Circus of the Grand Design

by Robert Freeman Wexler

  "We parted abruptly." Gold slammed a fist on the table, causing his coffee cup to tumble off the edge. Before it had fallen a foot, he caught it and brought it to his lips in one smooth motion. "She had cast her eye upon the leader of our group, a hairy oaf who played the flute. I saw them together, naked in the woods. He lifted her in the air in a disgusting display of animal strength. I heard her say it was a relief not to screw standing up."

  Gold stopped and shook his head, as though he still couldn't believe it. He got up. "I need more mochamalt."

  While Gold rummaged behind the counter, the door to the gym slid open and three women came in, looking as if they had just finished exercising, dressed in leotards with towels draped over their shoulders. One was Desmonica Rienzi, the rider of the mechanical horse. Lewis stared at her. Streaky brown hair, dark eyes, thick eyebrows. Up close, she appeared to be at least forty pounds heavier than she had seemed at the performance. The three women were about the same height, but Desmonica was by far the heaviest, with beefy arms and rolls of fat showing under the thin fabric of her leotard. Lewis wondered how she could get herself onto the horse. Her costume must hold everything in.

  The other two were blondish—one's hair long and straight, the other's shorter, stiff and bleachy looking. The women walked past without acknowledging him.

  Gold came out from behind the counter and saw them. "Hey you violas, what's the rush?"

  "Hi Garson, we didn't see you," long and straight said, but kept going. Desmonica stopped.

  "I want you ladies to meet Lewis."

  "We smell," long and straight said. "We'll meet him later."

  "Come on, just for a few minutes. Say hello."

  "I ain't stopping," short and stiff said.

  Gold watched her leave. His expression seemed softer, more vulnerable somehow. Maybe he isn't so bad, Lewis thought.

  The other two came over. Gold slid an arm around long and straight's waist. Desmonica stood behind her. Lewis wondered what Gold would say about their jugglies.

  "Dillon just stole Lewis away from the biggest PR firm in the populous. He's a marketing genius. What do you say to that?"

  "Wow, I don't know anything about marketing. What does it do?" long and straight said. She took her hand from Gold's shoulder and extended it to Lewis. "I'm Dawn, it's nice to meet you." Her rough palm surprised him. "That was Leonora who left. We ride the elephants. That's why we stink."

  He found her child-like voice comforting, and he liked her soft cheeks and brown eyes. But she was right. She did stink. Waves of animal musk poured from her. Lewis breathed through his mouth, now glad of his empty stomach.

  Desmonica held out her hand. Her grip was damp, her hand softer than Dawn's.

  "Greetings," Desmonica said.

  Her voice was throaty. She pulled her hand away, but kept her gaze fixed on Lewis, with what he assumed was supposed to be a suggestive smile. She had a butterfly tattoo on her right shoulder. At the performance he had looked forward to meeting her. But up close...she had a double chin. He looked beyond her, to Dawn, while Desmonica continued. "We should all get together and have a party, to welcome you."

  Her would-be sexy tone sounded absurd. He hoped the party would never happen. Dawn left, but Desmonica stayed. "GG, have you seem my matre de telos? It wasn't in the case."

  "Not since the time you fell off the horse and were laid up for a couple of shows."

  "You're sure?"

  "Yes, I'm sure.

  "I thought you took it out and cleaned it."

  "No."

  "I asked you to."

  "Well I didn't."

  "Fine then."

  She left; Gold started talking immediately. "Dawn and Leonora are roommates. Dez lives alone, which works out pretty well since she can't keep her hands off me." Lewis felt relieved that Desmonica was with Gold. GG.

  "Her jugglies aren't too great. Kind of flabby, hard to grip properly. Leonora's the one I'm really powered up for. Can you believe she won't talk to me?"

  "They all seemed nice," Lewis said. He entered their names in his legal pad, which made him feel he had accomplished something.

  "We're all responsible for our own training. We are professionals. The acrobats keep to themselves. I can tell you everything you need to know about everybody."

  Lewis wondered which door belonged to Dawn and Leonora. Probably the one with the rainbow. Gold talked on and on, as if reading from a script. Lewis's attention drifted back and forth, catching bits of Gold's monologue and merging them with his own thoughts.

