by Ellie Marney
We eat our picnic on Zep’s bed, on the grey blanket with red stitching. Then we make out some more–a lot more–before things get so combustible that we separate, gasping. Then we both confess that we need to attend training. We are procrasti-kissing, which I have to admit is a lot more fun than procrasti-studying.
I feel like a character from a fairy tale as I descend the rope ladder, kissing Zep through the window as I go. Leaving is hard–his body exerts a draw on my body, like a powerful magnet. But I have to force myself to turn and walk away, because–training.
I head for Prac Shed Two. It’s been three days since I’ve done anything more than give my body a cursory stretch. As much as I’d like to avoid public scrutiny of my attempts to put a routine together around my limitations, I need more room for my pre-performance practise.
Prac Shed Two is warm inside, and the acrobats are in full dress rehearsal. Fabian has just cleared the mats: they give me a rundown of the movements for the acrobatic spot, so I know what kind of set up will be in place prior to my section. Then there’s nothing left for me to do except get started.
Some contortionists need to train for a minimum of four hours every single day to achieve the kinds of hypermobility that are required for performance; I’ve never had to do that. But I haven’t been performing–and three days off is a lot. Figuring out a new routine also involves mental gymnastics as well as physical work. I need to begin from the bottom up.
I grab folding chairs and bolsters, and start with my legs: an ankle on each seat, bolsters beneath me, rolling forwards and backwards until my legs form a deep V. I’m going to be using a lot of oversplits in my routine on Saturday, as well as strength moves, mainly to drag out the amount of time between torso bends.
Two solid hours of stretching and warming up tells me that my pain threshold is good, but my arm strength needs a little work, and my breathing is still a serious handicap. I’m going to have to use a prop of some kind to make any routine work.
But I think I know the routine I want to perform.
The acrobatic routine is all action: a lot of multiple dives, loud music and a bright fizz of colour. They’re going to look like popcorn jumping around inside a saucepan. I’m going to be a complete contrast: one performer, spotlit, with a single prop and slow graceful positions. And ordinary, I decide. I want to wear something completely different from the acrobats, not a regular performance catsuit. Just normal clothes, as if I’ve stepped out of the audience and decided I want to be part of the show…
I want the audience to feel like I’m one of them–just a little stretchier.
This is going to be good. It’s going to be unlike anything I’ve performed before. It will be heartfelt, and graceful, and relatable. There’s going to be less glamour in this routine, but more of myself. And it meshes well with my personal philosophy of contortion, which for me isn’t about showing the audience how I can tie myself in grotesque knots, but how every human body is capable of extraordinary things.
By the time I wrap up my practise, sweat-lathered but satisfied, it’s nearly six in the evening and raining hard outside. I have to layer up and run from the Prac Shed to my dorm, to shower and change, and then use an umbrella to get to the mess.
Water is streaming in the gutters along the Parade Road, and lights inside the lot buildings seem like little oases of warmth. The Spiegeltent is ablaze as tradeworkers scramble to finish last-minute details.
The mess is packed: everyone is chattering, laughing, excited about the re-open on Saturday, the steam from peoples’ drying clothes making the air humid.
Fleur waves me over. ‘Pull up a chair. We’re talking about Zep’s court appearance.’
When I see Zep at the table, I flush. We haven’t yet discussed whether we’re telling people about the kissing part of our friendship. But he’s patting a seat beside him that Marco has vacated.
‘My case isn’t scheduled until two.’ Zep’s voice is even, but I can tell by the set of his body that he’s feeling anything but relaxed.
‘Marco has offered to lend him a suit,’ Fleur says, just as Marco returns. She gratefully accepts one of the mugs he’s offering. ‘Zep is a bit leaner across the shoulders, but it’s better than showing up in jeans.’
‘Will you still have time to rehearse?’ I ask him.
‘I’ll have time to rehearse in the morning,’ Zep admits. ‘Whether I get to come back here afterwards and continue rehearsals…I guess that will be up to the judge.’
He could still end up in jail, I realise. The thought curdles my stomach.
