Circus of the Grand Design (3 page)

When he reached the train landing, he stopped, looking around at the ice-draped trees and cars. His anger had dissipated along the way, and without it, icy tongues licked his exposed skin, penetrated the folds of his coat. The pay phone at the train stop was outside. The benches were outside. A small diner stood near the tracks. He could call the fire department from in there. But the man at the cash register told him the phone lines were down.

"I thought I saw smoke down Rampart Street," Lewis said. "I was going to call the fire department."

The man shrugged, and Lewis looked for a place to sit. It would likely be awhile before the first train—no sense waiting outside in the cold. He could check his schedule after finding a seat. There were only five stools at the counter, all full. A few booths. Why was the place so full this early in the morning? Maybe everyone had burned their houses last night. More likely they were fishermen. He was glad he didn't have to work on a boat in this weather. He moved toward an empty booth in the rear, but when he reached it he found it occupied by a gray-haired man so small the back of the seat hid him. The man hunched over an omelet that looked as though it had been made from half a dozen eggs.

"Mind if I join you?"

The small man nodded toward the empty side of the booth. Lewis sat, placing the etching beside him so it faced the seat cushion; he dug into his backpack for the train schedule. The next train to the city left in an hour and a half. Good—Martha would be at work when he reached the apartment. He wouldn't have to see her until evening.

After the waitress took his order he looked out the window at an enormous icicle hanging from the diner's roof.

He couldn't believe he had burned Are No's house.

"Rarely have I seen an ice storm such as this," a resonant voice said, startling Lewis. The small man across from him had spoken, his voice uncannily deep and musical considering his size. The man had finished everything on his plate, consigning it to some biologic storehouse obviously unaware of its owner's lack of bulk.

"Are you from around here?" Lewis asked, wanting to hear more of the man's voice. The man's blue eyes seemed feverish, as if he had been without sleep for years; his stare was mesmerizing. The waitress brought Lewis coffee and he sipped, willing the warmth to spread throughout his body.

"I am from nowhere," the man said. "By profession a gypsy, a circus master. I sail the winds to many distant shores, bringing expectation and enjoyment to all who seek it."

Circuses had always fascinated Lewis. In college (pre-Martha), he had dated a girl whose aunt was a well-known seal trainer; he had been disappointed when they broke up before he could meet the aunt.

"I'm a bit of a gypsy myself," Lewis said. "I've never been happy staying someplace very long, so I've moved around a lot."

The waitress slid a plate in front of Lewis, and the aroma of fried sausage tickled his nose. He forked scrambled egg onto a triangle of toast.

The glare of the man's searchlight eyes turned toward the window. "We are at present in residence back in the city," he said. "I came out here seeking a woman reputed to live in a shack on the bay. The serpent woman, they call her. It is said she raises snakes that have hands, and the little creatures do her farming, though of course that cannot be. The only person I found who knew of her was a young man who claimed his grandmother bought produce and jam from her."

He picked up his knife and twirled it in his long, elegant fingers. The man's voice and story intrigued Lewis, and he found himself wanting to spend more time in his company.

"I haven't been to a circus in years. Do you have anything on you, a program, brochure, that I could look at?"

"My marketing has been nonexistent of late, as I have been concentrating on other matters." The man reached into an inside pocket of his jacket. "However, let me present you with a card." He handed it to Lewis. The card's edges were frayed, and the raised gold script was barely legible. It read: "The Circus of the Grand Design, Joseph Dillon proprietor."

"That's an intriguing name, like the fairy tale."

Warmth radiated from the card to Lewis's fingers, then spread to his hand, wrist, arm, a tingling warmth, as if charged particles covered his skin, arraying themselves into the shape of fine silk thermal underwear.

The battered card gave him an idea.

"Look—your circus sounds great, but you shouldn't be operating without real promotional material. I can help you. I've been doing public relations for an engineering company, but I'm looking to move on."

