Circus of the Grand Design (15 page)

The sun was setting behind him. He would need to go down soon—didn't want to risk a twisted ankle walking down the hill in the dark. Not back to the train though. He set off for the town.

The streets in the harbor area seemed designed for pedestrian traffic only, no cars or busses anywhere. The largest building was maybe a dozen stories high and shaped like a pyramid. Its exterior had a dull finish, like stone, but translucent. Through the walls he could see lights and the shapes of furniture. Music, the sounds of a fiddle and mandolin, came from a building that jutted out over the water. He came to a steep, winding street that ended at the bay. The buildings along the street looked older; a few were brick, the rest stucco painted with bright colors.

Lewis sat on a stone bench. A young couple ambled by holding hands. They weren't speaking English either.

The moon emerged, first as a glow, then the fat and full disk rose before him. He stared at it until he thought it would absorb him. So much larger and brighter than he remembered. He gripped the edge of the bench to keep from falling toward it. A filament of cloud swept across the face, and high above the buildings nighthawks darted in and out. A breeze from the west stirred his hair; he breathed a scent of sea mixed with pine and closed his eyes.

~

"...Oblong Henry is always tossing some kind of party," a woman's voice said.

Lewis looked down from the moon, reluctantly withdrawing himself from its magnificence. Two people passed, a woman with stick-like arms and a heavy man with red-hair and a wild beard. They both carried musical instrument cases. A short, dark-haired woman followed a few steps behind them, pulling a wheeled instrument case that was larger than she was.

Attracted by the sound of English, Lewis shadowed them up the hill, walking slowly to avoid catching up. At the summit, where a side street turned along the crest of a ridge, the two in front paused, allowing the third to reach them before they continued along the side street. Lewis turned also. Far ahead the ocean stretched, a band of darkness distinct from the night sky. The trio stopped, and Lewis bumped into the short woman's instrument case. He mumbled an apology and crossed the street to look at a small church made of yellowy limestone. It looked ancient; ocean winds had worn furrows in its walls. Carvings of intertwined snakes surrounded the windows, and one of the stones under the eaves was carved into a woman's face. It was a darker stone than the rest, a style unlike the other carvings, perhaps reused from a previous construction. The woman's sad smile drew him.

But the trio had meanwhile turned up the driveway of a stone house opposite. Lewis crossed the street. A tree-like rosemary grew beside the driveway. He rubbed his hands over one of the lower branches and smelled them. So nice—he broke off a long piece and tucked it into his waist, under his shirt. It tickled when he moved.

The downward-sloping path gave way after a few feet to a short flight of steps leading to a patio at the rear of the house. Because of the steepness of the hill, the house had a lower floor in the rear. Beyond the patio was a garden and beyond that, the hillside dropped to the water. Forty or so people were scattered around the patio, garden, and house. He had become so accustomed to the circus people that the party felt tame. No yelling, juggling, no one running on their hands. He walked to the back of the garden and looked down at the harbor. Even with the full moon's buttery light, the train was too distant to see.

When he returned to the patio, the musicians were talking to a short man with sloping shoulders. The sleeves of his baggy shirt hung over his elbows. Floyd Perry approached from the direction of the house, and the man turned toward him. "Hey, you're Floyd Perry," the man said.

This guy knows Perry? Though short himself, the man was several inches taller than Perry. "I remember seeing you race at Bandera. That was the time..."

"Guises of perception and deception in time and space," Perry said. He sipped from a tumbler of amber liquid.

Lewis recognized the phrase from somewhere. Had Perry read it to him?

"Wish
I
had said that," the man said. "Mind if I paraphrase you?"

"The author of
A World Without Walls
can take whatever liberties he wants." Perry drained the last of his drink and raised his glass to the writer. He seemed extraordinarily pleased with himself. His smile had to be over more than the quality of the Scotch.

Lewis turned toward the house. Through a picture window he could see Bodyssia and two of the acrobats, and despite her presence, he went inside, where he found a long buffet table. The recognizable food thrilled him. He filled a plate with shrimp, bread, and roasted eggplant.

"Hey cute guy." Bodyssia pulled him onto her lap.

