by Zizou Corder
Charlie had continued to give Maccomo some of the lions’ medicine each day, and the trainer had changed visibly. He was less controlled, less quietly intelligent. Before, he had looked as if nothing in the world would ever worry him; now he was moody and inconsistent. It didn’t make him less frightening.
Maccomo looked at him in the outfit. “Good enough,” he said, and then taking Charlie roughly by the head, he swiftly wrapped something around him, twisting and tucking, and when Charlie stood straight again, he found he was wearing a turban.
“Good,” he said. “In the parade you ride your friend.”
There was silence for a moment.
“I what?” said Charlie, bewildered.
“You ride your friend,” said Maccomo simply.
“What friend?” said Charlie, hoping very much that Maccomo did not mean what he thought he meant.
“Your friend the lion,” said Maccomo. “Him.” He gestured shortly. The young lion stared sleepily ahead, his nose on his paws. He seemed not to notice that he was being gestured at.
“But I . . . I can’t,” stuttered Charlie. “I can’t ride a . . .” When he’d said to Major Tib that he could do a handstand on a lion’s back, he’d been joking, of course. You can’t do things like that. A lion is a wild animal. A creature of strength and dignity who could, and quite possibly would, rip you to shreds and eat you. Just because these lions were in a circus didn’t wipe out their lion instincts.
“I know,” said Maccomo, “what you can do.” His face was as still as stone and his expression blank, but his eyes were twitching.
Charlie’s knees went a little weak.
“I know exactly,” said Maccomo. “I have heard you.”
What had he heard? And had he understood?
“So you say to your friend that you are riding him today,” said Maccomo. “And then you ride him. In the parade. And then for the show, I will tell you later what you are to do.”
“But—” said Charlie. He didn’t know what to say.
Maccomo suddenly moved close to him. “Do you think,” he said, very quietly, “that you are the first ever to have spoken to them? Do you really think some little London boy would be the only person ever in the history of the entire world to have that gift? Why would it be you, little boy? Why? Why?!”
And Charlie knew, suddenly, that Maccomo was jealous; that when he said “Why you?” he was really saying “Why wasn’t it I, Maccomo, who was given this gift?”
Maccomo gave himself a little shake and was calm again. “You will be my translator, little boy. We will make the finest lionshow the world has ever seen. And it starts tonight.” He narrowed his eyes a little. “I did not believe for a while that you had this thing,” he said, “or I would have started work sooner with you. But when I saw you this afternoon, calling to that alleycat by the canal . . . well. Tomorrow—we will come up with something fabulous for tomorrow. Or after tomorrow. I have plans, little Lionboy. We can . . . we can . . . oh—and after the show, you will put the lions to bed. I’m going out.”
His eyes were gleaming, and Charlie knew in that moment that Maccomo had received the message from Mabel. The message not from Mabel. And he knew that whether or not Mabel went to Chez Billy after the show, Maccomo would go, and that was all that Charlie needed.
And with that knowledge, Charlie didn’t care what Maccomo thought. After all, after tomorrow night, they wouldn’t be here.
“Okay,” he said, very quietly.
“So tell him,” said Maccomo with a little smile.
Charlie looked up at him nervously. “What?”
“Any reason why not?”
Charlie was silent. It felt very peculiar, after hiding from Maccomo so long, and hiding the fact that he could speak to cats for so long, to be suddenly ordered to talk in this way.
He couldn’t, just couldn’t, admit his ability to Maccomo. Everything in him shrieked “No!” But he had to do something.
He swallowed, and then he went over to the young lion and spoke, very quietly so that Maccomo would not see or hear him, into the lion’s ear.
Then, “Young lion,” he said, in English.
The young lion did not respond. He didn’t even flicker a whisker.
“Young lion,” Charlie said, “Monsieur Maccomo believes I can talk to you. I don’t know what to do—how to show him it’s a crazy idea. Anyway, he said to tell you I’m supposed to ride you in the parade this evening. I, er . . .”