Looking to move on? Yes, after what happened to Are No's house. And he
had
been restless lately, the early stage, the pre-readiness to move, though he hadn't recognized it till now. The increasing distaste for the blandness of his job, planning the trip to Are No's, the ensuing argument with Martha (and all those brittle moments leading to it), formed a script that directed him elsewhere.

"I could travel with you, create a program with photographs and biographical sketches of your top performers."

Martha had often nagged him about the need to make proper career choices. She likely wouldn't approve of this one. But...considering the fire...she would never know about it. He would leave without telling her.

Something about the man made Lewis want to join him immediately, venture out into the country, to small town and metropolis, presenting their entertainment vision to everyone. Though he worried that Dillon would be suspicious of his sudden interest. He was about to tell Dillon of his life-long love for the circus, but Dillon started talking.

"Yes, but you must be sure you are ready. It will not be possible to return you to the exact place whence you began."

Dillon pointed one of his elegant fingers at Lewis's chest. Despite the man's small size, Lewis could easily imagine him as ringmaster of his circus. His melodious voice was too powerful for the small, drab diner to hold.

"A circus performance, you see, moves in the fourth dimension—time—as a sequence of present moments flowing away to become part of the past. It cannot be re-read after it is gone."

Lewis boarded the train to Penn Station and took a seat. Goodbye...Point Elizabeth. During his wait, the sun had emerged; light shone clean and sparkly on the icicles, but away from Dillon, his mood dipped. Dillon had left the diner before Lewis finished eating, to continue, he said, his search for the snake woman. He had told Lewis when and where to meet the circus back in the city. Lewis thought he might watch today's performance, after attending to the various tasks awaiting him in the city, packing, leaving...what the hell was he doing? Impossible—first the fire, then...flight? He couldn't do this. If he went to work tomorrow, today even...those people he worked for would have no idea that he had been planning to leave.

But the fire...he hadn't called to report the fire. The authorities wouldn't care that the phone lines were down. They would hold him responsible.

A fugitive from justice.

But he would be safe with the circus.

Because of the ice, the train took longer to reach the city, though the day turned out much warmer. A branch of his bank was around the corner from the train station, and he decided to close his account before the check he wrote Are No could clear. Afterwards, he took the subway down to his neighborhood.

Indecisive about returning to his apartment, he wandered through Chinatown. Walking was clumsy with the etching flopping in the wind, and he didn't like how exposed he felt, with any passerby able to see what he carried. He could discard the frame to make it easier to carry, but that might damage the artwork. At a butcher shop, he stopped for brown paper and twine to wrap around the frame.

The circus was performing at the old West Side Coliseum. Dillon had said they would be leaving that evening, after a two o'clock matinee. Martha's apartment building was a few blocks north of Chinatown. He had time for a focused visit.

The entry hall was blessedly empty, and he climbed the stairs to the third floor. The backpack he had taken to Are No's would serve for most of his clothes. He removed the unused bed sheets, leaving them piled on the floor, and transferred his journal to the satchel he used for work, which already held a legal pad and some pens; he filled the pack with clothes. Not much else of his remained. Martha's things. He hadn't brought any furniture to the city, and the rest...everything could be replaced.

~

By the time Lewis reached the coliseum, the pale winter light was fading. The coliseum stood among abandoned warehouses and newly opened bistros and wine bars, the latest redevelopment zone in a city of endless redevelopment. The building was in the process of being demolished, and he wondered if Dillon had given him the wrong location.

But a banner draped across the pockmarked front proclaimed:

The chance of a lifetime
The circus of dreams
Starring the unbelievable

in gold letters on a blue background, and in the lower right-hand corner in much smaller letters:

Circus of the Grand Design
Now in its Fabulous Second Century.

At the ticket booth, he handed the man behind the glass a bill. He felt out of place, not yet an official part of the circus, and thought it would be easier to pay than explain his situation. The ticket-taker handed him change.

"You missed most of it," the ticket-taker said.

