The Nightingale Circus

by Ioana Visan

  Nicholas raised his eyes from the screen and looked around the quiet coffee shop. Outside the window, a timid sun lit up the Royal Square, failing to bring it any warmth. And, of course, the agent was still there, pacing in the frozen snow and pretending he wasn’t stalking him. The central heating accident had been a mistake. In the absence of solid proof, the authorities couldn’t do much about it, but they kept a close eye on him. Soon, he’d have to move again. After two years of hiding, he was sick of this routine.

  At a table near the window, a young woman ran her fingers through the chin-length, brown hair that framed her heart-shaped face while she spoke quietly in Russian to her companion. Her slender, long limbs moved gracefully as she handled her tea, but the man facing her didn’t seem affected by her beauty. He sat with his arms crossed upon his chest, his frame too big for the chair, and he nodded, concentrating on what she said. He never interrupted her, didn’t ask any questions, and when she paused, obviously waiting for some kind of input, the man scratched the short blond hair on the back of his head, wearing a puzzled look on his face.

  Idiot. Nicholas would have surely found something intelligent to say, but the woman wasn’t talking to him. He came there every morning for the hot coffee and free access to the net, and he hadn’t seen her before, so he was most likely never going to see her again. If she were alone, he might have tried to start a conversation, but since she wasn’t, he forced himself to look away.

  Ads for Czech beer and German wurst rolled on the wide screens plastering the walls. In a corner, close to the tilted ceiling, a group of can-can dancers waved around their pink skirts. He watched them mournfully, thinking about the last trip to Paris and how much time had passed since. The urge to check the Toulouse news channel and search for any mention of his family ate at him, but he kept it under control. Checking the information about Poitiers any day was fine, but Toulouse was not.

  When he looked back, the woman arched an eyebrow at him. Nicholas grinned, not at all embarrassed by being caught staring at women lifting their skirts up.

  The woman fished some coins from her purse, placed them on the table, and without bothering to button up her coat, she started for the door. As she passed by Nicholas’s table, she dropped a narrow piece of paper by his elbow. “If you want to see some real dancing, come here.”

  Before he could say anything, she was out of the door with her companion in tow. Nicholas inspected the flyer on both sides. It turned out to be an ad for The Nightingale Circus that was stationed just outside of town. He remembered seeing jugglers and stilt men walking in the street earlier during the week. There were no announcements on the screens, but the word of mouth seemed to be enough for people to go there every night and then rave about it the following morning. Come for dancing, singing, and wonder! the headline said and listed the main attractions: the Nightingale, the Swan, and the Firebird. Somewhere near the bottom, the aerialist team and the knife throwers were mentioned.

  Nicholas didn’t care for the circus even on a good day, but an idea stirred in the back of his mind. He checked the calendar. Tonight was the last show before the circus left town and wouldn’t return for a year or so. What did he have to lose?

  * * *

  That evening, he went to a poker game for the first time since coming to Warsaw and cleaned the table. The winning hand allowed him to put something aside for the bad days and buy a circus ticket from the black market—not only was it surprisingly expensive, but the show was sold out. Go figure.

  With more money in his pockets than he’d had in months, he dropped his suitcase at the train station and chatted with an employee about the train painted in vibrant colors, waiting at the end of the railway track. When he got the information he needed, he went to see the show.

  All day long, he'd been convincing himself of the necessity of it, even though the prospect filled him with dread. Once he entered the arena, the lights, colors, and action stirred something deep inside, calling to him. The beautiful singing filled his head with thoughts of staying with the circus forever. He shook his head. This isn't right. I don't usually like the circus.

  That singer, The Nightingale, was dangerous, whoever she was. The good news was they didn’t have a telecharger as part of their crew. Nicholas stayed until the intermission to make sure but felt no power shift. He recognized the couple from the coffee shop as the ballerina and the tall aerialist. All of the performers seemed to have prosthetics with various add-ons needed in their line of work, still, that was all there was to it.

  Satisfied with his assessment, Nicholas slipped out of the yellow and blue striped tent before the show ended and returned to the train station. He retrieved his suitcase and dragged it across the railway tracks to the last car of the circus train. The square panel on the door required him to place his palm on it, and he did, although his handprint wasn’t going to be recognized. However, the small surge of electricity he sent scrambled the security system enough for the door to slide open.

  Nicholas tossed his suitcase inside and climbed in. The light switched on automatically, revealing boxes, lots of boxes, and not much else. It could have been worse. He wasn’t sure how, as the temperature was only a few degrees warmer than outside, but he supposed he could have walked into the animals’ car. That would have been quite unfortunate. Shivering, he put on the tailcoat, top hat, and gloves, sat on a box, and waited.

  Half an hour after the show ended, the circus announcer, a heavy man with a green-tinged complexion and dark patches spread over his skin huffed and puffed his way inside. “If this is your way of catching a free ride—”

  “I’m not catching a free ride,” Nicholas said, standing up from his box, though he would have to settle for that if his plan failed. The man had brought no reinforcements, and that said something. He wondered what it meant.

  “What do you want then?”

  “A job. I’m your new magician.”

