The Fear in Yesterday's Rings

by George C. Chesbro

  “It’s a long story, Frederickson,” he said carefully. “I wouldn’t want to bore you.”

  “Oh, I’m sure I’d be interested. Where did you people come from, and why is it nobody seems interested in moving on to the bigger arena shows?”

  Mabel finished her pirouette and started back around the sawdust track.

  “Ho!” Luther barked, reaching over my right shoulder and rapping Mabel smartly on the top of the head with the blunt end of his mahout stick.

  Mabel stopped dead in her tracks.

  “Back!” Luther commanded, rapping her two more times. “Ho! Back!”

  Mabel stayed where she was. Luther waited a few seconds, then rapped her twice again, this time harder.

  “Back, Mabel! Ho! Back!”

  Mabel still didn’t move. The crowd began laughing again, hooting at the trainer and the dwarf atop the recalcitrant elephant. Luther reversed the stick in his hand, used the steel hook at the end to goad her as he repeated his command for her to reverse direction. There was still no response from Mabel. The crowd began to laugh even louder. They were loving this unexpected clown act.

  I again glanced back at Luther, who now looked a good deal more surprised and frustrated than amused. I said, “I used to use a baseball bat on her; Louisville Slugger, Henry Aaron model. You wouldn’t happen to have a baseball bat tucked away up here, would you?”

  “No, Frederickson,” Luther said somewhat tersely, “I don’t have a baseball bat. If I’d known Mabel was going to arrange to have you join me up here, I’d certainly have brought one.”

  “Mabel was always such a prima donna, as I know you’ve discovered. She likes the crowd response, and she doesn’t want to give up the limelight.”

  Luther shook his head. “That’s not it. It isn’t the crowd, it’s you. She wants to finish out the act with you, to show you what she can do.”

  “The act isn’t finished?”

  “No. I told you: I was going to take her back and let you off before we continued.”

  “Well, Luther, what the hell? I’m already up here, so why don’t we all just go ahead and do whatever else it is you do so that we can keep Mabel happy?” The fact of the matter was that I was thoroughly enjoying myself in this, my first return to my circus alma mater. I was enjoying the limelight. It was exhilarating to be riding this great beast, and I wanted to prolong the experience for as long as possible.

  Luther, an enigmatic smile on his face, didn’t answer right away. Finally, he said, “I thought you might prefer to get off.”

  “Nah. I’m fine, Luther. Go ahead and finish the act.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Hey, it’s not as if this is the first time I’ve ever ridden an elephant. Let her rip.”

  “As you wish,” Luther said, and then prodded Mabel behind the left ear with the hooked end of the mahout stick. “Go, Mabel! Ha!”

  Mabel went; she reacted immediately, heading up the track at a good pace to the accompanying cheers, laughter, and applause of the crowd. She started to make the turn around the caged-in ring, abruptly stopped in front of the huge, steel double doors. Luther reached over my shoulder and used the hooked end of his stick to release the safety latch on top of one of the gates. He pushed with the stick, and the portal swung inward. Mabel moved forward.

  I was beginning to have serious second thoughts about my casual decision to stay aboard Mabel for this particular ride.

  Mabel turned sideways in the relatively narrow corridor, and this enabled Luther to lean back, hook the top of the open gate, and pull it shut. Mabel moved again, and Luther opened the inner gate, which automatically closed behind us as Mabel, without any prompting, stepped smartly into the enormous cage. Two tigers bounded out of the tunnel and began to race around Mabel, through her legs. The third tiger joined them, and all three bounded to their leather-padded pedestals where they sat and—I was convinced—proceeded to eye me hungrily.

  Mabel, unbidden, curled her trunk upward, as if inviting me now to get off. I wasn’t going anywhere.

  “Take this,” Luther said, handing me his mahout stick as he stepped around me and settled into the muscled cradle formed by Mabel’s trunk. “If any of the cats comes at you, poke it with this. Otherwise, my advice is to remain very still and try not to show that you’re afraid.”

