Pretty soon, a collection of folks gathered around the campsite, both colored and white, to watch the exotic circus folk set up their town. They started at once, industrious as elves. Clang, bang, whir. Their activity stirred up dust devils. Not that the town folk minded the sounds. Sleep was a distant memory, a myth. Watching the fantastic city being constructed in front of them was the closest thing to a dream they’d get tonight. Everyone in the impromptu crowd grew silent as they watched lumber transform into booths and lumps of fabric become tents.
Townfolk tried to catch glimpse of the star denizens of the enterprise. Was that young, swan-like sylph sipping Grape Nehi an aerialist? That hooded figure, sulking in the doorway, taking a smoke break, surely he was one of the freaks. People claimed they saw a bearded lady, a contortionist, or a wolf-boy. Whoever the circus folk were, they wasn't friendly. They flitted by, not granting the crowd a single glance. A swarthy group of men—Italians or Mexicans, it was hard to tell in the dark—unrolled a fence, right in front of the crowd, effectively blocking the view. That broke the crowd, and back down the dusty roads to their hot little houses they went.
A scream split the air. The Azaleans stopped in their tracks, a sudden chill crawling down their backs. They turned, and heard the awful screech again. Even the damned cicadas paused. The scream wasn’t human. It was fierce, yellow rage, striped with black hate. A low murmur broke out amongst the folk, one of excitement mingled with dread.
The next day dawned yellow and red, like a bloodied yolk. The mercury in the thermometers held its stubborn place. It was too hot to visit the dustbowl site of the circus. Most everyone kept inside. Rumors surfaced here and there. At the General Store, one of the Azalea society doyennes swore that she saw a midget man and his lady down by Magnolia Creek, daintily stepping over the bridge, both in child-sized adult clothing.
A group of colored children, peeking between the slats of the fence, claimed that there were alligators, elephants, monkeys and a couple of vampires.
The pious prayed for the populace’s souls, in churches and revival members’ living rooms.
As the heat of the day ebbed, a group of curiously garbed men marched down Main Street with flyers and posters. They wore ruffled, white pirate shirts, loose purple britches sashed with a black strip of fabric, and shiny black boots. There were seven of them. Two went downtown, two uptown, and two went into the poor section, with its Irish and Negro populations. One stayed on Main Street. He didn’t carry any posters or buckets of glue. He wore a sandwich board, plastered with two posters, front and back. The front poster showed a nimble ingénue, in pink tights and a spangled skirt. She pirouetted on a thin wire above the gasping crowd. A plume of flamingo-pink rose from her quartz tiara, and formed one I in the sign proclaiming her Ariella, The Flamingo Girl. Below the picture came the announcement: See the princess of the high wire, as she dances in a death-defying ballet, where Balance is Supreme, and Gravity is a Nemesis!
The back poster featured a shirtless blue-black African brute, his muscles straining, and sweat pouring down their architecture in glimmering rivers. His flared pants were shocking white against his dark skin. With his bare hands, he held two snarling tigers at bay; his thick, superhuman hands throttled their gold and black necks. One tiger raked his chest. Bright blood showed in the gashes. And, yet from the picture, you did not know who was more savage. The bestial look on the black man’s face rivaled the open-mouthed wildness of the tigers. In a half moon about the scene, were the words, See Sambo and His Tigers! Underneath, in the red letters of boys’ adventure novels: From the Heart of Darkest Africa, comes a Master of the Beast. This Sambo turns Ferocious, Man-Eating Tigers into Kittens!
The two in the hoity-toity section of Wisteria Heights were successful, if only because their pasted lurid posters incurred the immediate wrath of the residents. A procession of grande dames and their hapless husbands descended on the carnies, explaining that they had to go through Mayor’s office to get permits to hang signs. Not that it would matter; Wisteria Heights, with its ivy-clad manses, was a historical area, governed by abstruse standards and protocols. The carnies assiduously ignored them.
The unofficially named Clovertown welcomed the carnies with open arms. Cold beer, soda bread and cigarettes were offered to the men, as they affixed the posters to poles and the sides of businesses with as much sweat as paste. There was something magical about their appearance. It was a break in the monotony of life.