  The man gave him an up and down look. “We don’t need a magician. The audience these days is too clever for cheap tricks.”

  “Not like my tricks.” Nicholas pressed his hand on an empty spot on the wall, and when he removed it, its outline remained clearly burned in place.

  “Don’t damage my property.”

  Grinning, Nicholas ran his palm over the same spot on the wall. The mark vanished.

  “Hmm.” The circus announcer scratched his chin. “If I’m not mistaken, this is taxing on the body. Are you prepared to do it every night?”

  “Sure. If you feed me well enough…”

  “The food is not an issue … but can you dress it up a little? We don’t want to scare our customers.”

  Nicholas held up his hand, and blue flames enveloped his fingers. An optical illusion, but still impressive.

  The large man wrinkled his nose and sniffed the air, catching him in the lie. “I thought you were a telecharger.”

  “Let’s say I am that, too.”

  “There are other ways to put your abilities to good use. Why run away with the circus?”

  “I’m tired of running and hiding,” Nicholas said.

  “We’re constantly on the move. The circus rarely stays in one place longer than a week.”

  “I need a place where I can rest and feel safe … at least until the war ends. Can you guarantee that?”

  “We protect our people.” The circus announcer nodded. “But I do have some conditions. One. You have to get along with the Nightingale.”

  Nicholas shrugged. “I have no problem with her as long as she doesn’t try to get into my head.”

  “She doesn’t do that to the crew. Two. You must always help protect the Nightingale. This circus is still running because of her.”

  “I can do that. I can also help prevent accidents or…” Or whatever they needed as long as they kept their demands reasonable.

  “That would be nice. We’ve had some over the years. The equipment is failing and … well…” The circus announcer sighed, and his complexion became
slightly greener. “Three. You must never, at any cost, disclose the Nightingale’s identity. This is a deal breaker, and it will get you killed if you slip.”

  “I have yet to run into anyone able to make me speak against my will. Beside the Nightingale, of course.” Nicholas wasn’t sure that was true, but he didn’t want to reveal the full extent of his power.

  “Of course.” The circus announcer smirked. “Any other skills I should know about?”

  “Well, I used to be pretty good at bookkeeping, but we don’t know each other well enough for you to trust me with that.”

  The man let out a throaty laugh. “I like you. All right, you have one week to come up with half a dozen tricks. Talk to Rake and Spinner about any mechanical parts you need. They’ll help.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Okay, let’s go meet the crew before we both freeze. You can leave your luggage in here for now.”

  Nicolas followed him to the door.

  “Oh, and you can call me Big Dino. I’m your new Boss.”

  The Swan

  The air left Anya’s lungs with sounds of wrinkling paper. She lay on a plushy chaise near the wide window, facing the terrace, and waited to die. She’d been doing it for a while, and it was a boring and exhausting activity. Throwing an arm over her eyes, she squeezed the handkerchief in her other hand and wished for a nap during which she wouldn’t feel like she was drowning in her own fluids. No such luck.

  The door opened, and Masha came into the lounge with the medicinal tea, dragging her feet on the marble tiles. She had also assumed the role of a nurse during Anya’s sickness, in addition to her duties as a maid, and she always arrived with the medicine with the precision of an atomic clock.

  Anya tried to ignore the shuffling and the clinking of the china set more fit to be displayed in a museum than put to any use, but arranging everything was taking too long. When the minty scent hit her nostrils, she wrinkled her nose and gave up hiding. The medicine didn’t vanish by itself, and while it didn’t seem to do her any good, it was probably going to last longer than her. She raised her head and stared at the tea set. Two cups?

  “You have a visitor,” Masha said, her hands propped on her large hips. All those dinners that Anya barely touched had to go somewhere.

  “I don’t want to receive any visitors.” Anya waved a long, lithe arm and lowered her feet to the floor. She’d come to St. Petersburg to get out of the public eye, not to parade her decaying body in front of the whole world. Her image as a prima ballerina was the only thing she had left, and she was going to hang onto it. “Tell them to leave.” And not come back.

  “Okay, I will … but it’s Serioja.”

  The cup trembled in Anya’s hand as she straightened herself up. She hadn’t seen Serioja in over two years. Their fling had ended shortly after he’d won the Olympic gold in gymnastics and then got a traumatic brain injury from falling off of the bar during an exhibition gala. She had been away at the time, touring with the Balshoi Theatre ballet company, but nothing had been the same after that. He’d disappeared a few months later, and the rumor was he’d run away with the circus or worse. All lies, for sure.

  “You’re not going to throw me out, are you?” The voice came from the silhouette standing in the doorway, the same tall, muscled frame, short sandy blond hair, blue eyes, and empty expression.

  “Serioja, darling!” Anya put the cup down and outstretched both arms in his direction, her smile sincere. “It’s so good to see you. Come in…” She gestured for him to come in, patting the chaise, not trusting her legs to hold her if she got up.

  “Good, ‘cause I came a long way to see you.” Serioja leaned in to give her a careful hug, as if fearing she might break in his arms.