  Right.

  Mabel lowered Luther smoothly to the ground, where he stepped out of the trunk’s cradle and went immediately into his routine, again using only hand and voice signals. The tigers leaped off their perches and began a slow lope around the stolid Mabel, gradually speeding up their pace, occasionally darting under her belly, snaking in a figure-eight pattern through her legs. I thought the tigers seemed skittish, which would have been understandable under the circumstances, and I was certain I now knew exactly how Custer had felt at Little Big Horn. A new element—me—had been unexpectedly introduced into their routine, and they did not know what it meant, were not sure what was expected of them. Tigers not sure of what is expected of them are liable to do what comes naturally—defend their turf, tear and bite at that which is unfamiliar.

  Animals aren’t people, and nobody who’s survived working with big cats, bears, or elephants ever makes the mistake of anthropomorphizing his or her charges. The beast may curb its natural instincts for a time out of love for, or fear of, a human, but instinct always threatens to take over, and death can be just a sweep of a claw, a snap of armored jaws, away. You change routine at your own peril, and Luther certainly knew that; by allowing Mabel to carry me into the cage with him, he was not only putting my life at risk but greatly increasing the threat to his own. It was quite a shared experience, and I had mixed emotions about it.

  I turned around so that I was looking out over Mabel’s broad back. I braced the mahout stick across my knees, gripped it firmly with both hands, took a deep breath, and waited to see what would happen next.

  Each tiger took a turn leaping up off a pedestal onto Mabel’s back, which was protected by a thick leather pad. Each tiger spent a few seconds that felt like hours glaring balefully at me and growling; I held the hooked end of the mahout stick out in front of me and growled back.

  The crowd loved it.

  The most dangerous moment came during the finale, with all three tigers gathered on Mabel’s back, the closest only a yard or so away from me—close enough for me to smell her, close enough for her to remove my smeller along with the rest of my head, if she were so inclined. We studied each other for a few moments, but then, at Luther’s command, she reared up on her haunches and pawed the air along with the two others.

  Once, in a rare moment when my rough, lofty perch was tiger-free, I took my eyes off the animals long enough to glance at Harper. She was watching me intently. I managed a grin and a weak salute, but she didn’t smile back. Grim-faced and ashen, she obviously didn’t find anything about the situation amusing, and she was right. She knew her animals, knew that by introducing an unusual element into the routine Luther was playing a dangerous game—dangerous not only for Luther and me but also for the extremely valuable piece of livestock that a nurtured-from-birth, carefully trained Bengal tiger represented; I had no place to retreat, and if one of the magnificent beasts lunged at me, I would have no choice but to poke at its eyes or throat, looking to kill or maim.

  But then Luther signaled for the tigers to leap off, and they did—with only a parting, perhaps regretful glance in my direction. They raced in line to the tunnel, with Luther standing at the tunnel’s mouth and whacking each animal affectionately on the flank as it passed inside. Then he slowly walked back to Mabel, stepped into the trunk’s cradle she offered, and rode regally back up to the top of her head as he waved triumphantly to the appreciative crowd.

  “It’s true what I’ve heard about you, Frederickson,” Luther said easily as he settled down behind me, and Mabel, satisfied now, strutted once around the ring, then exited through the double gates, which were being held open for us by two women in skimp
y, spangled costumes that included plumed headdresses. “You have courage.”

  “You too, Luther. That stunt was even riskier for you than it was for me.”

  “True, but I’m getting paid to take risks. May I ask you to join me in my trailer for some schnapps?”

  “I have a lady friend with me.”

  “I know. I’ll have her brought to us.”

  “In that case, I’ll be happy to join you. And you can make that a triple schnapps.”

  Chapter Six

  “I must ask you a question, Frederickson,” Luther said as he sipped at his glass of chilled, pear-flavored brandy. His blue eyes revealed nothing as he stared at me over the rim of his expensive crystal snifter. “Are you here on the behalf of a … government agency?”