The Negro section of town thought that the carnival signaled a different, sinister kind of magic. The men assigned to poster Darktown were as silent as ghosts. They seemed to be unaware of the gathering group of children following them. It was eerie; a debate sparked amongst the children as to whether or not they were phantoms. Against pool hall and liquor store, gleaming Sambo wrestled his tawny enemies. The nightmarish images inspired mamas, aunts and sundry ladies to disperse the groups of kids and corral them back to home and their chores. The Baptist minister was alerted. He emerged from his home and made a half-hearted attempt at fire-and-brimstone assaults. There was something devilish about the pictures of midgets, nymphets and half-nekkid men. It was wicked entertainment, leading spiritual decay, pleasures of the flesh, lack of ambition, etc. But the heat—and the unresponsiveness of his targets—got to him.
Soon, the entirety of Azalea was postered and leafleted. You’d have to be blind or senile not to know about Fiorelli’s Carnival. By the time Friday rolled around, a line of Azaleans and members of the surrounding towns was waiting at the causeway. Not a few of the folks in the line were denizens of snooty Wisteria Heights—there presumably to mingle with the hoi polloi and report on the invasive crassness.
Once past the ticket gate, a customer was transported into a shimmering citadel of peppermint-colored tents, creaking rides, and dusty lanes, all held together by the luminous web of electricity and neon. Smells assaulted the nose: the buttery sizzle of burnt popcorn, the oil and gasoline reek of the rides, the stench of the unseen animals. No person emerged from the makeshift town unmarked, with dust and the lingering miasma of the perfume of too many bodies crushed against one another. All told, most found that Fiorelli’s Carnival deficient.
For one thing, the sideshow attractions left much to be desired. The Bearded Lady, for instance, simply looked like a man with a dress on. Several people swore they saw the “lady” scratch her balls when no one was looking. A number of the same group claimed to have seen him go for a piss—during which she stood, after hiking up her skirts, and let rip an arcing yellow stream. Upon seeing the mannish, slovenly woman, it was easy to believe.
The midget couple, advertised as Mr. and Mrs. Tiny, were downright rude. When curious children attempted to touch the doll-like Mrs. Tiny, she told the kids to “mind their manners.” One affronted mother expressed her displeasure; to which the pint-sized lady replied, “Keep your grubby children’s paws off me; these frocks were made in Paris—not that a hick like yourself would know the difference.” Certain members of the population found these kinds of antics to be highly amusing. Kids and adults loved to heckle the pristinely dressed Mrs. Tiny, working her up into a frothy rage. Beribboned and pearled in confections of crinoline, lace and taffeta, she resembled a rabid poodle when her ire was raised. Mr. Tiny, for his part, would act like the classic henpecked husband, attempting to soothe his spitfire wife. Embarrassment was writ large on his diminutive face.
The fat man—who, at 500 lbs was 45 lbs lighter than another Azalean—looked supreme in his boredom. The fire-eater burned himself severely, and was out of commission by Saturday.
The only redeeming feature of Mr. Fiorelli’s debacle was the big top show, which began with an explosion of confetti from one of the cannons—out of which a clown tumbled acrobatically. The flat-footed entertainer was immediately joined by a clown troupe of graceful harlequins to bewhiskered hobo types. They scattered around the bleachers, finding targets in children and willing adults. Mock fights would break out on the floor, with fl
ying pies and seltzer water bottles. Meanwhile, flowers and eggs would emerge from audience members’ ears and underneath hats. Some clowns were a bit more ribald. One sneezed quarters; another one pretended to have problems with gas. An unlucky victim would be showered with flower petals after a honking noise was made. A sharp, military whistle stopped the assault on the audience. The clowns assembled in an orderly line. Two more shrieks of the whistle, and the clown from the left knelt down as the clown to his right climbed atop his shoulders. Much hilarity ensued when a short clown struggled to balance on his gigantic brethren. Further whistles caused even more outlandish formations, with mishaps. The final formation was a requisite pyramid, which, to the squealing delight of the children, collapsed quite spectacularly.
Darkness fell like a curtain. A single spotlight pierced the dark, revealing an elegantly attired man in a top hat, tuxedo and tails. “Ladies and gentleman,” he intoned through his red megaphone, “no introduction is needed for Ariella, our glorious flamingo-girl. You will have heard, no doubt, that we found her as a babe, in one of the tropical isles of the Caribbean. Someone had left such a precious babe in a nest; she was raised by a flamingo, and her brothers and sisters taught her secret of balancing, if not of flight. I, Fiorelli, rescued her from her avian youth, taught her language and manners. But she still retains memory of life among the flamingoes. Behold!”