That was too much. He pushed on her arm that encircled his stomach, but couldn't dislodge it. "I'm not your toy," he said.

"Sorry chief." She let go, and he moved to the chair beside her. "Nice place," she said with her mouth full.

He ate a shrimp. The food calmed him. Wasn't much point arguing with someone so huge. And he had always liked bears.

"Whose house is this, that guy outside?"

"Henry something. Somebody at the show gave us the address."

"Oblong Henry," Perry said. He had come up behind Bodyssia. Even sitting down, she was taller.

"Oh, the book you gave me." That was where he had read the phrase Perry told the writer.

"Quiet. And don't mention it to him. It doesn't exist here," Perry said. "Although it might soon, now that I've put the thought into his head." Perry smiled and walked out the door.

Please, not another enigma.

Across the room, Dawn leaned against a kitchen counter beside a taller woman. Dawn had taken off her silver makeup. The woman bent over to whisper into her ear.

Bodyssia tapped his shoulder. "Hey look out there." She pointed to the picture window. Outside, an iron pipe by the door rose to the second floor, and one of the acrobats was climbing it. He passed out of sight, but a few seconds later came a shriek and a thud on the floor above them, then a crash of glass shattering. Bodyssia laughed a raucous, bellowing laugh.

The trio of musicians had set up at the far end of the patio. They were playing, but Lewis couldn't hear them inside. When he saw Dillon walking toward them, he gave Bodyssia his plate and went out to the patio. Dillon greeted the trio and pulled a pennywhistle from his jacket.

"How about 'The Tinker's Coin,'" Dillon said to the musicians. The thin woman nodded; Dillon played a sad, slow melody on the whistle, and the burly man sang.

From behind, Lewis heard a woman's voice, distracting him from the music, and he turned to see Dawn and the other woman, who was bent over, with her lips near Dawn's ear.

"I'll bet her heart was broken," Dawn said.

The woman straightened her back and looked at the musicians. "NOT the heart," the woman said. She bent her lips again to Dawn's ear. Lewis thought she was about to eat it. Instead, she continued speaking. Her accent was hard to place, like the language he had been hearing. "People always associate emotion with the heart. The heart pumps blood. A person's essence is a core in the middle of the brain. This is what hates and loves, not the heart. Definitely NOT the heart."

She kissed Dawn's cheek, leaving a trace of red lipstick; Dawn turned her face to kiss the other's lips.

If she preferred women, why had she pulled him on top of her that time? It had to be because of Cybele. Once Cybele had touched him, her power made all the women on the train desire him.

The song ended; Dillon began something fast on the whistle and the rest followed. Lewis sat on a wrought iron bench near the stairs leading to the street. The music was like time, relentless, moving forward into the mist. It pulled him with it.

Poised for a dive, Lewis stood naked on a ledge several feet above blue-green water so clear he could see clusters of sea urchins on the bottom. A buoy bobbed on the swell about forty yards away. He dove in and swam toward it. He hadn't seen anyone from the circus yet this morning. Who knows how long everyone had stayed at the party. He had listened to Dillon and the other musicians for a few songs, then returned to his room to put the rosemary branch in water and take a sheet and a blanket outside so he could sleep in the meadow near the train.

Now it was day, real day. The sky so blue above him, bluer than he remembered. The sweet air made him laugh. He loved the feel of the water on his skin, soft, alive. He hadn't swum nude since he was ten years old, at summer camp. He didn't care if anyone saw him. He swam around the buoy toward the shore, then back again. Treading water, he looked up at the bluff, where he could make out the top third or so of the train. Ever since boarding, he had envisioned it as a long, sleek projectile, but it looked more like a late nineteenth century train—boxy, wooden cars with flat roofs.

He swam back to the shore and pulled himself out, dressed, and took his things back to the train. After showering, he went to the dining car and asked Cinteotl to fix him a breakfast he could carry with him. He would eat in the hills, away from the train. On the way back to the caboose he ran into Jenkins carrying a stack of magazines.

"Here," Jenkins said and looked at a note taped to the top magazine. "Says, 'Give to Lewis.'"

