The Trapeze Act

by Libby Angel

  Nobody noticed as Dwayne snuck out through the tent flap and into the kiosk caravan, where he helped himself to several bags of peanuts and some ice cream as well. Nobody noticed as he snuck back to his seat laden with loot.

  Towards the end of the act, Madeleine entered the ring to thunderous applause. The horses trotted around in a final lap, then took their bows, bending their front legs and lowering their heads. They made their exit as gracefully as they had entered.

  Zo! The lights dimmed. There was one act to come. The Rodzirkus had saved its best and brightest star for the finale. The stagehands moved swiftly across the ring, raking the sawdust and wheeling a dark mass of a prop across the floor. Audience members chatted to one another in anticipation. The children could barely contain themselves; as the lights went up they stood on their plastic seats to get a better view. And the band began to play a slow tango. The set, now assembled—a staircase leading to a platform and, on the platform, a tall A-frame ladder—stood in a pool of yellow light.

  Then came a trumpet blast and at long last, through the velvet curtains at the back of the ring, the real stars of the show emerged: Mr Zanzibar, in top hat, tails and patent-leather shoes, and Punch the marmoset, in an orange-sequined three-piece suit, replete with monocle and watch chain.

  You’ll never guess what happened next, my mother said.

  It would be something unpleasant, I knew. The story would sweep on like a firestorm. I could stay and defend or evacuate.

  I shifted in my bed and tried to comfort myself with the lie that the past was over and had nothing to do with me.

  Without waiting for a response, my mother rolled on.

  Imagine the crowd, uproarious, on its feet, even before the act had begun, so that the ringmaster had to make an announcement over the PA urging the good citizens to hush and be seated so the act could begin.

  When he saw how the people of Germany adored the monkey, Dwayne could not help but feel a pinch of remorse for his behaviour these past weeks; his mind took flights of fancy. Maybe Mr Zanzibar would forgive him—maybe, down the road, he could become Mr Zanzibar’s apprentice? Maybe one day, Dwayne considered, he would get his own monkey and the crowd would be stomping the boards under their feet, yelling in adoration for him and his monkey. He looked down at the small white paper bag in his lap. He opened it and popped a couple of peanuts into his mouth. Dwayne resolved then and there that he would never tease the little fellow again. He would make amends.

  The end.

  What? I emerged from the bed covers, almost disappointed.

  Leda sat closer. Ha-ha! That’s the pussy’s end. You want to hear the rest? You want to know how the show really ended? Are you sure you’re not a pussy?

  I nodded obediently.

  The act began. Punch danced a salsa; he solved some maths puzzles on a blackboard; he rode a unicycle; he climbed to the top of the main tent pole and slid down, upside down with arms splayed. Was there nothing the little marmoset could not do? Such was his genius, nobody in either the circus or the audience expected anything less than perfection and that the show would end in a standing ovation.

  Then came the part of the act involving a volunteer. Mr Zanzibar scanned the audience. A sea of children raised their hands, bounced up and down in the seats and yelled, Pick me! Pick me! And who else should raise his hand but Dwayne the peanut-head!

  Zo! Only a blind man would not have seen this as an opportune moment to publicly humiliate the boy, but Mr Zanzibar was not a vindictive man. Sensibly, he overlooked Dwayne in favour of some other child, a placid-looking girl with long brown plaits pinned over the top of her square, Germanic head. The girl looked for approval from her parents, who gave it at once.

  Punch scampered through the audience, took the girl’s hand and led her down the aisle. A thousand jealous young eyes followed their descent through the gate and into the ring.

  First, Mr Zanzibar asked the girl to hold a small hoop, which she did; Punch dived through the hoop this way and that. Then Mr Zanzibar whispered some more-complex instructions into the girl’s ear; she listened and nodded. Mr Zanzibar held the girl’s hand as she climbed the staircase to the platform, then handed her a triangle. The girl stood, triangle poised, chime outstretched in her hand while the music medley segued into a Latin groove. Laughter rose all around them as Punch danced a little salsa.

