Circus of the Grand Design (6 page)

"Printing costs...photographs...biographical..." Lewis found it difficult to continue without a response. Why had Dillon hired him if he wasn't going to be helpful? He supposed Dillon was more accustomed to dealing with performers, which made Lewis's position unique, and vital to their success.

Dillon looked up from his painting and pointed his brush at Lewis. "We are all constituents of the accumulation of our experiences, good, bad, and indifferent. It is up to us to channel those experiences into the form most beneficial for our welfare, the grand design which is attainable for everyone, yet realized by so few."

The wrenching Lewis experienced the first night had not repeated. The train's motion was impossible to sense: no swaying, acceleration, deceleration, none of the things one associated with normal train travel. From somewhere came a low hum. Perhaps that meant they were moving. The windows remained cloudy. Lack of a feeling of forward progression, lack of sunlight, lack of structure, all made concentration difficult. They could be at a siding, could be anywhere. He had no way of knowing, and this indeterminate state welled forth, a chaotic mix of nervousness and boredom, grasping, pulling at him with a force he hadn't the ability to fight.

Sitting in the dining car, empty of cook and customer, Lewis was tempted to put his head down, close his eyes. The gray light of the windows leached the air from his body, filled him with a thick liquid drowsiness, amoeba-like forms in orange and black.

Had he been working on something? His legal pad lay beside his elbow. It wouldn't hurt to go back to his room and lie down for a while. He had accomplished much already, met Gold, talked to Dillon, seen the acrobats practice...did they know English? If not, perhaps Dillon knew enough about them for the program.

Of course Dillon knew. It was Dillon's circus. Dillon knew everything. The problem was getting him to say something in an understandable format. What had Dillon said at the Point Elizabeth diner? Something about sequences of present moments. Thinking about Dillon's words made him feel even more exhausted. He closed his eyes. Where was the cook with that enormous bird he had been preparing? Drumsticks big as a leg of lamb. If he put his head down for a minute he would feel better. Just a minute. Then he would find Jenkins. Get the list of personnel. Later. Finally, night, and cicadas in the trees, singing to him.

~

Brightness startled Lewis. He thought he caught a faint scent of citrus, as if someone had been grating lemon peel, but it faded. Where did it go? Now gone, he wished for its return, wanted to bath in its sunny glow.

"Damn, where's breakfast," a voice said.

Lewis raised his head from the table. Gold stood in front of him wearing the same robe, but his hands were empty. No bouncing balls in the morning perhaps.

"Seen the cook?" Gold asked, then went behind the counter and began pulling things from the refrigerator. "Cinteotl doesn't like people coming back here, but I can't wait for my food. And I need mochamalt. Need it now."

Lewis stared at the cloudy window, willing his eyes to see through to the countryside beyond. Perhaps a hillside town with two-story row houses perched over a ravine. And the river, its swift flow providing power for the mills—that was what drew people, who built their lives among the rocks and trees. But the mills had long since closed. Some fell into ruin while others were recycled into art galleries, shopping malls. Kayakers navigated the waters and put in at various campsites and inns.

Gold carried a plate of what looked like limp, shredded potatoes to Lewis's table and sat opposite him. He started talking. "Life at the Academy was hard for most people. Not me. Though I had never been given juggling instruction. Never needed it. My parents had never encouraged me, but juggling was my truth."

Lewis flipped back a page in his legal pad—
Gold says parents recognized talent, found master to train him
.

"We made the finals, as usual, but aside from me, the team was dismal. Our sword swallower slipped and cut off his head."

Gold ate the shredded-potato things (or were they short noodles?) with great delicacy compared to his other meal that Lewis had witnessed. Using a slim fork with two narrow tongs, he lifted each strand to his lips separately and chewed. And talked. Lifting, chewing, talking, for him all one connected activity.

Lewis still had no appetite. These strands—potato noodley things—perhaps they would be easy to palate. They looked bland. But this un-desire for food was disturbing. He needed protein, energy, if he was to function. It had to be the train, but he had never suffered from motion sickness, or much of anything. Hadn't Gold mentioned this malaise affecting new people? He would have to ask him—if the guy ever stopped talking. Now he was going on about joining some troupe of traveling players.