“Speak Lion, boy!” shouted Maccomo. “Don’t try to make a fool of me!” He was rubbing his temple. Charlie hoped he still had a headache.
“Er, roarrr!” said Charlie. “Meow, roaarrr—I can’t, sir! I don’t know what you want from me!” He tried to look as if he were about to burst into tears.
The young lion yawned, and covered his nose with his paw.
Maccomo was watching them intently.
“And?” he said.
“And what?” said Charlie, trying not to let it sound rude.
“And what did he say?”
“Mr. Maccomo, sir,” said Charlie desperately, “I don’t know what—I can’t talk to lions, sir! Why would I? How could I?”
“You can,” said Maccomo shortly. He fingered his rhinoceros-skin whip. “And you are going to teach me.”
At that moment, Charlie became heartily glad that he was leaving the circus, and realized that he would have no regrets at all.
Of course, the moment Maccomo left the chamber, Charlie and the lions had a great deal to say to one another: on the urgency of their having to leave, on going directly to the station to get the train to Venice, on whether Sergei would reappear before they left, and on the precise plans.
“The people will leave after the show from the gangplank amidship,” said Charlie. “The one opposite the grand staircase. Everybody will be up there, or below, cleaning up. Now, if we come out of this chamber and immediately cut around behind it, we can leave the ship by the stern.”
“How do you suggest we get ashore?” asked the oldest lion. Now that he was back in form, the young lion was far less chatty. The lionesses still just stared and lounged around. Charlie had no idea what was going on in their heads, but he was beginning to suspect that maybe a great deal was, and they just weren’t letting on.
“I’ve been thinking about that,” he said respectfully. “And knowing your great physical skills and circus experience, I was wondering whether . . . whether you would be able to walk the rope that attaches the ship to the quayside. It’s not very far, I checked, and the rope is tight . . .”
The yellow lioness flicked her whiskers.
“You want us to walk the tightrope?” said the oldest lion with a note of amusement in his voice.
“Yes, sir,” said Charlie. “If—if it’s not too . . .” He meant to say something about “if it’s not too undignified,” but it seemed disrespectful even to mention the lions’ dignity.
The oldest lion gave what would from anybody else be a little giggle. “I imagine we can do it,” he said. He looked around at the others. His mane was thicker, his eyes brighter, the black of his lips shinier than before. He was better. The lionesses yawned disdainfully, and the younger lions just raised their elegant lion eyebrows and twitched their whiskers back and then forward again. Walking a little bit of tightrope was not the slightest problem to them.
“Excellent,” said Charlie. “Then, once on the quayside, just follow me down the towpath to the river, across the bridge to the station, and we’ll find the train. It’ll be dark, and late. There’ll be no one on the towpath or by the riverbanks, and it’s hardly lit anyway. The bridge’ll be the risky bit, but again, it should be empty by then . . .”
His heart sank. Look at them! They’re huge! How was he going to get six lions across a bridge in the center of a city without being seen, even in the middle of the night? Yikes! He hoped everybody in Paris would be drunk, or in bed—or at the circus.
“Then at the station, I’ve thought about
that, if we come in on the tracks rather than the platforms, we shouldn’t see anybody, but we’ll still reach the train. If we lose each other, we can make our own way . . . and we’ve got an hour to get over there, before it leaves at half past midnight. Most of the passengers will already be on board, because it opens at ten so they can go to bed early and all that . . .” He ground to a halt.
“And have you booked our seats? Isn’t that what humans do?” said the oldest lion with a smile.
“No, sir,” said Charlie, worried for a moment, before he realized the lion was teasing him. “No, sir,” he said again, smiling, “but I have got a plan for where we’ll travel . . .”
And Charlie and the lions talked, softly, late into the night, finalizing their plans.
The plan was full of pitfalls. Charlie was terrified.
CHAPTER 15
Charlie led the circus parade that evening.
When, at Maccomo’s insistence, he had pretended to try to get on the young lion’s back, the young lion had turned around and swiped at him viciously, leaving a great scratch down the side of his face. It hurt a lot (later the lion had apologized—he hadn’t meant to do it so hard), but it put Maccomo off—for the moment—and that was what mattered.