Lewis found his section and walked through the entry into the arena. Scattered clumps of people, at most two hundred, occupied one side only, creating a more theater-like effect than the usual circus in-the-round.

On the wide oval of the arena floor, a scrawny teenager and a man wearing a black tuxedo shared the beam of a spotlight. Tuxedo man juggled several fluorescent balls. Several feet away from the pair, an overturned fork-lift lay beside a pile of bricks, cinder blocks, and a refrigerator door. The performers seemed oblivious to their dilapidated surroundings.

"This is too easy!" the juggler said, his voice echoing from the bare concrete. The teenager drew a dagger with a curved blade from a sack at his feet and held it over his head. Someone in the audience gasped when the assistant tossed it to the juggler.

Lewis walked down the steps to his row. His seat was on the end, directly behind a man and woman with two young boys. His was the only intact seat on the row; the sections to his right and all the way around to the opposite side of the arena had been torn out. He put his bags and the etching in the space next to his seat.

What kind of circus performed in such a rundown building? He should have called the fire department back in Point Elizabeth. Now he was committed to this...ramshackle operation. What did this imply for his sleeping quarters on the train? Well, it didn't matter. He hadn't signed a contract. If he didn't like what he found he could leave at their next stop.

"That's more fulsome!" the juggler said, merging the dagger into the flow of objects. "How about something else?" The teenager threw him an elephant tusk, then a French horn. The juggler changed his rhythm, sending one object higher, the next low, then high.

Amongst the dust and rubble, Lewis caught a pleasant scent, roses and lemons. The juggler began hopping up and down on one foot, keeping the objects moving in the same rhythm as when he had been standing still.

Best juggler he had ever seen, Lewis thought. He had never much cared for jugglers. A few minutes later, the juggler stopped, dropping the objects one at a time, and Lewis clapped along with everyone else.

During the applause break, Lewis glanced around the audience. A dark-haired woman in a seat across the aisle was looking at him. Her face seemed familiar. She stared without blinking as though committing him to memory. Her dark eyes and the intensity of her gaze unnerved him. He smiled a weak smile; she kept staring. He tried to stare back, but her eyes overwhelmed him, and he looked away.

"Thank you very much. Thank you thank you thank you," the juggler said. "And now, if anybody out there has something they would like me to juggle—a shoe, purse, bottle of wine—pitch it down here. There's nothing in the world that I can't juggle and that's a fact."

The woman's stare crawled over him, probing his cheeks and neck. Act unconcerned, he ordered himself, concentrate on the juggler—and while balancing a bag of popcorn, a small pumpkin, plus a man's boot, the juggler upended the popcorn, showering himself and his assistant with the kernels. The man in front of Lewis let out a howling laugh. A clown rushed out with a broom and the man howled louder. Lewis glanced over at the dark-haired woman; she gazed down at the far end of the arena floor, where a ramp led backstage. He looked too and could see something moving. Though he was relieved to find her staring elsewhere, he was also disappointed, though her concentration on whatever was backstage gave him the chance to observe her. He liked the contrast of her long, dark hair against the green of her jacket. Her hair was tied back by a green clip. Maybe she was the source of the pleasant scent.

He turned his head away, afraid she would sense his attention.

What would she think if she knew what he had done to Are No's house? She might not like him at all. But he wasn't a bad person. Are No deserved it. Lewis needed her to like him. He thought if he could explain, she would understand. But that was silly, fantasizing over a stranger when he should be worried about being caught. What if she was a detective, sent to bring him in? Those eyes—a detective wouldn't have those dark, dark eyes.

The juggler bowed and went offstage. The assistant picked up the scattered objects and dropped them into the sack. The spotlight snapped off. A few seconds of darkness followed, then the light came back on, revealing Joseph Dillon, who stood in the middle of the arena floor, wearing a white top hat and holding a white cane. Comforted by the sight of his new friend and employer, Lewis sat up straighter, intent, watching; banishing his wild speculations about the woman.