"That summer, the Wadholm Group toured the south. I eventually learned to appreciate Margaret's jugglies. They never handled cleanly, but we were happy, performing our way across the country, and the nights I spent nestled against her soft body were a time of dreams.

"We parted abruptly." Gold slammed a fist on the table, causing his coffee cup to tumble off the edge. Before it had fallen a foot, he caught it and brought it to his lips in one smooth motion. "She had cast her eye upon the leader of our group, a hairy oaf who played the flute. I saw them together, naked in the woods. He lifted her in the air in a disgusting display of animal strength. I heard her say it was a relief not to screw standing up."

Gold stopped and shook his head, as though he still couldn't believe it. He got up. "I need more mochamalt."

While Gold rummaged behind the counter, the door to the gym slid open and three women came in, looking as if they had just finished exercising, dressed in leotards with towels draped over their shoulders. One was Desmonica Rienzi, the rider of the mechanical horse. Lewis stared at her. Streaky brown hair, dark eyes, thick eyebrows. Up close, she appeared to be at least forty pounds heavier than she had seemed at the performance. The three women were about the same height, but Desmonica was by far the heaviest, with beefy arms and rolls of fat showing under the thin fabric of her leotard. Lewis wondered how she could get herself onto the horse. Her costume must hold everything in.

The other two were blondish—one's hair long and straight, the other's shorter, stiff and bleachy looking. The women walked past without acknowledging him.

Gold came out from behind the counter and saw them. "Hey you violas, what's the rush?"

"Hi Garson, we didn't see you," long and straight said, but kept going. Desmonica stopped.

"I want you ladies to meet Lewis."

"We smell," long and straight said. "We'll meet him later."

"Come on, just for a few minutes. Say hello."

"I ain't stopping," short and stiff said.

Gold watched her leave. His expression seemed softer, more vulnerable somehow. Maybe he isn't so bad, Lewis thought.

The other two came over. Gold slid an arm around long and straight's waist. Desmonica stood behind her. Lewis wondered what Gold would say about their jugglies.

"Dillon just stole Lewis away from the biggest PR firm in the populous. He's a marketing genius. What do you say to that?"

"Wow, I don't know anything about marketing. What does it do?" long and straight said. She took her hand from Gold's shoulder and extended it to Lewis. "I'm Dawn, it's nice to meet you." Her rough palm surprised him. "That was Leonora who left. We ride the elephants. That's why we stink."

He found her child-like voice comforting, and he liked her soft cheeks and brown eyes. But she was right. She did stink. Waves of animal musk poured from her. Lewis breathed through his mouth, now glad of his empty stomach.

Desmonica held out her hand. Her grip was damp, her hand softer than Dawn's.

"Greetings," Desmonica said.

Her voice was throaty. She pulled her hand away, but kept her gaze fixed on Lewis, with what he assumed was supposed to be a suggestive smile. She had a butterfly tattoo on her right shoulder. At the performance he had looked forward to meeting her. But up close...she had a double chin. He looked beyond her, to Dawn, while Desmonica continued. "We should all get together and have a party, to welcome you."

Her would-be sexy tone sounded absurd. He hoped the party would never happen. Dawn left, but Desmonica stayed. "GG, have you seem my matre de telos? It wasn't in the case."

"Not since the time you fell off the horse and were laid up for a couple of shows."

"You're sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure.

"I thought you took it out and cleaned it."

"No."

"I asked you to."

"Well I didn't."

"Fine then."

She left; Gold started talking immediately. "Dawn and Leonora are roommates. Dez lives alone, which works out pretty well since she can't keep her hands off me." Lewis felt relieved that Desmonica was with Gold. GG.

"Her jugglies aren't too great. Kind of flabby, hard to grip properly. Leonora's the one I'm really powered up for. Can you believe she won't talk to me?"

"They all seemed nice," Lewis said. He entered their names in his legal pad, which made him feel he had accomplished something.

"We're all responsible for our own training. We
are
professionals. The acrobats keep to themselves. I can tell you everything you need to know about everybody."