  When Mr Zanzibar gave the first signal (flicking his coattails behind him) Punch climbed the staircase and waited on the platform with the girl. When Mr Zanzibar gave the next signal, the girl chimed the triangle twice. Punch climbed up the ladder, threw his hat in the air, pirouetted, caught the hat on his head, climbed down the ladder and kissed the girl softly on her cheek.

  The crowd went wild! And again, the girl chimed the triangle twice, Punch climbed up to the top rung of the ladder, threw his hat up in the air and turned; the hat landed on his head and he climbed back down and kissed the girl on her cheek. Again, the crowd went wild; they would never tire of it. For a third time, the monkey went up the ladder, turned, caught the hat, ran back down and kissed the girl. Perfect every time.

  Now came the finale of all finales, a truly magnificent feat: the triangle would chime twice, Punch would scale the ladder, throw his hat in the air, execute a full backwards somersault and land on the top rung; and the hat would land on his head. Voila! He would climb back down and kiss the girl.

  This was a difficult trick and Punch had only recently mastered it. As a precaution, Mr Zanzibar would stand beneath the ladder and spot, just in case Punch should fall. Though Mr Zanzibar knew he would not.

  The music faded. The ringmaster made a short announcement over the PA, bidding the audience to hold their applause, explaining that when an artiste has to accomplish such a dangerous feat, he needs absolute quiet, absolute concentration.

  The audience held still as the drum roll washed over them: ratatatatatatatatatatatatata, then BAM! Mr Zanzibar nods to the girl, she chimes the triangle twice. And Punch the marmoset, what does he do?

  I squirmed in my sheets.

  He scales the ladder and jumps off the top with arms and legs sprawled like a fruit bat. He flies right over the top of Mr Zanzibar’s head and lands squarely in the sawdust. Then he runs like mad to the edge of the ring, climbs the ringside fence and scampers around the top of it until he reaches the comp seats where Dwayne is sitting. The audience laughs. Surely this is all part of the act—the monkey does funny as well!

  Alas! Punch the marmoset monkey takes a great flying leap onto the boy, latches onto the boy’s nose with his teeth, and with hands like trowels, scoops out the boy’s eyeballs: one, two, then hurls them into the ring, plop, plop, where they roll across the sawdust like meatballs in breadcrumbs.

  The boy collapses to the floor, blood pulsing in small black fountains from his eye sockets.

  Mr Zanzibar rushes at the monkey, shouting, No! No! The usherettes rush to the boy. The families in the audience look to one another for cues—surely this can’t be staged?

  The monkey is locked in a rancorous frenzy. He takes up the white paper bag of peanuts from the seat where the boy dropped it, tears it open and empties the few remaining peanuts and a sprinkle of salt onto the bloodied mess that is the boy’s head.

  As the sinister truth sinks in, the people of Dusseldorf start gasping and crying. They usher their children towards the exits, but every way out is clogged with the crowd pushing urgently out into the light.

  The boy lies in the sawdust, reduced to a beast, shitting his pants, writhing on the ground in eternal darkness. And the girl with the plaits—she’s standing ossified on the platform, the triangle and chime still poised.

  The mayor tried his best to quell the public hysteria. He cancelled the Rodzirkus season on the spot and forbade it from appearing in Germany again, until further notice.

  The Rodzirkus name was in tatters throughout Europe. There were press releases, lawyers, negotiations, and so on; the tent manager wanted to sue. To you or me, it may
seem obvious that the boy got his just deserts, but the people of Germany wanted retribution. So it was that Punch the marmoset monkey was rudely torn from the pantheon of celebrity and, less than twenty-four hours later, put to death like a common house cat.

  Poor Mr Zanzibar never recovered; as you can imagine his life went to pieces. When he drank himself to death five years later, all his phenomenal talent and knowledge was forever extinguished. There has never been a monkey trainer like him.

  I stared at my mother.

  And that, my captain, is the true end of the story. She flicked the light switch and drew the door to behind her. Goodnight, she said.