Marco drags over another chair. ‘I don’t want to make any pronouncements, but things are looking positive. The attack in the street, and the way Zep was manhandled prior to the police showing up, have swung things in our favour.’
‘Glad to know my pain was all worth it,’ Zep jokes.
I touch my knee against his leg under the table. ‘Is there anything else I can do?’
‘Yes.’ Fleur pushes a yellow pad of notepaper across the table in my direction. ‘We’re going to write down your statement about the attack. As many details as you can remember. Kate will enter your statement, and mine and Chester’s, into court record.’
I hold out my hand. ‘Give me a pen.’
Fleur hands me her own pen, then lifts her chin at the far side of the mess, where Terry Klatsch is holding audiences. Her father is a tall, sandy-haired figure in black jeans, a concert T-shirt and a ragged-looking black coat–Mr Klatsch always has a slightly punk style, even as ringmaster. He’s talking animatedly to a mixed bunch of show performers and stage crew.
‘Zep, Dad said he wanted to chat before tomorrow,’ Fleur says. ‘Now might be a good time. Don’t be nervous, he just wants to see how you’re doing.’
‘Okay, I’ll go catch him.’ Zep rises and gives Fleur a slightly green-looking grin. ‘Then I’m going back to the dorm to ice my fingers and feel anxious. If you need me, text anytime.’
‘Don’t stress out, Zep,’ Fleur says. ‘We’ve got this.’
‘See you tomorrow.’ Zep leans on the back of my chair. ‘And I’ll see you later.’
When I look up to reply, he cups my cheek and captures my mouth. For a brief moment, all background noise and action fades away, and my worries recede. All I can feel is Zep’s lips on mine, his hand on my cheek, the bubble of soft, aching warmth surrounding us…and then he moves his lips to my ear.
‘Leave your window open.’ His murmur is almost lost amongst the clamour in the mess. Then he straightens, and he’s gone.
I look back to see Fleur and Marco staring at me.
‘Shit,’ Marco groans.
Fleur grins at her boyfriend. ‘Pay up, Deloren. You owe me ten bucks.’
Rain is still pounding the lot when Zep slips through my window, and I have supplies ready: a towel and a thermos of hot chocolate.
‘I didn’t need to ice my fingers,’ he says, teeth chattering as he rubs at his face. He shakes his head like a dog, scattering water. ‘It’s freezing out there.’
‘Take off your coat and come over by the space heater.’ I tug him towards my bed, stand in front of him as he sheds his outerwear.
He unwinds a scarf from his neck. ‘Did you get your chores done?’
‘Yes. I waded up to the Spiegeltent and spent an hour practising the move I want for the performance. And I spoke to Archie Carsisi about the lights for my performance spot.’ I toss Zep’s coat and the scarf over the back of my chair, push him to sit down on the bed. ‘Plus I had a question about a pyrotechnic effect, so we figured that out, too.’
The pyrotechnic question is not related to my performance spot. Neither Archie nor Zep needs to know this detail, however.
‘No pyrotechnics for me.’ Zep sits on the bed and unties his boots, kicks them away. ‘I don’t even know if I’ll be performing yet–I’ve told Bennett he m
ay need to rearrange spots if the verdict goes badly tomorrow. So there wasn’t much point setting up something complicated.’
I’ve never been in trouble with the law, so it’s hard for me to imagine the kind of anxiety he’s feeling now. I knead his shoulders gently. ‘Fleur said that Kate is one of the best. And the circus will support you through any problems. I think it’s going to be okay, Zep.’
He looks up at me as he circles my waist with his hands. ‘You can never be one hundred percent certain of the result.’
‘No. But I’ll keep believing it.’
‘I don’t want you to come tomorrow,’ he blurts.
My fingers still. ‘You don’t want me in court with you?’
He shakes his head. ‘Kate will be there. Your statement will go into record, so you’re already helping me. And–’ He raises a hand as I open my mouth. ‘The judge will be reading out my old arrest convictions. I don’t really want an audience for that. I’ll tell you about it all someday, but not… Not like that.’