  "Months passed in a similar fashion and the first delicate green buds appeared on the trees, bringing hope of renewal to my chilled existence."

  A clear sky is always finer than a cloudy one, Lewis thought, though warm and cold weather can be equally satisfying. But the morning after a spring rain is best, when the sun emerges and the clouds dissipate. The scent of cedar and dark earth flood the breeze, each breath a renewal, all sickness temporarily banished. When would he again feel the changing seasons? He had boarded the train in winter. The thought of missing spring made him want to cry, then he remembered he was with Gold.

  "She appeared so forlorn that I took her in my arms, and she sobbed upon my shoulder. Though she was my senior by six or more years, her sensuality was like a fire. We went to her house. I had never imagined I would find such perfect jugglies on a woman so old." Gold took out his yellow balls and juggled them, then looked at Lewis. "I hope I'm not going too fast for you."

  Lewis shrugged. "No, this is just fine, I'm a good note taker," he said, though he had put the cap back on his pen. "But I've got to go. Appointment with the porter. He's supposed to give..."

  "We found Frank Conners, now known as Blake Horton, the Ringmaster Supreme, and I joined the East-West Circus. I said good-bye to Alicia, who had lacked the resolve, before..."

  Who was Alicia? Lewis heard the cook behind him in the kitchen. Food would be nice, and would distract Gold. The cook began reciting the diner menu as soon as Lewis thought about eating.

  "Sometimes I perform wonders with a few basic ingredients. Locobird stew. I just use the legs, from the mature birds. Cut off the meat and marinate it in wine, cloves, pepper, garlic, and rosemary." Lewis smelled each ingredient as the cook spoke its name.

  "I presented myself to Horton the Ringmaster. Nothing like Dillon. Classless. Greasy blond hair and two huge bodyguards. Told me to call him Ringmaster. Turned out his circus was just a big front for his prostitution game."

  Lewis felt gripped by an odd lethargy. His neck began to ache; he tapped absentmindedly with his fingernail on the table. He yawned. Music seemed to be coming from somewhere, a cello, and a man singing a sad tune. He listened for words, catching something about a broken bottle and a woman with hair blacker than the sky. He looked around for her. Gold had left the room. The cook appeared beside him with a bowl of custard. Lewis thanked him and dipped a spoon into it. He brought some to his lips, savoring its velvety texture and orange flavor. A small man, smaller than Dillon, sat in the next booth eating a wing that had to have come from that giant bird. He nodded at Lewis. Grease smeared his cheeks. He wore a black riding helmet and a red scarf. Lewis assumed he was the man who had ridden the live horse. He thought about introducing himself, but didn't want to bother the man while he was eating. When Lewis finished the custard, he took the empty plate to the counter and left.

  Chapter 8: Rebellion

  FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE:

  The CIRCUS OF THE GRAND DESIGN, which has been pleasing audiences worldwide since 18??, will be performing in (town) on (date) as part of its current international(?) tour.

  ~

  Lewis pulled the paper from the typewriter and crumpled it. What was the point? He couldn't imagine his work affecting anything Dillon did. The manager paid no attention to him. Why, he wondered again, had Dillon hired him? And...stupid stupid Lewis...they had never talked about pay. Lewis went over their first meeting. He had been caught in the moment, had wanted
to show Martha that he could make career decisions. Why hadn't he established his salary with Dillon? He felt duped, and it made him mad to think about it.

  It felt good to be typing though. Jenkins had brought him a list of personnel and the oldest typewriter he had ever seen. A black, metal frame, brass keys, weighing maybe twenty-five pounds. The nameplate said Americana Modern™. It looked as though it had never been used. The list of personnel showed seventeen people and their residence cars. The acrobat's names were János, Cirill, József, and Linusz. Cinteotl the cook. Floyd Perry the jockey. Gold's assistant was named Brisbane. Lewis had met or seen all but three people. Two women: Miss Linda—clown, and Bodyssia—capybara trainer, and one man: Barca—elephant keeper. He planned to look for them once he delivered the press release to Dillon. He put in another sheet and retyped what he had thrown out, then continued.