Lewis wondered which door belonged to Dawn and Leonora. Probably the one with the rainbow. Gold talked on and on, as if reading from a script. Lewis's attention drifted back and forth, catching bits of Gold's monologue and merging them with his own thoughts.

"Months passed in a similar fashion and the first delicate green buds appeared on the trees, bringing hope of renewal to my chilled existence."

A clear sky is always finer than a cloudy one, Lewis thought, though warm and cold weather can be equally satisfying. But the morning after a spring rain is best, when the sun emerges and the clouds dissipate. The scent of cedar and dark earth flood the breeze, each breath a renewal, all sickness temporarily banished. When would he again feel the changing seasons? He had boarded the train in winter. The thought of missing spring made him want to cry, then he remembered he was with Gold.

"She appeared so forlorn that I took her in my arms, and she sobbed upon my shoulder. Though she was my senior by six or more years, her sensuality was like a fire. We went to her house. I had never imagined I would find such perfect jugglies on a woman so old." Gold took out his yellow balls and juggled them, then looked at Lewis. "I hope I'm not going too fast for you."

Lewis shrugged. "No, this is just fine, I'm a good note taker," he said, though he had put the cap back on his pen. "But I've got to go. Appointment with the porter. He's supposed to give..."

"We found Frank Conners, now known as Blake Horton, the Ringmaster Supreme, and I joined the East-West Circus. I said good-bye to Alicia, who had lacked the resolve, before..."

Who was Alicia? Lewis heard the cook behind him in the kitchen. Food would be nice, and would distract Gold. The cook began reciting the diner menu as soon as Lewis thought about eating.

"Sometimes I perform wonders with a few basic ingredients. Locobird stew. I just use the legs, from the mature birds. Cut off the meat and marinate it in wine, cloves, pepper, garlic, and rosemary." Lewis smelled each ingredient as the cook spoke its name.

"I presented myself to Horton the Ringmaster. Nothing like Dillon. Classless. Greasy blond hair and two huge bodyguards. Told me to call him Ringmaster. Turned out his circus was just a big front for his prostitution game."

Lewis felt gripped by an odd lethargy. His neck began to ache; he tapped absentmindedly with his fingernail on the table. He yawned. Music seemed to be coming from somewhere, a cello, and a man singing a sad tune. He listened for words, catching something about a broken bottle and a woman with hair blacker than the sky. He looked around for her. Gold had left the room. The cook appeared beside him with a bowl of custard. Lewis thanked him and dipped a spoon into it. He brought some to his lips, savoring its velvety texture and orange flavor. A small man, smaller than Dillon, sat in the next booth eating a wing that had to have come from that giant bird. He nodded at Lewis. Grease smeared his cheeks. He wore a black riding helmet and a red scarf. Lewis assumed he was the man who had ridden the live horse. He thought about introducing himself, but didn't want to bother the man while he was eating. When Lewis finished the custard, he took the empty plate to the counter and left.

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE:

The CIRCUS OF THE GRAND DESIGN, which has been pleasing audiences worldwide since 18??, will be performing in
(town)
on
(date)
as part of its current international(?) tour.

~

Lewis pulled the paper from the typewriter and crumpled it. What was the point? He couldn't imagine his work affecting anything Dillon did. The manager paid no attention to him. Why, he wondered again, had Dillon hired him? And...stupid stupid Lewis...they had never talked about pay. Lewis went over their first meeting. He had been caught in the moment, had wanted to show Martha that he could make career decisions. Why hadn't he established his salary with Dillon? He felt duped, and it made him mad to think about it.

It felt good to be typing though. Jenkins had brought him a list of personnel and the oldest typewriter he had ever seen. A black, metal frame, brass keys, weighing maybe twenty-five pounds. The nameplate said Americana Modern™. It looked as though it had never been used. The list of personnel showed seventeen people and their residence cars. The acrobat's names were János, Cirill, József, and Linusz. Cinteotl the cook. Floyd Perry the jockey. Gold's assistant was named Brisbane. Lewis had met or seen all but three people. Two women: Miss Linda—clown, and Bodyssia—capybara trainer, and one man: Barca—elephant keeper. He planned to look for them once he delivered the press release to Dillon. He put in another sheet and retyped what he had thrown out, then continued.