  I glanced at Harper, who was sitting next to me on a banquette in the kitchen area of Luther’s small but nicely appointed trailer. Luther, swathed now in a thick terry-cloth robe and with a Turkish towel around his neck, was seated across from us, his elbows on the Formica-topped table. Harper had arrived moments after Luther and me, escorted by the Abraham Lincoln look-alike; Luther and the ticket taker had exchanged glances, but not spoken to each other. Now Harper met my gaze, but merely raised one eyebrow as she sipped at her brandy.

  “No,” I replied, turning back to Luther. “Why do you ask?”

  “The purpose of your visit isn’t in your capacity as a private investigator?” he asked in a flat tone. “You haven’t been hired to, as you Americans say, ‘check us out’?”

  “You people had us followed out on the grounds, didn’t you?”

  Luther sighed, picked up the cut-glass decanter beside him, and refilled our glasses. “I will be frank with you,” he said in a low voice. “In any case, there is no way I can keep you from discovering the truth, if that’s why you’re here. If your visit is innocent … Well, you’re both circus people, and I think you can be trusted. There is a good reason for the way World Circus operates, with no headliners and a minimum of publicity despite the fact that—as you pointed out, Frederickson—our performers are exceptional. There is a good reason why we do not choose to go elsewhere.”

  “Which is?”

  “There is no place else to go. You see, Frederickson, every performer you saw tonight, every usher, clown, and roustabout, is in this country illegally.” He paused, as if waiting for me to say something. When I didn’t, he pushed his glass away from him, leaned back on the banquette, and folded his arms across his chest. “So there you have it. If you’re here investigating an individual, or the circus itself, I’ve just given you information that can be used against us. Yes, you were recognized on the midway, and yes, we had you followed. You see, you make all of us very nervous.”

  “Luther,” I said, shaking my head, “the INS doesn’t use private investigators. I’m not here to check up on anyone.”

  “I’m relieved to hear that.”

  “What the hell is this, some kind of sanctuary movement for circus performers?”

  “Precisely—if I understand correctly what you mean by ‘sanctuary movement.’ There is a great circus tradition in Russia and the Eastern European countries, as I’m sure the two of you are well aware. Much has changed in that part of the world, but some traditions remain. The famed Moscow Circus, perhaps the foremost collection of circus talent in the world, is still, in fact, made up of the finest acts which have been culled from small, regional circuses in the Eastern bloc countries. Those small, regional circuses are where all of us come from, and that’s why you’ve never heard of us before. You may also know that it is a great honor to be selected as a performer in one of those circuses—and, of course, the government in each country still provides the best circus performers with certain privileges and a life-style not accessible to the average citizen. Circus performers are considered artists in the countries we come from, and all of the hundreds of regional circuses are subsidized by their respective governments. I am from what used to be East Germany. Some years ago, before all the changes and when I was much younger, I was invited to perform with the Moscow Circus. I refused the invitation.”

  “Why?” Harper asked.

  “Because I hate the Russian people in particular, and the communist system in general,” he said simply. “I could not allow my talents to be exploited and used as propaganda for a people and form of government I loathe.”

  Harper took another sip of her brandy, studied Luther’s sculpted, hard-featured face. “I would think that at the time refusing an invitation like that could be risky,” she said evenly.

  Luther smiled thinly, nodded. “I was fired from my own circus and sent out to the countryside to work on a collective farm. It was eight years before I was allowed to return to my work with animals—and only then after I had submitted to a formal political rehabilitation program. Then I was given the opportunity to escape to this country, and I took it. It was because of this circus that I had that opportunity.”

  I said, “World Circus has only been in existence a little more than two years. As you mentioned, much has changed in that part of the world.”

  “All of us left before the changes. In any case, walking across a border there is not the same as coming here, to America, which is where all of us want to be. You see, Frederickson, World Circus is, indeed, a sanctuary for circus performers and their families who have fled to the greatest free country of all. Now we want to stay here. Unfortunately, the vagaries of various immigration laws being what they are, none of us has had the luxury of being able to go through normal procedures to acquire proper documentation. If we had even applied for exit permits in our own countries at that time, none of us would now even have the luxury of freedom.”

