"Here," Jenkins said and looked at a note taped to the top magazine. "Says, 'Give to Lewis.'"
"What are they?"
"For you." Jenkins held out the stack and Lewis took it. He had already passed his door but didn't feel like carrying the magazines with him all day. He returned to his room and dropped the stack on the floor. But the title...Circus of the Grand Design...not magazines. Programs. When could they have been printed? He hadn't done them. The cover was a triptych painting of clowns and jugglers with grotesque features. He sat at his desk and opened one. The first spread showed a photograph of the circus crew parading before a packed house, with a short introduction by Dillon printed in the far right:
~
Now in its second century, The Circus of the Grand Design, its uniqueness unsurpassed, strives to bring audiences an entertainment experience encompassing all the senses. Step inside a dream of lights and miracles and prepare for a lifetime's worth of enjoyment packed into a mere two and one half hours. Step inside and let your perceptions not be denied. The glories lie within reach. Let the show commence.
Joseph Dillon, proprietor
~
The rest of the program spotlighted each performer. He couldn't believe how good it looked; his biographical sketches were perfect. He would have to pass some out himself that afternoon. When he was maybe seven years old his family took him to a circus performing in the domed stadium, which had recently opened, the first of its kind. All he remembered from that night was the immense curved roof above him and men on stilts, eight or nine or ten feet tall. Now he was a part of the process and knew all of the people involved. He wanted to be the first to arrive, to find a seat in front.
He wasn't sure when to go to the amphitheater though. He would have to stay close during the day to keep from missing anything. He would climb up to the ledge he found yesterday. From it he could watch the amphitheater. His breakfast was still in the satchel; he took it out and bit into an apple.
His door opened and Cybele entered, bringing a concentrated scent of outside, stronger even than what he had smelled on leaving the train for the first time yesterday, an intoxicating torrent: dirt, leaves, herbs, mold, fruit, rain, wildlife.
All he could do was breathe. He felt his lips twisting into a silly, gaping smile.
Cybele wore sleeveless white coveralls zipped to her collarbone. He had never seen her so covered. He wanted to stand up and kiss the hollow where her neck and collarbone met, but found himself unable to move as she approached the window and looked out at the bay.
He knew he should be silent, but he heard himself speaking to her, asking questions. He asked if she was angry with him for leaving her out of the program, asked how long she had been with the circus and what training she'd had. He knew the questions sounded inane, but he couldn't stop. He thought she smiled, though it could have been the angle of sunlight on her chin. Fearing he would drown in her dark eyes, he looked away, babbling on, trying to say something poetic.
"I've traveled so long, down a cold, deep well that echoes blindly without you." This time he was sure she smiled, and her smile seemed to mock him. She turned and touched the tip of his nose with one slender finger. He smelled oranges. "Are you Cybele?"
"Names have no unimportance."
She spoke with a firm voice; he had thought it would be soft and sexy, like her appearance. He longed to hear more. Certain aspects of her were so familiar—the way she stood, like an Arabian mare, hair mane-like on her shoulders and down her back—he thought he had always known her.
"I've never seen hair quite so black," he said. Then they were silent. She was still an arm's length away. He wanted to pull her toward him, but decided not to, though in deciding knew the choice had been hers. He stared at her cheeks, lips, and long, narrow nose. Outside the window, the shadows of the trees on the hills lengthened. The wind rippled grass and wildflowers. Gray clouds pressed in from the bay but no rain came. The apple sitting on his satchel turned brown where he had taken his bite.
He stood and reached a hand out to her bare shoulder, loving the feel of her skin under his fingers, softer and more luxurious than the sea. She smiled and leaned toward him; he bent over to kiss her and hug her against him, but she kept him back, put the tips of her fingers between his lips, then turned away. He watched her gliding walk to his door. As the door closed behind her, he sat again at his desk breathing the lingering scents of spring.