So instead, clad in red velvet, gold braid, and black boots that shone like polished licorice, Charlie walked beside the lions, who were tethered with heavy, heavy chains to a great metal bar that rolled behind them. Ringboys danced ahead to clear the way, and the rest of the circus gave them plenty of room behind. The crowds gasped and flinched when they saw the six great beasts and the brown boy walking among them.
They led the entire circus along the riverbank past the island with the great cathedral of Notre Dame where the hunchback lived, down the Rue de Rivoli past the Tuilerie Gardens to the Place de la Concorde, down the Champs Elysees to the Arc de Triomphe, and then back again, followed by the zebras and the horses, the Learned Pig pulling the twins in a little chariot, the Hungarian wearing his performing bees as a beard, the dancing girls and the bearded lady, Pirouette and the cowboys and Major Tib on his fancy black stallion, the Lucidi family turning somersaults and cartwheels, and the band in their pale blue suits playing all the show tunes and marches in their repertoire, drums rolling and saxophones parping and glinting in the sun. They all called out and sang and handed out fliers. They were pretty tired when they got back to the ship, but as Major Tib said in his speech when they returned, “Now everybody in Paris knows we’re here, and they’ll come, and they’ll all bring their friends.”
Then, when everyone went to bed, Charlie tried again to go out and check the route to the station—but again Maccomo called him back.
“I’m tense, boy,” he said. “I’ve been throwing up. Massage my neck.” So Charlie had to rub Maccomo’s strong, wiry neck and shoulders.
Everyone was tense. Tomorrow, the Premiere, the Big One, the first night. Excitement and anticipation roiled and coiled around the ship like vines, like smoke. Tomorrow, at last, they’d be doing the Show.
Charlie was tense too. But he knew what he had to do, and that made him calm. And in the meantime, despite everything—Rafi, his parents, Maccomo, the Allergenies, the imminent escape—he was really, really looking forward to seeing the Show.
Because he had never seen the Show before, Charlie was allowed by Major Tib to join the ringboys, who crouched right at the ringside, at the bottom of the aisles, ready to jump up and clear up between acts. Of course when the lions came on, Charlie would have his own work to do, but in the meantime he could just squat down there and watch.
First came the audience. What a crowd! They came rolling down the cobbled ramp from the Place de la Bastille to the quayside, and they were glorious: swanky ladies in big skirts, fat men in white waistcoats with sashes and medals, dangerous-looking fellows in long dark coats and high boots, children and mothers and fathers, skaters and punks, tough-looking big boys in worn leather pants, a gaggle of beautiful young girls carrying balloons and flowers and presents, laughing and obviously celebrating something, red-faced people up from the country, soldiers, a priest. They were of all colors, and spoke all languages: Some Charlie recognized—English and French of course, and some Arabic—but others might have come from Mars. Charlie peered around, looking for a lady who might be a tiger trainer, who even if she wasn’t actually wearing white leather looked as if she might, but no one stood out.
The Imperial Ambassador’s party had taken over the Great Box, and were the grandest and sharpest of all. Major Tib was up there with them, shaking their hands and clicking his heels and kissing the hands of the ladies. With the Calliope creaking away (luckily it was not so noisy inside the ship) and the gabbling of the crowd as they settled into their seats, the smell of the fresh sawdust from the ring, and the gentle glow of the yellow lights shining down, Charlie wished that he had no troubles—that he could just be an excited kid at a circus.
The music from the Calliope was fading now, and the chattering of the crowd faded too. The lights began to dim and a hush fell over the ring, over the ranks of people looking down on it and over the performers waiting beyond the curtains for their moment to come on and dazzle the crowd.
As darkness fell in the big top, there was a long moment of silence. The audience seemed to breathe as one in the dark.
Then a drumroll broke out, loud and bright:Trumdada
dumdada dumdada
DUMDUMDUM
dada
DUM DUM DUM!
