then said the rest in a single breath. “Nepenthe got a job with the Other Circus’s freak show—she’s there right now, fixing up our bunk—and they wanted her so much they agreed to take me on, too—just doing odd jobs at first, but if I learn fast—well, they’ll let me clown.” In fact, Frank had offered him a job with the Parliament of Freaks up front, but Webern turned it down categorically; he didn’t want to perform anywhere but the big top. “They’ve got a great set-up over there and . . .”
Schoenberg rose slowly to his feet until he towered over Webern. He cast his glass down. It bounced on the dirt floor without breaking.
“Et tu, Brute? Why did you come back here, may I ask? To soothe your conscience? To drink my fine liqueur? Or merely to torment me?”
“Please don’t yell at me, Dr. Show.”
“I’ll do as I like, you ungrateful—”
“Stop it, stop it, stop it! You’re the one being ungrateful. I’ve worked so hard for you! I went along with every—and I’ve never complained or called you—crazy or—or—and didn’t you notice, I’m the only one who came back?”
Dr. Show’s expression changed again. As the anger drained away, his face took on the quality of a well-wrung sponge. He stood there idly for a moment, then reached into his sleeve for a handkerchief. Three emerged, red, green, and yellow, knotted together at the ends. He used them to mop his brow. As Schoenberg sank back onto the cot and bent to retrieve his glass from the ground, Webern felt a strange emptiness where his insides used to be. It was almost as though he might float away.
“Dr. Show,” he said, “I didn’t mean—”
“No, Bernie, you are entirely in the right. I do apologize.” Schoenberg pressed the handkerchiefs to his eyes. “I don’t know what came over me.”
“It’s just, Nepenthe and I can be happy, I think. She said—she wants me to come. And anyway,” Webern went on, surprising himself with every word, “it’s what I want, too. You really should see it for yourself. Then you’d know. I mean, it’s beautiful. The acrobats and the trapeze artists . . .” He trailed off. Schoenberg sat motionless, his head still in his hands. This wasn’t going the way Webern had hoped at all. “I didn’t come here to torment you.”
“I know, my boy.”
“No, but really. I want you to come with us. I came to convince you. They’re always hiring people, over at Barker & Smart, that’s what Frank said, and I know that if you wanted to you could—”
“And what would I do in this Other Circus, may I ask? Allow me to repeat what I told you long ago: I cannot juggle, I do not throw knives. I ride bareback only when necessity demands it. I am a ringmaster, Bernie. That is my only skill.”
“That’s not true. You’re a magician.”
“Ha.”
“No, really. You’re great at it. I’ve seen you—”
“Tonight is the night for unpleasant confessions, it seems. Bernie, despite my—I failed on the vaudeville circuit. Before I changed careers, I was reduced to performing at bar mitzvahs and children’s birthday parties.”
“That’s not so bad.”
Schoenberg smiled wanly. “Spoken by a man who’s never found himself upstaged by cake.”
Webern forced himself to smile back, but Schoenberg turned away. He placed another cigarette in his holder and lit it.
“Leave me now, Bernie. I’ll make my decision in the morning.”
“Are you really okay?”
“I am fine, my boy, quite fine.”
Webern stood up, walked to the curtains, then stopped.
“At least let me help you put this stuff away.”
Webern went back and picked up the two empty glasses, as well as the empty bourbon bottle. For a moment, he looked around, as if trying to find somewhere to wash them. Then, impulsively, he threw all three objects in the air and began to juggle.
Webern bent, dipped, and scuttled around the tent, as if the juggling was next to impossible for him. He slid onto his knees, grabbing one cup at the last minute, and spun around on one heel to keep the bottle from falling to the ground behind him. As he performed, his expression kept changing: he grinned with foolish triumph after a near save, grimaced with exaggerated concentration, and opened his mouth in a perfect “O” of surprise when a glass struck the tent’s centre pole and rang it like a bell. Then, slowly but surely, his juggling fell into a measured tempo, as if he had just gained his footing at long last. He smiled with lazy contentment as the objects spun round him, seemingly of their own accord, like spokes on a wheel. Just as he appeared completely confident and in control, all three rained down and hit him on the head—cup, cup, bottle. Plunk, plunk, plunk! Webern stuck out his tongue drunkenly, crossed his eyes, and fell over backwards.
It was a perfect performance, but as he got up and dusted himself off, he noticed that Dr. Show wasn’t laughing. In fact, Schoenberg’s eyes looked misty as he stared down at his shoes, watching the dark reflections there.
Webern felt stupider than he ever had in his life.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Show. I thought I could cheer you up,” he said.
“No, that was splendid. Splendid. Thank you. I truly appreciated it.”
“I hope you aren’t mad at me.”
“No, I understand your situation all too well. And I’ll think over what you proposed. It was quite kind of you, to come and see me like this.”
“All right.”
“Bernie?”
“Yeah, boss?”
“You asked me once if I had any children.” Schoenberg smoothed the colourful handkerchiefs draped over his knee. “After I left the Old Country, apparently Molara confessed herself to be pregnant. By myself or the ironsmith, she couldn’t say. Her cousin offered to marry her, but she refused. She chose instead to fall upon the very sword whose creation she believed had ruined her. At least that’s the story Mars Boulder told to me.” He idly touched the tip of his cigarette; its fire had gone out. “I wonder now, what he’d have been like. That gypsy son.”
Webern didn’t know what he wanted to say, and he didn’t know the words to say it. He looked at Dr. Show for a long time, but it was as if the ringmaster was sitting on the deck of a ship that had already set sail. The distance between them was opening wider and wid
er. “All right. I’ll come back in the morning, boss.”
After Webern disappeared through the curtains, Schoenberg untied his shoelaces and removed his tuxedo jacket. Beneath it, he wore only a dickey and suspenders. He hung the jacket on a notch in the tent pole, then pulled out his wallet from his pants pocket and opened it. It contained a single crumpled dollar and one weathered photograph. He pulled this picture out and smoothed it with his hand.
It was a snapshot of himself, taken after a talent contest when he was sixteen, shortly before he left home for good. In it, he sported white gloves and a cape. His first moustache, a source of real pride at the time, was impeccably waxed and turned up at the corners. Beside him was a cardboard sign, painted in gold and crimson, he recalled, though the black and white photograph coloured it grey. It read, “Watch Gilderoy the Great Make Himself Disappear!”
Schoenberg put the photograph away and looked over at the two swords that hung, crossed, against the tent’s canvas wall. He stepped over and lifted down the older one by its jeweled hilt. In his hands, it felt cold and heavy. He stared down at the cobwebs of scratches dulling its once-bright surface. Then he ran a finger along its edge. To his surprise, it still cut him easily.
His mind turned again to Molara (or was it Moirae?), and the first time he’d seen her dance. He remembered vividly the village square, the way her ankle bells had jingled as her feet stamped the cobblestones, the brown hens that pecked, indifferent, at the dirt, even as the crowd filled the air with their raucous cheers. But even when he closed his eyes, he could no longer see her face. Perhaps because he’d hardly seen it at the time. In those days, women’s faces stayed with him no longer than their names.
It seemed to him now that his youth had passed behind a painted screen of his own creation, a screen that passion and vice had served to illuminate but never to pierce. Upon the screen shone images of the glorious path his life would one day follow: marvelous illusions, daring escapes, intrigue, adventure, and above all, unquestionable genius, all evoked in the most brilliant of hues. Only now, in his old age, his “obsolescence”—he muttered the word out loud, like a curse—had that barrier finally been slashed to tatters.
Goldenland Past Dark Page 16