"What are they?"

"For you." Jenkins held out the stack and Lewis took it. He had already passed his door but didn't feel like carrying the magazines with him all day. He returned to his room and dropped the stack on the floor. But the title...
Circus of the Grand Design
...not magazines. Programs. When could they have been printed? He hadn't done them. The cover was a triptych painting of clowns and jugglers with grotesque features. He sat at his desk and opened one. The first spread showed a photograph of the circus crew parading before a packed house, with a short introduction by Dillon printed in the far right:

~

Now in its second century, The Circus of the Grand Design, its uniqueness unsurpassed, strives to bring audiences an entertainment experience encompassing all the senses. Step inside a dream of lights and miracles and prepare for a lifetime's worth of enjoyment packed into a mere two and one half hours. Step inside and let your perceptions not be denied. The glories lie within reach. Let the show commence.

Joseph Dillon, proprietor

~

The rest of the program spotlighted each performer. He couldn't believe how good it looked; his biographical sketches were perfect. He would have to pass some out himself that afternoon. When he was maybe seven years old his family took him to a circus performing in the domed stadium, which had recently opened, the first of its kind. All he remembered from that night was the immense curved roof above him and men on stilts, eight or nine or ten feet tall. Now he was a part of the process and knew all of the people involved. He wanted to be the first to arrive, to find a seat in front.

He wasn't sure when to go to the amphitheater though. He would have to stay close during the day to keep from missing anything. He would climb up to the ledge he found yesterday. From it he could watch the amphitheater. His breakfast was still in the satchel; he took it out and bit into an apple.

His door opened and Cybele entered, bringing a concentrated scent of outside, stronger even than what he had smelled on leaving the train for the first time yesterday, an intoxicating torrent: dirt, leaves, herbs, mold, fruit, rain, wildlife.

All he could do was breathe. He felt his lips twisting into a silly, gaping smile.

Cybele wore sleeveless white coveralls zipped to her collarbone. He had never seen her so covered. He wanted to stand up and kiss the hollow where her neck and collarbone met, but found himself unable to move as she approached the window and looked out at the bay.

He knew he should be silent, but he heard himself speaking to her, asking questions. He asked if she was angry with him for leaving her out of the program, asked how long she had been with the circus and what training she'd had. He knew the questions sounded inane, but he couldn't stop. He thought she smiled, though it could have been the angle of sunlight on her chin. Fearing he would drown in her dark eyes, he looked away, babbling on, trying to say something poetic.

"I've traveled so long, down a cold, deep well that echoes blindly without you." This time he was sure she smiled, and her smile seemed to mock him. She turned and touched the tip of his nose with one slender finger. He smelled oranges. "Are you Cybele?"

"Names have no unimportance."

She spoke with a firm voice; he had thought it would be soft and sexy, like her appearance. He longed to hear more. Certain aspects of her were so familiar—the way she stood, like an Arabian mare, hair mane-like on her shoulders and down her back—he thought he had always known her.

"I've never seen hair quite so black," he said. Then they were silent. She was still an arm's length away. He wanted to pull her toward him, but decided not to, though in deciding knew the choice had been hers. He stared at her cheeks, lips, and long, narrow nose. Outside the window, the shadows of the trees on the hills lengthened. The wind rippled grass and wildflowers. Gray clouds pressed in from the bay but no rain came. The apple sitting on his satchel turned brown where he had taken his bite.

He stood and reached a hand out to her bare shoulder, loving the feel of her skin under his fingers, softer and more luxurious than the sea. She smiled and leaned toward him; he bent over to kiss her and hug her against him, but she kept him back, put the tips of her fingers between his lips, then turned away. He watched her gliding walk to his door. As the door closed behind her, he sat again at his desk breathing the lingering scents of spring.

~

Lewis traversed the hallways, knocking in succession on the doors of Dawn and Leonora, Bodyssia, Floyd Perry, Gold, even Barca, with no response, and as he progressed found no one in the dining car, gym, or Dillon's office. The animal pens were empty as well, so he turned back and hurried to the caboose, where Jenkins was sewing a button on a silver costume jacket.