~
Lewis traversed the hallways, knocking in succession on the doors of Dawn and Leonora, Bodyssia, Floyd Perry, Gold, even Barca, with no response, and as he progressed found no one in the dining car, gym, or Dillon's office. The animal pens were empty as well, so he turned back and hurried to the caboose, where Jenkins was sewing a button on a silver costume jacket.
"Has everyone gone to the hall?"
Jenkins responded with a sharp nod.
"How long has it been?"
Jenkins held up the jacket. "Two buttons finished and another halfway there."
Lewis rushed out the door. Today, he didn't linger in the meadow, but sprinted toward the amphitheater, slowing near the back to catch his breath.
The crew had begun the opening promenade. Unsure where to go, Lewis peered into the arena from the stage entrance. All the way around the floor, a three-foot-high wall blocked access to the audience. There were a few empty seats on the row closest to him. He stepped over the wall and chose a seat before the performers finished their circuit. Behind him, the semicircle of seats, which were built into the side of the hill, extended steeply upward to entrances at the top. The turnout surprised him—the seats were nearly filled. The scent of fat mingled with sea air; vendors traversed the aisles, an odor of fried food in their wake. A nearby man dipped his fingers into a paper cup filled with fried squid tentacles.
Lewis scanned the audience, hoping to see Cybele. She had been there the first time he saw the circus. A giddiness overcame him as he watched his companions parade. He couldn't believe he was finally there, ready to witness an entire show on the same day that his programs were printed and distributed to the audience. How could he enjoy the show? He felt he was performing himself.
In the middle of the floor, a ring had been set up, about one foot high and three feet wide with one opening that faced the backstage exit. A lattice of steel poles, lights, and wires bracketed the ring. The promenade looped around the outside of the ring and back to the exit, led by Dillon in his white coat and top hat. As they filed out, Dillon stayed near the gate, surveying the crowd. Spotting Lewis, he touched the brim of his hat in salute, then motioned to someone behind him. The acrobats, clad in matching gold and black warm-ups with gold masks, carried out a trampoline, set it down in the ring, and returned for two more, lining them up about fifteen feet apart. Dillon re-emerged and spoke into the handle of his cane, which held a microphone. He said something in the language Lewis had been hearing around him, then in English, ending with: "from Alfold, the Daposvars!"
As the echoes of his voice faded, the acrobats pulled off their warm-ups to reveal matching gold tights. They vaulted onto the trampolines and began leaping and somersaulting.
Behind him, a whining male voice said—"What do you expect from such a provincial venue. It's not something that—" The rest was overwhelmed by a roar from the middle section of the house as two of the acrobats grasped each other's arms and spun like a propeller.
"Doesn't resonate," a female voice said.
Lewis turned around to see the noisy pair. Early twenties, probably just out of college. The woman wore a shiny, red vinyl vest over a white turtleneck, the man, a green jacket of similar vinyl. Her bangs hung over her eyes but the rest of her hair was cut short. The man wore a tight, knit cap low on his forehead.
"Still, I do like the architectural confluence of the arena," the man said. "Though..." Lewis glared at them and turned back to watch the acrobats.
Their act had progressed into ever more intricate patterns of moving bodies, but somethin
g seemed odd. Their speed? Their movements had slowed until he could distinguish every detail, their ascents, descents, the way they used their hands to guide their flights. Then they hung in the air like a giant, human mobile.
"It's as if you took a stock performance artist and said, here you go, jump around a bit," the woman said.
The acrobats backflipped in unison off the trampolines and bowed to the audience.
Miss Linda stepped to the middle of the floor, about thirty feet from the front row of seats. She wore a costume Lewis hadn't seen before—a dark cloak and a black-hair wig. Her skin was painted a yellowish white, with black half-circles under her eyes, giving a goulish effect. Her appearance quieted the crowd and she spoke in a whispery voice; the sound emanated from the air around them.
~
"A shadow falls.
Darkness
calls.
Encircled by fear,
shadows
near.
Nothing ever comes to pass when jagged shadows darken fast.
And you who watch—where will you hide?"