  ~

  The CIRCUS, managed by Ringmaster Joseph Dillon, specializes in a more vaudevillian form of circus entertainment, with elephants, acrobats, jugglers, plus a mysterious, magical mechanical horse ridden by a woman who can barely squeeze into her costume. The horse is pitted against a flesh-and-blood counterpart in a masterful exhibition of equestrian beauty.

  Though highly skilled on the trapeze, the acrobats' greatest forte is breaking each other's noses. The juggler, who has sex standing up, is a master at his craft, performing confidently from the inner center while obsessed with food and women's breasts. The Ringmaster operates with a metaphysical agenda known only to himself. His circus, he says, "moves in the fourth dimension—time—as a sequence of present moments flowing away to become part of the past."

  ~

  Lewis left his room with the press release in his satchel. Let's see what kind of reaction this gets, he thought. He wasn't someone who could be manipulated. Are No had found that out, and Dillon would too.

  Shouting erupted from one of the other rooms in the car, and something heavy (a body?) thudded against a door. "Don't understand Dillon's methods," Lewis said aloud. "Better be straight with me." From inside the room—crash of glass breaking, cries of pishta, and other unrecognizable words. I can break things too, he thought. He pulled out the list of personnel. That had to be the acrobat's room. He entered the car with the painted doors. The rainbow decal would be Dawn's room.

  The train was deserted all the way to Dillon's office. He took out the press release and knocked. No answer. He opened the door. Last time he hadn't noticed the door on the left-hand wall, cut out of the paneling, with only a small iron latch showing. Maybe Dillon was back there. Lewis took out the press release and left it on Dillon's desk.

  Well now. That was accomplishing something. He stood outside Dillon's office, looking toward what he assumed was the front of the train. So what was that way?

  Like Dillon's, the next train car had one door in the middle of the hall, labeled Storage in blunt, orange letters. He opened the door and switched on a light. One large room, no windows, with several clothes racks (costumes?) on one side, and rows of gray storage lockers, some of which could have easily held several people. He lifted the latch of the nearest locker. The door stuck; he pulled harder, and it opened with a metal-against-metal scrape. Dust and shreds of fabric covered the bottom; a musty smell made him cough. The next locker held several coils of a thin, but sturdy-looking rope; another was filled with high-heeled women's shoes. The largest locker intrigued him. Was the mechanical horse kept here? He wanted to find it, see how it looked close up. This had to be it. But it wasn't. Nothing but folded trampolines.

  He moved to the rack of clothes: long, white satin dress with frayed sleeves and hem, orange dress shaped like a tulip on a stem, with brown stains streaking the front, a suit made of dried leaves, short-sleeved red dress, covered in plastic, a lion pelt costume with the head attached. Except it couldn't be a lion. It looked something like a lion, but its body was twice the size of Lewis, with thick fur.

  Then he saw the mannequin clothed with a chain mail shirt. He lifted the mail, finding it heavier than he had expected, made from a dull metal. Fake. A stage prop, but nice. He stroked the smooth metal after restoring it to its place. A sword hung from the mannequin's belt. Most likely another prop. He gripped the scabbard at the top and pulled on the sword with his other hand.

  The blade sliced into his skin so easily that at first he felt nothing. Blood dripped onto the floor. He grabbed the hem of the tattered white dress and tore off a strip, which he wrapped around his hand.

  Look at all this, ruined dress, blood on the floor. He held his hand over his head to slow the bleeding. They shouldn't leave dangerous props out where anyone can get hurt. With his left hand still in the air, he pulled the dress off its hanger and rubbed the floor. The blood left a dark smudge. He stuffed the dress into the locker with the rotted fabric.

  His hand began to throb. He needed to get back to his room without being seen—didn't want to answer questions. There had to be rules. He had probably done something wrong. Outside the storage car, the lights in the hall had dimmed again, back to the orange glow. No one was in the dining car, but when he was halfway through the next car, the door on the opposite end opened. A woman entered. She tilted her head under the doorframe as she passed through. In her arms she held one of the giant guinea pig things.

