Circus of the Grand Design (4 page)

"Ladies and gentlemen."

Dillon's voice resonated over the sound of a drum roll.

"We have now reached our grand finale...an act I hope will please and excite...to new excesses...never before realized...in your lives." The light on Dillon went out; in the darkness his voice came from everywhere.

"And now...crafted by Hephaestus for the Olympians...an automaton...seen only by the fortunate few."

Dillon stopped, cloaking the entire building with silence. Shielded by the dark, Lewis gazed at where the woman sat, trying to make out an outline of her figure. He shivered—she could be doing the same, examining him, measuring his worth—as if
he
was an object of entertainment, like these circus people he would soon be meeting.

The whole arena exploded with light. The woman was gone. Lewis turned all the way around, scanning the building. She was nowhere.

With the light dazzling on Dillon's white hat, he spread his arms to welcome the audience. "And now. The one...the only...Attis...the magnificent mechanical horse and its fearless rider, Desmonica Rienzi."

Lewis watched amazed. What appeared to be a mechanical horse trotted into view and stopped near Dillon. That's what the woman had been staring at. She had been expecting it.

The horse seemed perfect, its fluidity of motion uncanny. Shiny metal, like pewter, with a black saddle and bridle and hoofs of radiant brass. Its mane and tail looked like real horse hair. The woman on the horse's back waved to the audience. She looked sleek and mysterious in her wine-colored leotard, short black skirt, and tights. He would be happy to meet this Desmonica.

Desmonica raised both hands over her head, and the horse reared. It pummeled the air with its hooves and made a sound like wind blown over the top of a bottle. Its hinged mouth flared out, showing silver. Another horse, this one dirty-white and obviously living flesh, trotted into view, ridden by a small man dressed like a jockey. The horses lined up on either side of Dillon. He lifted his hat and extracted a starter's pistol. Extending his arm straight up, he fired a shot, and the horses surged forward. They raced around the perimeter of the floor. Dust clouded the air behind them. They galloped faster and faster with each circuit.

But a mechanical horse couldn't possibly move the way this one did. It had to be a real horse disguised to look mechanical. Not that it mattered. The appearance was the important thing. All these tricks—would he lose the thrill of watching once he knew how everything was done?

The horses kept pace with each other until the fourth lap, when the mechanical horse edged ahead. The clown ran out from backstage with a black-and-white checkered flag. The mechanical horse passed the clown, who waved the flag to signify victory. The mechanical horse turned to the audience and knelt, with one leg going back and its head dipping in an equine bow.

Everyone in the audience, Lewis included, jumped to their feet applauding. Lewis felt thrilled, now, to have joined a group possessing a marvel like the mechanical horse.

A procession poured into the arena. From a speaker, drums and trumpets blared. A huge elephant costumed to look like a mammoth, with long, curving tusks, led the way, followed by two smaller elephants with female riders in regalia similar to Desmonica's; then a man on stilts wearing a giant sombrero and three stocky men in luminescent orange shirts and tights doing somersaults. The juggler followed, keeping three burning torches aloft. Last, a woman with three odd animals like a huge guinea pig crossed with a fat hyena. They were brown and yellow and came up to her knees. They looked prehistoric; Lewis wondered where Dillon had found them.

All these odd and amazing performers...he would never fit in with them.

The performers paraded around the entire arena, even though the audience was clustered at one end. They disappeared backstage, and the music cut off in mid-passage. A brief silence was soon interrupted by the rustling of bodies rising from their seats. The audience filed out, leaving a litter of empty cups and crumpled popcorn containers.

Lewis picked up the etching and his bags and joined the exodus, scanning the crowd for the dark-haired woman, hoping he might see her again.

~

The circus traveled on a private train, which Dillon said was parked behind the coliseum. Lewis was to report to Jenkins the porter, in the caboose. Unsure how to reach the rear of the building, Lewis turned the corner in search of an alley or loading dock. Most of the other patrons had gone other directions, and he soon found himself alone. With nightfall, the temperature had dropped, and he set the wrapped etching down to zip his coat. This end of the neighborhood was mostly warehouses and the fringes of the meat-packing industry. A few buildings had been turned into theaters, antique stores, but most of the area was deserted at night. The coliseum would likely be replaced with a condominium complex, changing the neighborhood forever.