  I asked, “Who actually owns World Circus, Luther?”

  “I’m not at liberty to tell you that, Frederickson. It’s not that I don’t trust you—I obviously do, or I wouldn’t have admitted that all the personnel of this circus are illegal aliens. I simply feel I don’t have the right to give you the names of the individuals and organizations that banded together to buy and fund this circus, and to provide the finances and logistics necessary to help us escape from our countries and then travel here.”

  “People defected from communist bloc countries all the time, Luther, and they were routinely granted asylum. And things are considerably simpler now.”

  “Not for us, Frederickson. In many ways, the changes in Eastern Europe have complicated our situation here. There is nothing routine about the granting of asylum. You see, as circus performers, we are outsiders; our plight, especially now, would not generate the interest or sympathy of that of a defecting ballerina from the Bolshoi, or a chess grand master, or a scientist. Circus performers are not taken seriously by politicians. If we were not immediately sent back to our countries, we would all probably be put in refugee camps, like the Haitians and Laotians. It could be years before we obtained proper credentials, if we ever obtained them, and by then our careers would be finished. So, you see, it’s just a little thing we have here. We prefer anonymity to the risk of losing our freedom to live here and practice our art. We don’t harm anyone, and we bring pleasure to a great many people. It’s enough for us. The one thing every person associated with this circus shares is a desire to live in the United States, and …” His voice trailed off as he glanced back and forth between Harper and me, and he frowned slightly. “Is something the matter? You both look … disappointed.”

  “Luther,” I said wearily, “the reason Harper and I are here is that we represent a group of people who were hoping to buy this circus; we were hoping that whoever picked it up at auction when Phil Statler went bankrupt would be ready to cash in if he or they could turn a profit. The situation is turning out to be a little more complicated than we thought it would be.”

  “Ah,” Luther said, once again leaning forward on his broad forearms. “And now you understand not only that the circus wouldn’t be for sale but also why. Or I hope you do. It was not purchased for the purpo
se of making a profit, but to provide a refuge for circus performers, workers, and their families Seeing what was then communist oppression. Now it exists to allow us to remain in this country. Were we to lose this, not only would we lose a means to earn a living, but we could be sent to refugee camps or even forced to return to the countries we and our families risked so much to escape from.”

  I said, “Right.”

  Harper said, “Do you mind if we look around?”

  Luther seemed startled by our reaction—or by what he might have considered a lack of it—and by Harper’s request. He swallowed hard, recovered. “I don’t think that would be a good idea, Miss Rhys-Whitney. As I’ve just explained to you, all of the people here have reason to feel skittish about outsiders, and very few of them speak English. I wouldn’t want to make them uneasy, and I wouldn’t want to subject the two of you to any possible hostility.”

  “I understand,” I said, rising and extending my hand across the table. “We certainly don’t want to make anyone nervous, so we’ll be leaving. Thanks for the ride and drink, Luther. And good luck to all of you.”

  “And to both of you.”

  Harper, who seemed surprised by my sudden action, looked at me quizzically for a few moments, then slowly rose and took Luther’s outstretched hand.

  Abraham Lincoln was waiting outside the trailer to take us back the way we had come.

  It can get cold, even in summer, in the Great Plains states when the sun goes down. Knowing this, I had brought along a light poplin jacket, and Harper a sweater, which we’d draped over the backs of our seats. Mabel hadn’t given me much of an opportunity to gather my belongings when she’d decided to include me in her act, and Harper had left her sweater with my jacket on the seats when she’d come back to join Luther and me. By the time we returned, the show was over, the lights in the Big Top dimmed, Harper’s sweater and my jacket gone. Abraham Lincoln apologized profusely and offered to pay for the missing articles of clothing, but we declined.