~
From behind Miss Linda an explosion like a giant firecracker startled Lewis; someone in the audience screamed. Miss Linda screamed too, and the force of the explosion threw her several feet, though one of the acrobats managed to catch her before she struck the ground. Heavy smoke flared from the blast-site, obscuring them. Was this meant to happen or were they being attacked? The smoke flowed over the audience. Lewis coughed; it smelled sweet, like incense. Then the roar of another explosion and screaming sounds like rockets overhead. In the flash Lewis saw a safety line attached to Miss Linda's waist.
"The sexual metaphors are somewhat intriguing," the man said. His voice sounded shaky.
When the fog cleared, Miss Linda and the acrobats had left, and Bodyssia emerged with the three capybarabears. Brisbane was setting up three pedestals in the ring. Bodyssia carried a burlap sack over her shoulder. Was it wriggling? The angle of the light cast her shadow across the ground. She stopped with her back to her shadow. Lewis thought it stopped first, but knew that couldn't be. Miss Linda's poem and the explosions had unsettled him. Dillon's voice came over the speakers, again in the unknown language, then in English. Though Lewis couldn't understand the words, the sound of Dillon's voice always intrigued him.
"Ho hum," the woman said; the man grunted.
Lewis turned to them. "Shut up or leave," he said.
"Was he talking to us?" the woman asked.
Bodyssia raised the sack over her head. "These are not tame beasts!" she said in her thunder voice. As if on cue, one of the capybarabears growled and leaped on another. The third joined and they rolled over the ground, a solid mass of fur, until Bodyssia pulled a whip from a pocket and cracked it in the air. They separated and cowered for her.
"Only I can control them and it takes all my will."
Lewis expected them to do something horrible, but what followed was more like a dumb seal act, pedestals, ring toss. Too inane to watch. Then she reached into the bag and pulled out a large white rabbit. The capybarabears sat up with their noses pointed at the rabbit. Someone in the audience gasped. This was it then, the real show.
"They haven't been fed for a very...very...long...time." She held the rabbit in one giant hand and the whip in the other. An odd mix of feelings rushed through Lewis. He had been frightened of Bodyssia's size and aggressiveness, then more accepting. Now, watching her command of the animals, a wild lust grew.
She lowered the rabbit. The capybarabears snarled, but before they could attack she cracked the whip again. They scrambled onto their pedestals. She released the rabbit and it streaked out of the ring. She cracked the whip again and the capybarabears chased the rabbit around and around the floor.
Lewis's first college roommate had kept a boa constrictor in a glass tank. Once a week he bought a mouse and dropped it in with the snake. They would watch as the boa stirred, whipped back, and struck the mouse, coiling around it and squeezing. They would watch it unhinge its jaws and pull the mouse in, watch the lump move down its throat.
The rabbit had nowhere to hide. The capybarabears caught it and tore it apart as the crowd, Lewis included, watched, mesmerized by the butchery. Hyena-like, they tore the rabbit apart and ate, snarling and crunching bones and flesh. Two tried to eat the same bloody hunk, but dropped it to tear at each other until the snapping of Bodyssia's whip separated them. When nothing was left but bits of fur, Bodyssia reached down to pet the capybarabears. One reared up and rested its forepaws on her legs; she lifted it and rubbed her cheek against its. She carried the beast toward the front row of spectators.
"Would anyone like to pet him? They're cuddly after they've been fed." The people sitting in front jerked back as she held the animal out. She laughed her deep laugh. "No one? But he's such a cute little thing."
Lewis stood. "Over here. I'll pet him."
"A daring soul steps forward."
When she reached him, Lewis again saw the animal's fangs and regretted volunteering. But at the same time it thrilled to be participating in her act. He hoped she would show her appreciation later.
"Don't worry sir, he's not as rabid as he looks." Lewis trusted that the animal remembered they were acquainted—assuming it was the one she had been holding when he first met her. He reached to pet the wiry fur; the animal rumbled and clicked as it had the first time.