He spotted the caboose, blunt and shadowy, a giant metal and wood box. Its door stood open despite the cold night air, and a light shone from inside, casting an orange glow down the steps. Inside, a man slouched at a table. Apparently sensing a presence behind him, the man rose and walked toward the door with slow, bandy-legged steps until he stood directly in front of Lewis, pointing his wrinkled face up at him.

Lewis introduced himself. The man continued to point his face, as though threatening Lewis with his sharp, beardless chin. Then he shook his head and turned away, muttering something about shoe salesmen.

"Wait," Lewis said. "You're Jenkins? Mr. Dillon said you could show me to my room. I'm new."

"Then put yourself on this side of the door," Jenkins said, without turning back to acknowledge him. "Won't find your room out there in the cold, matey."

Jenkins led him down a long passage illuminated by the same orange light as the caboose. They passed two doors on the right and a row of narrow, rectangular windows on the left. The dingy carpet felt lumpy, like a layer of burlap stretched over gravel. On reaching the third door, Jenkins unlocked it and handed Lewis the key. "This one's yours. You get a room to yourself, so feel lucky. Now I'll tell you how to find the dining car." He held up a hand with one finger raised. "Your car, two, three, four"—raising fingers as he counted—"five and that's it. Breakfast is when you get up unless you get up late and have to eat lunch, or if you get up real late you eat supper and later than that comes snacking, except when there's been a show. After a show, it's gorging."

Jenkins walked away, humming.

Lewis's room was larger than he had expected, about the same size as the living room of Martha's apartment. Along the far wall were two windows like the ones he had passed in the hallway. Rudimentary furnishings: twin bed, beside it a low nightstand with a lamp, one chair, a metal desk under the windows. A pull-string hung from a light over the desk. A closet on the right, bathroom between the closet and the windows.

The bare room saddened him. Nothing familiar, everything he knew left behind. He would never feel comfortable here. He dumped his backpack on the narrow bed and stepped off the room's length and width (his size ten shoes measured 12 3/16 inches), then multiplied for the square footage. The exactness of the measurements calmed him enough to unpack the little he had brought. Someone had left a picture hook on the wall over his bed; he tore open the butcher paper and hung the etching, then stood back, admiring it in its new surroundings. The faces on the sphinx reminded him of the woman at the circus.

Hearing voices and laughter outside his door, he paused; the performers had returned. Probably on their way to what Jenkins had called gorging. He had never spent time around show people and wondered what his new companions would be like. Deciding to do one last bit of decorating, he unwrapped Are No's fishing lure and tied it to the pull-string. It swayed and turned when he released it. He undressed, lay down, and pulled the sheet up to his chin. It seemed days since he had burned Are No's house. He couldn't remember ever feeling as tired as he did now. Settling into the too-soft mattress afforded the greatest pleasure.

The train lurched, and his insides fluttered, as if he was hurtling down a steep roller coaster. How long will this go on? The train must be moving. The sensation ended. It was good to be getting away. He began to drift into the fuzzy and disjointed thoughts preceding sleep, but something nagged at him. He switched on the nightstand light and sat up.

There were no train tracks behind the coliseum.

No sunlight, no waning crescent moon. And the wind? The chill, battering wind lay in wait, malevolent, hidden for the moment but ready to strike. Ice crumbled in its path; its onslaught leveled mountains. Not safe here, in this flimsy house-box with its No-heat No-light.

Nothing looked the same. Are No's moose head? Where where where? Fire had gone out, but he felt warm enough. Indecision tore at him—remain ensconced beneath Are No's down comforter, despite the lack of fire, or venture out in the wind's dominion. The narrow bed confused him—he rolled onto the floor, banging his elbow. Then he remembered...Martha had left. She had moved out after their argument. He knew she would eventually. Nothing could prevent it. Now, he was too sad to get up. He would stay on the floor all day. But this wasn't the floor of Martha's apartment. No. He was the one who had left.

He lay his head on the carpet and closed his eyes. There had been a woman, but not Martha. She had been gentle. Her presence soothed him. The desert turned green with the Spring rains.

"He's such a dreamy boy," Lewis's mother had said many times, and not with tenderness.