(This spiel was listened to with uncomfortable patience during most nights; both nights reserved for colored audiences, someone would interrupt the solemn Mr. Fiorelli. One night, a person yelled out, “Did she hatch from an egg?” which elicited howls of laughter).
The spotlight on the floor would fade which would be replaced by a blue beam, trained on the high wire. Ariella, garbed like a ballerina, would be in flamingo stance: resting on one leg, the other folded up neat as an umbrella underneath her skirt. An amplified Victrola would start up with some piano arpeggios, blue became white lights and Ariella would unfold like a hot pink flower. She ran the length of the wire the size of a thread. The rest of her routine had her doing similarly death-defying feats, dancing on the razor’s edge of clumsiness. She’d skip, walk on tippy-toes, and tumble, all without breaking a sweat. It was surmised that there must be some harness underneath her vestments. At the performance’s end, she leapt off her roost, and plunged into a safety net, in an explosion of magenta plumage. Wild applause thundered beneath her. After a brief mime-show interlude, the Flamingo Girl would reprise her role, this time as a mistress of the trapeze. A troupe of surly Russians flung her through the air like an exotic scarf. Her porcelain face was frozen in a permanent grin as she sailed above the populace of Azalea. They felt kinship with her, even if she was a bit of a fraud. After all, she was dressed in the same color as the town’s namesake flower. (Not all Azaleans were so generous, though. One of the hecklers from the colored nights remarked that she was unaware of “a whole lotta Slavic-lookin’ folks in the Caribbean,” that it was news to her.)
After this portion of the show ended, all lights extinguished. The lone beam burned down on Mr. Fiorelli. The Victrola played a low tattoo of drumbeats, as the ringmaster began his recitation.
“The Dark Continent is a place of unparalleled savagery and ferocity. It is a land of mystery and splendor, full of dangers, strange people, and truly fearsome creatures. The gigantic giraffe, the monstrous rhinoceros. Snakes the size of trees, and the noble lion. None of these beasts is as terrible as the man-eating tiger!” Out in the darkness, a whip cracked. In response, a hot-yellow roar emerged from somewhere. The folks in the front row jumped. “I heard of a tamer of tigers, deep in the wilds, during one of my visits to Africa’s shores. I simply had to see this for myself. So I went into the heart of the jungle, on a quest to see this legendary man.
“It took many days, through perils you can only imagine. Past pits of quicksand, and caves of vampire bats, and nests of vipers. Past the land of the mighty gorilla!” (Fiorelli paused every now and then, expecting gasps of awe. Sometimes, he was obliged). “Finally, I reached a small village of savages in the middle of the jungle, men with bones in their hair, their ladies as naked as the day they were born. This tribe had a special meal they liked to prepare—a real delicacy. During certain times of the year, they would eat human flesh!
“As you can imagine, I was more than a little nervous. I am sure that they had never had Italian—ha ha! Anyway, this tribe regards tigers as sacred. And they had a young gentleman, who you are about to meet, who was friend and lord of the sharp-clawed fiends. (A heckler pointed out, “Tigers don’t live in Africa!”).
“Needless to say, I was quite impressed. I convinced Sambo here—his real name is some unpronounceable African one—to join us. Ladies and gentleman—prepare to be amazed!”
The drum tattoo reached a crescendo before suddenly stopping. The spotlight trained on Fiorelli turned off. Slow as a veldt sunrise, lights revealed a cage in the center of the floor, filled with two large black and gold tigers, and one that was pale as a ghost, even as he was striped like the rest of them. The beasts rested raised on cushions. In their midst, as imposing as the creatures themselves, prowled a gigantic black man.
But “black” did not describe him. Basalt, onyx, or sable—these words did him more justice. His skin was smooth as satin, and glowed with a purple luster. It was bright black, if such a thing could be said to exist. As depicted in the posters, he was shirtless. His chest glistened in the hot spotlights, even reflected them. He wore purple pantaloons that ended just about his shins; the ruched legs were ringed in silver. Sambo’s face was harsh angles and planes, his eyes were wide and almond-shaped, his nose flat, the nostrils flared. He was the embodiment of all that was known—and unknown—about the Dark Continent.