  God, do I look that bad? Anya suppressed an annoyed grimace. She probably did. She was too pale and too skinny, a walking ad for a funeral home commercial. Holding Serioja’s light gaze, she discreetly pulled on the sleeves of her silk robe to cover the bruises left by the IV needles on her arms. “What are you doing in town? Where have you been? Tell me everything!”

  “I’ve been traveling.” Serioja pushed aside the pillow that Anya had used to keep her feet up, and he settled down.

  Anya offered him a cup of tea before picking up hers. “Where to?”

  Masha gave them one last inquisitive look and left them alone.

  “Oh, I’ve been all over the place,” Serioja said in his slow, soothing voice. “I found a job with a circus … you might have heard.”

  “I did, but I couldn’t believe it. A circus, really?” Anya’s curiosity was piqued. After living secluded in this mausoleum of a house for the past few months, she strived for some juicy gossip. “Oh, I don't know what to ask … tell me everything.”

  “Yes, a circus. It’s called The Nightingale Circus, and it’s in town right now.” He held the cup with both hands but didn’t drink, tea forgotten. “I get to do what I still can, and the people aren’t that bad so…” He raised his shoulders. “It’s far from what we thought our future would be, but it works for me.”

  Of course it did. Unlike Anya, Serioja had never aimed high. If he could do his routines, he was happy. “Well, you’re doing better than me…” She laughed at her own predicament. The laugh brought on the cough, and she had to gulp half a cup to make it stop. When she coughed again, the handkerchief filled with blood, but at least the air was getting into her lungs. “Uh.” She balled the square of flimsy monogrammed fabric in her fist to make the sight of the blood disappear. “Sorry. You were saying?”

  Serioja took both of her hands in his. “Anya, what happened to you?”

  “I’m sure you heard the rumors … I caught a bug while we were with the company in India, but I was too proud to quit the tour and I postponed the treatment.” Her eyes rolled dramatically. “By the time we got back, it was too late. So now I’m waiting for a heart and lung transplant, which won’t happen any time soon since the Russian Federation is in chaos and no one cares about the arts anymore. Why would they? Everything can be solved with prosthetics these days. Soon, they’ll have androids replacing us on the stage, too.”

  Her bitter words made a corner of Serioja’s mouth twitch. “Yes, that’s what I heard,” he murmured, eyes downcast, still holding her hands. When he looked up, his eyes glistened. “That’s why I came. I think I can help…”

  “Other than whacking someone for me, I don’t see how you could do that.”

  “My boss can.”

  “Your boss?” Anya arched an eyebrow. “I thought you worked at the circus, not for an organ trafficking mob.”

  “Big Dino has a side business that deals with designing and repairing prosthetics. Well, repairing mostly since we don’t stay in one town long enough to make new ones…”

  “Prosthetics can’t fix me, Serioja. They can’t replace full organs.” Anya retrieved her hand from his and patted his arm, smiling. “But I appreciate the thought.” Poor darling, his brain had to be totally smashed to make such erroneous assumptions.

  “Sure they can.”

  Anya pulled back with a gasp. “You’re not suggesting that I—”

  Serioja held her gaze with his innocent, placid eyes that once had been full of life. “The only organ they can’t replace is the brain.”

  At the mention of his brain, Anya’s composure broke and she threw her arms around Serioja, holding him tight. “Oh, darling…”

  He returned the hug, supporting her feather-light weight with ease as she leaned on him. “All I’m saying is…” he murmured into her hair, “you should meet with him, see what he has to say.”

  Anya pulled back enough to be able to look into his eyes. “What can he say, Serioja?” She winced at the whining tone of her voice and bit her lip to stop trembling. She didn’t dare hope.

  “He can tell you what’s still left to be done.” Serioja brushed a lock of brown hair away from her cheek with a reminiscence of a distant, familiar gesture. “You only have to listen to him, A
nya, nothing more.”

  But what if the temptation were too strong and she ended up agreeing to whatever outrageous suggestion he had? She didn't want to die, so chances were she’d do it if there were no other option to save herself, but then what? What kind of life was that? Without her dance…

  “—visit here,” Serioja was saying, but she’d missed the rest.

  “What?”

  “I can convince him to come here, so you won’t have to go to the factory.” Serioja squeezed her fragile shoulders. “Believe it or not, Big Dino is a big supporter of the arts … music, dance, painting, everything.”

  “And apparently engineering, too,” Anya added with a smirk.

  “That, too.” Serioja tilted his head. “Mostly that. So, will you see him? There’s nothing for you to lose, only an hour of your time.”

  The little that she had left. And possibly the rest of her hopes, too.

  “I’ll … think about it,” Anya agreed grudgingly. She didn’t want to, but she didn’t have the heart to disappoint him. After all, he had said he came especially for that, and the Serioja she once knew didn’t lie.

  “Okay, but can you do it fast?” Serioja asked. “We won’t be in town for long. And if a procedure is needed, it’s better to have more time to do it properly.”

  “You want me to decide now?” She pushed him away. He should know that she didn't like to be pressured.

  “Do you have anything better to do?”

  Anya glanced at the chaise, the tea, the bloodied handkerchief. “…No?”