"That's all, we don't want him getting tamed." Her bellow was loud enough for everyone in the building to hear. Lewis pulled his hand away as the animal snapped at him and growled. She laughed again and carried it backstage; the other two followed. The crowd applauded.
"Did you see that?" the woman behind Lewis said. "He must be insane to touch that thing. Not that I believe any of that tearing apart the rabbit business."
Lewis sat down to wait for the next act. Was there a problem? Nothing was happening. People talked. He became aware of a shudder, a growing vibration in the building. Then Dillon's voice. "Nothing can prepare you for the fearsome tread of Paladin." The shuddering increased.
"We're going—now." The man behind him said.
Just when he thought the building was about to tumble around them, Paladin the mammoth elephant rumbled into sight. It ran around the arena as though enraged, trumpeting so loud the sounds echoed from the surrounding hills. A child ran screaming up the steps from the front row, but stopped a few rows higher and turned back to watch.
"There's no way that's a real mammoth," the woman said. "It's probably not even as big as it looks. All padding and makeup."
Paladin trumpeted again but stopped running and watched Barca lead out the two smaller elephants. One carried Dawn and her gymnastics bars, the other a flat wooden platform for Leonora, who balanced motionless on one leg, like a statue of a ballerina. A musky odor rose as the elephants trundled past. Barca called out commands in a strange language. Lewis wondered if the commands included something for Paladin. He couldn't figure out what was and wasn't part of the act. It seemed reckless for them to allow Paladin to run in so wildly. If the mammoth elephant's actions weren't part of the act, Dawn and Leonora gave no indication. Dawn sat under her bars waving to the audience. She had applied a garish red to her cheeks and lips.
When the elephants reached the middle of the arena, music started playing, a recording of organ, drums, and saxophone. Dawn began her gymnastics routine and Leonora spun into a new position. Lewis's attention drifted; he thought about going backstage to search for the mechanical horse. Or Cybele. He glanced back at the elephants. Leonora's grace surprised him; he had associated her abrupt manner with awkwardness.
Paladin trumpeted more loudly and reared onto his hind legs. His size was frightening. The seats shook as he dropped back onto four legs and ran back and forth as though crazed, despite Barca's attempts to divert him. This couldn't have been planned. Paladin ran at the elephant carrying Dawn. Lewis jumped up as a collision seemed imminent, but Dawn's elephant flopped to its belly and Paladin l
eaped over it and stopped a few feet away from the backstage exit.
Barca held out his staff to Dawn's elephant, which it, so sweet compared to the savage Paladin, grasped with its trunk and raised its body from the floor, as if using the staff for support. Then Barca faced Paladin. While chanting over and over what sounded like the same short phrase, he twirled his staff faster and faster. The movement calmed Paladin; he lay down. Dawn and Leonora finished their routines.
The audience clapped, then laughed as Miss Linda, now wearing her red-haired clown outfit, darted out, chased by someone—one of the acrobats?—wearing a lion's costume. But the laughter stopped when Miss Linda tripped over Paladin's trunk. The beast trumpeted, and with its trunk, slapped the acrobat into the air and through the exit. Something crashed backstage. Not the mechanical horse? Miss Linda scrambled to her feet and ran, but Paladin followed her. Barca ran behind them, waving his staff and chanting to no effect. Lewis thought it was over for her when she stumbled and sprawled onto her stomach. Paladin stopped with one huge foot over her, then backed up a step. It reached out with its trunk and ran the tip across her body, stopping at her red-hair wig. It lifted off her wig and put it on its head, then reared on its hind legs, trumpeted, replaced the wig on her head, picked her up, and carried her off. She waved to the crowd.
Dillon's voice rumbled out: "Ancient hieroglyphics show that the Egyptians invented the art of juggling as a ritual to appease the gods of the Nile. Our own juggler..."
Lewis slipped away. He had seen enough of Gold's juggling, and he wanted to inspect the mechanical horse before it went on stage.
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