  Lewis hid his bandaged hand behind his back. They moved toward each other, and he began to feel as though he was shrinking with each step, until they stood about two feet apart. She was at least ten inches taller than him, with a mass of coppery hair that made her appear even taller. She filled the hallway. The throbbing in his hand worsened.

  "Haven't seen you around here, buddy." Her voice was as immense as her body. She smiled, revealing an expanse of large teeth. She had a wide, square jaw and thick neck. The animal was the size of a Saint Bernard dog; she held it comfortably in her massive arms.

  "I'm Lewis." It appeared that she wanted to talk. He tried to ignore the pain in his hand. He worried that it would bleed too much now that he wasn't holding it up.

  "Bodyssia, and this is Fib." She lifted the animal a little higher for emphasis. "I've got three of them, but Fib's the smartest. You've seen my act."

  "I saw you at the end, parading with your animals." She could probably lift him as easily as she held the animal, unless it was lighter than it looked. If he fainted, maybe she would carry him to his room.

  "Fib's a capybara. From South America. He only weighs fifty-six and a half kilos. My others are seventy-two and seventy-five. You want to pet him? He likes being scratched on the top of his head."

  Thinking it wouldn't be wise to say no, he rubbed the coarse, reddish-brown fur. The animal looked more like a bear than a capybara, a bear with a furry tail. It turned its head to sniff Lewis's arm, and voiced a series of clicking sounds, then whistled. It had bear-like teeth. Lewis withdrew his hand and the animal whistled again. He wondered if it could smell the blood on his other hand.

  Bodyssia put down the animal. It sniffed Lewis's feet, then pawed at his leg just below his bandaged hand. Lewis wanted to push the thing's head away from him, but was afraid Bodyssia wouldn't like that. He leaned against a window, keeping his bandaged hand behind him. The animal wandered down the hall.

  "A whistle like that means he likes you." Bodyssia reached toward him. Her hand was larger than a baseball glove. "He hasn't whistled like that in a long time." She pulled him into a hug, mashing his face against her breasts. "Just make sure you don't miss my next show, buddy," she said, and released him.

  Once safely in his room, Lewis unwrapped the dress fabric and washed the cut. At first, he was afraid to look. It was bloody but not deep, on the edge of his palm between thumb and forefinger. He pulled the case from one of his pillows and trimmed off strips for a bandage, then swallowed three aspirin. He would find a real bandage later, and some disinfectant. He took off his pants and lay down with his injured hand propped on a pillow.

  He wondered whether anyone was searching for him because of the fir
e. Tracing him to his apartment would have been easy. Martha would hate having to deal with the police. They might not believe she had no idea where he had gone. The thought made him smile.

  Before closing his eyes, he looked up at Are No's etching. The faces on the sphinx were so sad and beautiful. He would like meet the model the artist had used. A beauty, so sad, so sweet.

  Chapter 9: Explorations

  A citrus bouquet, spicy and beguiling, overflowed the confined space of Lewis's room. Invisible lemon, orange, and grapefruit zest carpeted the floor. Had he been asleep? He lay on top of the covers with the wall propping his injured hand. He didn't remember turning out the light. He sat up, turning his head to find the source of the odor. A shape emerged, a woman-shape outlined by the darkness of the room, so indistinct he wasn't sure he truly saw her. The shape drew closer to him, and despite the gloom, he recognized her as the dark-haired woman he had seen at the circus. So she had been following him. But was she connected to the circus? Or to his burning of Are No's house?

  He opened his mouth, but said nothing, instead watched her continue to float toward him. Her face was as haunting as those of the etching. Her long black hair, blacker than the night—at the circus he had wanted to dig his fingers into it. He looked down. That was odd—he had slid his uninjured hand beneath the elastic band of his underpants. He had never touched himself in front of a woman. What must she be thinking about him?

  She stopped beside his bed. His injured palm tingled, and he reached toward her with it. She leaned over him. Warmth emanated from her. He felt himself merging with the warmth, with her. First his hands sank into her breasts, then arms, then his chest melted against her. His groin merged with her thighs and he ejaculated.