  A slice of light from the hallway beamed briefly across the carpet before it, too, was gone and I was left alone in the darkness.

  I dreamed of clowns: the appalling symmetry of greasepaint crosshatched with wrinkles; their blue triangle eyes, obscene red mouths and nicotine stained teeth; the rotting latex skullcaps with puffs of fluorescent hair; their unwashed plaid suits full of piss-coloured man-stink. I had never been to the circus, yet I was sprung of this vaudeville.

  Perhaps my mother was right. Like her, I sided with the monkey who ran shrieking at the world with bared teeth.

  May 2nd

  We disembarked into a scene of Unnatural Chaos due to recent flooding at the port. Little wonder they call it ‘Port Misery’—it is more mire than port. No sooner had we stepped ashore than we were obliged to pick our way to the road via a series of rotting duckboards. Mr T from the Geographical Society kindly met us at the Dock and organised transport into town, assuring us that the trunks and furniture will follow by bullock within the week. Agnes was collected by a gentleman who introduced himself as her cousin. Most passengers, however, had to walk into town through the black mud, pushing their possessions in wheelbarrows. (Mrs H looked somewhat piqued as we passed her in our vehicle, but as we had already stopped to collect two other ladies, there was no room for her.) I returned all winnings from cards, except for a couple of trinkets given to me by poor Amelia. These I will send back to her family in Cornwall, together with my condolences.

  I should be happy to breathe my last in this place if it means I never have to board another Ship. My legs no longer understand how to behave on land; the Earth often seems to drop beneath my feet and I find myself gripping the nearest fence post.

  * * *

  May 21st

  We have been granted the use of two horses and a cart as well as a cottage. This last week E & I have been busy unpacking and planting a small garden, though the dirt seems poor. The Bird has settled into a tree out the front and is quite domesticated—he eats worms from my hand if I allow it. Mrs H quickly discovered our whereabouts. She and her husband have been allotted land some three miles to the South.

  * * *

  June 7th

  The Society Expedition has been granted generous funds and the Board is keen to send a Party on its way. A contingent party, E included, has already begun training and preparations. It will be several weeks, however, before everything is finalised. There is still much to be procured and organised in the way of Provisions, Instruments and Animals etc.

  * * *

  August 31st

  It was a spectacular send off for the expedition in the Square yesterday. The Party itself—all of which was present, including a sizeable flock of sheep, a dozen or more bullocks, horses, camels and dogs, and a dray, a light cart, the boat and boat carriage—extended all the way around the Square. The 12 men carry an impressive amount of equipment, foodstuffs and other effects, and have at their disposal a large box of instruments from England: sextants, prismatic compasses, false horizons and a barometer.

  * * *

  The weather started out pleasant, the atmosphere festive. (Dear Mrs H found me immediately and made a display of her close connection to this most important Historic Event.) The President of the Society soon brought a serious tone to the proceedings, however, outlining the dangers of the endeavour, and honouring those who have set out on such Journeys and never returned—including the now famous German. During this most sobering Speech I chanced a look over at E only to see him fiddling with his Breech-loader—I could not help but remember how many times he lost his way when returning to our Berth on the ship—but the Society men assure me of the thoroughness of their training and preparations, and they are taking an altogether different route to that of the ill-fated German. Next, there spoke a man from the Camel Carrying Co Ltd whose beasts stood snorting impatiently under the heavy loads on their backs. Last spoke Captain X, the Expedition Leader—of his conviction in the existence of an inland sea and his hope that the party would be the first to wet their feet in it, the first, in fact, to stand upon the exact centre of the interior. He spoke fondly of each of the men in his party and promised to do all within his power to return them to their wives and families. Captain X was then presented with a silken Union, hand stitched by Gov H’s daughter and her friends. Lastly, the Chaplain read Prayers.