Tenderness didn't get a person through medical school. He had learned that early. And neither of Lewis's sisters ever had to suffer that epithet. Dreamy. Lewis especially loved the irregular border where daydream interweaves with the intense, true dreams that mark the descent into sleep.

This floor though, its unfamiliar landscape hindered his dreaming. Carpet under his outstretched hand, not Are No's Plexiglas wonder, or Martha's hardwoods. But on the wall, Are No's etching, the sad faces of the sphinx welcomed him. He was glad to have brought the etching along on his journey.

"Here we are. Here we are," he said, and sat up, staring at the windows opposite him. A milky haze covered them. What lay beyond? He hoped they weren't always clouded. He wanted to view the landscape, see the night sky and the wonders it held.

The soft light made him think it was dusk, but it had to be morning. Not likely he had slept through the entire day.

~

In the corridor outside Lewis's door, last night's orange glow had changed to a sunny yellow. He slung his satchel over his shoulder and set off toward where Jenkins had said the dining car was. He wasn't hungry though. He had a queasy feeling, like seasickness. Maybe from that weird roller coaster sensation last night. But the dining car would be a good place to meet people. He would sit, maybe drink some coffee, write in his journal. At some point, he supposed he would have to get busy with his new duties. Things should be pretty easy-going here. It was a circus, not an engineering company. Anyway, the most crucial part of public relations is knowing the people involved.

He entered the car after his (second, according to Jenkins's numbering). It looked about the same as his, lumpy carpet, windows on one side, gray-painted doors on the other. The windows were clouded, all of them. In the next one, the three doors were green, white with a rainbow decal near the top, and orange. His was plain wood. Maybe he would paint it. He liked the green. As he progressed through the train, he found himself counting off cars and, like Jenkins, raising fingers to keep track. One interesting door in the fourth car: an intricate scene like a greek vase, with soldiers mounted on elephants fighting spear-wielding foot soldiers.

The dining car was a long rectangle with cloudy windows on both sides and a floor the color of egg yolks. Beneath the windows were several chrome-edged booths. On the other side of the room was a counter the color of a ripe tomato, and behind it, a man, standing so still that Lewis at first thought he was a mannequin. He was small but broad, with dark hair cut in a bowl-shape. His eyes appeared to be open, but unfocused, and he didn't move until Lewis was about three feet from him.

"Okay boss, what would you like?" the man asked. And waited, wiping his hands back and forth across the sides of his stained white apron. Now Lewis wasn't sure coming to the dining car had been a good idea. So much food everywhere: sausages, cheeses, and grease-dripping roast ducks hung from hooks, and on the counter, bowls of dried fish smaller than his pinky, dried squid, dried mushrooms, dried fruit. He thought he might faint, and looked away, at the cloudy windows.

"How about a suicide roll?" the cook asked.

A blackboard menu hung by the counter. Lizard meat? Must be some kind of circus joke.

The cook, without waiting for an answer, handed him a cup of coffee and a plate with a steaming pancake-crepe thing wrapped around some sort of filling. Lewis put down his satchel and slid onto the blue vinyl seat of the booth closest to the counter, facing away so he wouldn't have to look at all that food. He picked up a napkin and rubbed the window. The density of the mist reminded him of when an airplane passes through a cloudbank, cloaking everything in grayish-white. This mist probably had something to do with the temperature differential between winter out there and the warmth inside the train, but it shouldn't be so impenetrable. And wouldn't condensation be on the inside?

Away from the counter's overwhelming profusion of food, he felt better. He pulled up a flap of pancake thing: potatoes, onions, and some kind of meat—lizard? He picked it up and bit into the flakey wrapper. The filling was spicy and aromatic, cumin and cardamom perhaps, but another rumble of that seasickishness shook him, and he lowered the pancake thing back onto his plate.

Hoping that writing in his journal would settle his stomach, or at least divert his attention, he took out his notebook. He had been keeping an intermittent journal for several years. Since graduating from college. All the long years of school provided an easy identifier for his life: Cheryl Moskowitz—tenth grade girlfriend; fight with that guy he couldn't remember the name of—eighth grade; he had read
The Golden Sail
his first year of college, finishing it late one night after studying for a history mid-term. But after college things blurred, months, years with nothing to hang onto them. He started the journal so he could attach dates to experiences.