At the exact moment that the band broke into a gay gallop, swirling, sweeping spotlights in different colors appeared way up above and cast their rays around the ring, garlands and paper streamers fell from the roof in twirls of color and a troupe of scarlet-and yellow-clad tumblers began to leap and vault from the four entrances of the ring into the center. One by one they hurtled in from different directions, lit by the spotlights, bouncing off their hidden springboards and somersaulting onto the mattresses in the middle. They missed one another by inches, it seemed, then leaped up, bowing and grinning, and ran back into the shadows at the edge of the ring to come bouncing in again. Some beautiful piebald ponies were brought in, and the tumblers bounced right over them, landing safe as cats, arching their bodies and flinging their arms back in delight at their own skill.
As the acrobats took their bows, bending in the middle and dropping their heads to their knees, or doing splits as if they were pieces of rubber, Major Tib came striding into the ring in a bright spotlight of his own, gorgeously costumed in a midnight blue tailcoat with shining gold buttons, white buckskin breeches, and black leather riding boots. He was holding his long elegant whip, and in ringing tones he proclaimed: “Ladies and gentlemen, meine damen und herren, mesdames et messieurs, welcome to Thibaudet’s Royal Floating Circus and Equestrian Philharmonic Academy, the Show of Shows, the Night of Nights: Tonight for your education, your delectation, your temporary perturbation, and your ultimate satisfaction we have the pleasure, the honor, the unparalleled ardor to bring you the show you have all been waiting for . . .”
His honeyed voice was as fine and round as a bell. He told the crowd what acts would appear, and how fabulous they would be, he cracked his whip, he blew his whistle, he threw back his manly shoulders and twirled his dashing mustache, and all the men in the audience rather wished they were a bit more like Major Thibaudet, while all the ladies in the audience rather wished their boyfriends and husbands were. Charlie could see that the ringboys meanwhile were sweeping up the streamers and garlands, and pulling the leapers’ mattresses out of the ring, in the darkness, while from the spotlight Major Tib extolled the magnificence of the show that was about to start.
It began with twelve zebras waltzing in rows of three to a beautiful tune called “Zizu’s Waltz,” their plump little bodies glossy and fat, and their strangely ancient-looking heads adorned with black and white plumes. They bent their striped knees, to-ing and fro-ing, making the prettiest striped black-and-white patterns as they crossed and
recrossed one another. Then the lighting changed color, which changed the color of their white stripes, and they made pink patterns, then blue, then green, and then a mist slid out over the ring from the dry ice machines, and the zebras arranged themselves in a circle, all facing inward, bowed to one another, and carefully lay down as the mist rose up to cover them, for all the world as if they were going to sleep, and the beautiful sad tune was taken up by a lonely saxophone.
The lights turned to the inside of the great striped roof of the big top. Snow was falling from the roof—but going up too—swirling—only it wasn’t snow, the flakes were too big: It was fluttering doves, all different colors. And rose petals. Falling and floating. Everyone gazed, entranced, as the doves and petals swirled and settled around the sleeping zebras.
Not even Charlie had noticed what was going on meanwhile up in the flies: The wireguys had been preparing the next act, which Major Tib came back out to introduce.
“Ladeeeez and gentlemen,” he roared, “tonight, ce soir, here in Paris at Thibaudet’s Royal Floating Circus and Equestrian Philharmonic Academy you are about to witness the wonderful, you are about to experience the exceptional, you are about to be implicated in the impossible, for tonight, mesdames et messieurs, we have with us for your amusement and astoundment the one, the only, the world-famous, unique and irreplaceable Devil of the Air, el Diablo Aero, funambuliste extraordinaire, the man who can live his entire life on a wire as thin as your neckchain, madam”—here he gestured magnificently to a lady in the front row—“and as high as the regard in which the Imperial Ambassador holds his wife”—here he gestured magnificently toward the Great Box, and carried on without taking a breath. “In short, ladeeeeeeeez and gentlemen, without further ado, I give you—el Diablo Aero!”