  Unfortunately, towards the end of the speeches, the sky clouded over and poured with rain. People rushed here and there seeking cover. The explorers received a thorough soaking, and, it must be said, appeared a little ill-prepared, at least to me. For all their fancy gadgetry, they had not one umbrella among them, so were obliged to start hauling tarpaulins over their loads. The animals became restless, while the Governor’s speech was almost inaudible. The formalities continued regardless, but before Captain X could finish his speech one of the camels broke free and charged into the crowd causing quite a commotion. Mrs H nearly deafened me with screaming as she made a dash for the fountain and leapt in. Mercifully, the offending beast was soon restrained and reinstated in its proper place.

  At last the Party went on its way, to much handker­chief waving, applause and cheering. The rain eventually cleared. Sad to say, the procession was hardly out of sight before the dray lost a wheel and tipped over, spilling boxes onto the road. Thank fully, by this time, the crowd had mostly dispersed, sparing the men further embarrassment. They were soon on their way again, one can only hope in the right direction! Back at the Square, only the most enthusiastic well-wishers remained, together with the sodden Mrs H, who was still clinging to the fountain.

  12

  MY FATHER had three souvenirs to show for his rifle-shooting days: a trophy from the University Rifle Association, a .22 he kept on top of his wardrobe, and an almost-complete loss of hearing in his right ear.

  My mother usually sat on his left side, sometimes cupping her hands around his ear and speaking directly into it. When introducing my father to someone, she would say, This one’s half deaf. Then, pulling me forward by an arm, And this one’s half blind.

  Family outings to the September Show were spent almost entirely at the shooting galleries. My parents looked at me baffled when, after an hour or two of aiming and firing pellets, I expressed a desire to see some other attraction—the goats in the livestock pavilion, the sheepdog trials in the arena, or the wood-chopping competition. I liked to watch men with axes.

  You go, if you like, my mother would say, giving me a few dollars, but don’t eat anything with meat in it and watch out for paedophiles. You know where to find us when you’ve had enough.

  My mother did not like the rides, she said, because she did not like being a passenger. And the rides were unsafe, she told us: most of the carnies who ran them snorted speed and they never did any mechanical maintenance.

  Every year as we went through the show gates she reminded us that in 1969 a fire on the ghost train had killed ten people; in 1970 a carriage on the mad mouse had flown off its tracks; and in 1972 a cage had fallen off the Ferris wheel killing the two adults and two children inside as well as the balloon-man standing underneath. She did not trust the food vendors either. Every year, my mother said, at least one person died of salmonella poisoning after eating a Dagwood dog or a Chiko roll. Even the benign-looking displays of handicrafts and baking goods entries in the exhibition pavilion
appalled her. Like my home-economics subject at school, these were part of a patriarchal plot to valorise domestic slavery and instil a submissive competitiveness among women.

  It was the shooting galleries we came for, to take aim at traditional round targets or rows of tin rabbits and ducks that moved on conveyer belts across the backs of the stalls. The rifle barrels were always cockeyed, making it impossible to shoot straight but, even so, Leda and my father rarely missed a shot—my father firing in a steady rhythm, my mother with sniper-like concentration, whispering some sort of incantation as she pulled the trigger. As for Kingston, whatever he lacked in precision he made up for with enthusiasm, using up all his pellets in ten seconds flat. One by one the ducks and rabbits fell backwards and the bullseyes were reduced to confetti.

  The prizes were kept in adjoining stalls so they didn’t end up full of plugs. My mother never left a stall until she’d won the biggest, most garish prize on offer. Without fail, we went home with a carful of giant-sized, fluorescent-coloured, polystyrene-stuffed velveteen toys: birds, dinosaurs, lions, hamburgers with googly eyes.

  Occasionally, my father took my brother and me on excursions to a rifle range in the hills where we would shoot at rusted tin cans on tree stumps. Each time, he would impress upon us how important it was to check that the rifle’s chamber was empty of cartridges before putting it back in the car, and how we were never to point a firearm at another person, even if it was not loaded.

  When it came to weaponry, however, nobody came close to Gary Gore and his wife. If Leda supposed the town was full of dullards, she could rest assured that Mr and Mrs Gore were not among them.