The audiences gasped and held in their collective breaths. Just as air was about to be drawn into deprived lungs, the giant—for he was at least 6 foot 7 if an inch—stopped his restless prowling. He faced his captives, fixing them with an unswerving stare. He shouted a single word, in an alien tongue. His three wards raised themselves in this order: orange, white, orange. On their cushions they stood, stretched, and emitted hot, cindery growls.
The sides of chairs were gripped.
Without a moment’s pause, Sambo clapped his hands, and the beasts leapt from their perches, landing on the circus floor with thuds that people in the bleachers felt. They circled him, with snarling faces. Sambo stood in their midst, statuesque, oblivious. It was like a grotesque merry-go-round, graceful monsters encircling a living sculpture.
Another shout halted this activity. They bowed, the tigers, their heads down, a paw extended out. At another word, the tigers withdrew their paws and raised themselves on their hind legs. They proceeded to spin around in lazy circles. Sambo placed his arm around the “waist” of the upright white tiger, which rested one paw on his shoulder. They danced a minuet for a minute. This silly spectacle relaxed the crowd; hands tentatively let go of each other and chair sides. Giggles, titters and laughs escaped.
At that point, Sambo uttered a word. The tigers dropped to their fours, and growled again. Soda pop sloshed, popcorn buckets jumped at this sudden change of behavior. At another command, they stood on their front paws, and held absurd poses for a moment before dropping on fours again. Sambo snapped his fingers, and the tigers scattered to three corners of the cage, and flashed their razor-sharp claws for all to see. While they did that, the man lay down on ground. A two-syllable word was uttered, and they spun on their heels, and commenced to acrobatically jump over the man. 600 lbs of jet and orange (or albino) fur flew over him in lethal sequences. Their wild scent stained the air. Excitement grew in the hearts of the crowd. The giant black man had supreme control over these animals. Words or gestures caused shocking actions. They purred like kittens or swatted each other in mock fights. At one point, he had them wearing church hats, complete with gauzy veils and flowers. At another point, they leapt in the air, catching and devouring the bloody chunks of meat he flung in the a
ir.
At the end of the performance, both Sambo and his beasts stood up for a bow. This bought the audience to its feet.
Sambo looked up at his audience, and with the first grin of the evening—revealing unnaturally white teeth—he ran and opened the door to the cage.
He ran to the front, and with a flourish, announced his name: “Sambo!” But the way he pronounced it was unexpected. It came out sounding French. Like flambeaux.
Catch A T(n)ig(g)er…
Heat, particularly Southern heat, weights on the psyche like a heavy blanket. Sleep and stillness are the best remedies, for most.
But to Simba, the heat was a living thing. The cinder smell, the slipping past of hidden life, the whispering breezes, they all awoke within him memories of the jungle, dripping with bugs like jewels, the raucous squawk of flaming parrots, the chattering of the monkeys, all played before him in phantasmal splendor. He became restless, the hunting instinct alive in his flesh. The other beasts in his cage were born captive; he alone had once prowled the pulsing Indian night, before men came with nets and chains. Tonight, the dream jungle called to him.
He stood up, alerting his sleeping kin in the adjacent cages, who lazily acknowledged him with cinnamon glares. He shook himself, and padded over to the soiled side of the cage, and relieved himself. He snuffed the air, peered into the violet-tinged dark all of his kind perceived. And Simba sensed an anomaly. The door to the cage, normally tightly shut and padlocked, was not right. Metal did not rest comfortably against metal, as it usually did. Instead, there was a warp, yawning curve. The padlock was there, but it hung there uselessly, as did the flaccid silver snake of chain.
Simba padded over to the lopsided door, and investigated the area with sniffs and whisker-measuring. He walked back and forth several times, testing, exploring. After all, there could be a trap, a trick. Genes for caution pushed against the genes of adventure. He pushed his head through the gap, and found that it fit. He pushed it out of the gap, and the door snapped shut—and then slowly, swung slightly ajar. Simba coiled his strength, and forced his head through again, this time with force, and felt the give. The metalsnake protested, but not too loudly. Simba pushed again, and felt a groan through the bars. His kin stood up, and gave questioning sub-vocalizations. He answered with a push and growl that left his body half in and half out of the cage.
Sea Swallow Me and Other Stories Page 18