I bite my lip, but I nod. If I were in his place, I’d probably feel the same way. ‘Then what can I do to make you feel strong for tomorrow?’
‘Let me hold you. That’s all I need.’ He wraps his arms around my waist, turns his head and presses his cheek against my stomach.
The glow of the space heater melds with the soft light from my desk lamp, casting us both in a wash of red. Zep’s hair gleams as I push my fingers through it–I love how the damp, silky darkness feathers against my palms. He’s holding me tight, my pelvis against his chest as I stand between his open knees. His breath is hot through the fabric of my shirt.
I let go of his hair and start unbuttoning my shirt. This is a new thing for me, and my hands are trembling a little. Once the buttons are undone, I let the shirt slide off my arms and shoulders.
He looks at me in wonder. His round eyes fix on my face, but not before I see them take in other parts of me, parts that are now bare.
‘You don’t have to do this,’ he whispers.
I smile. ‘But it’s what I want.’
I reach down and take hold of his Henley and tug it up. He lifts his arms so I can draw off the sleeves. His pectorals, his biceps, his abdominals… Yep, they’re all still there. His body is stark in its hard-muscled simplicity. The skin over his collarbone is smooth, and his pulse drums fast in his throat.
He is that same light brown everywhere. It’s quite possible that I am the luckiest girl alive. I sigh with pleasure.
‘Ren, I want this, too.’ He seems particularly fascinated by my belly button. ‘But I have a long history of theft. I don’t want to steal anything that you’re–’
I make him be quiet by kissing him square on the mouth. My loose hair slides in a soundless waterfall off my shoulder and onto the skin of his back, and he groans, shivers.
Then I cup his jaw and lift his face, look into his eyes, which are absolutely black.
‘You’re not stealing anything,’ I say. ‘You can’t steal something that’s given to you.’
It’s the last day before the re-open performance, and maybe Zep’s last day of freedom.
I haven’t ever woken up with another person in my dorm bed, so that’s new. And nice–unbelievably nice. Zep’s muscled arm is heavy over my waist, and he’s so warm it’s starting to get sweaty under the duvet. It’s strange to feel the length of his softly-furred legs against mine. But it’s something I could easily get used to…Provided I don’t get forced into flying to Bali, and provided everything goes in our favour today.
Zep’s nose rubs against the back of my neck. His voice is sleep-husky. ‘Do you wake up at this hour every morning? That’s obscene.’
I lengthen my neck and press my cheek into the pillow we’re sharing. ‘I have to rehearse. And arrange my props and my costume. You have to rehearse as well.’
‘Mm-hm.’ He slides his arm more firmly around my waist and drags me close, so my back is flush against his front.
‘You have to get organised for court. And I have my final workshop tonight.’
‘Mm.’ He nuzzles his mouth into the juncture of my neck and my shoulder. One of his hands squeezes my hip, tugs me into the curve of his body. His other hand plays up and down all different places on my front: skimming my collarbone, my ribs, my stomach. Every place he touches quivers like a live electric wire.
‘Zep, you are distracting me.’ I wriggle in his arms like a mink.
‘That’s the plan.’ He presses hot, open-mouthed kisses along the nape of my neck, then starts working his way down my spine–down, down, down…
‘And you have to get out of here before the rest of the dorm wakes up.’
He sighs against the dip of my waist before flipping me onto my back and altering his progress, trailing his lips over my flat belly, licking and nipping up between my breasts until he reaches the hollow at the base of my throat. The feel of his naked body against my naked body is dizzying. By the time he reaches my ear, I’m writhing.
‘Okay, you’re right, I should go,’ he murmurs. He sucks on my earlobe, which he knows drives me right out of my head.
‘Ah, no,’ I breathe. ‘I mean, yes. I mean–’
‘I’ll just stop kissing you and get up.’ He pulls away.
I pull him back. ‘Maybe you should give it a minute. It is very early.’
It’s a while before we eventually do get out of bed. By then the dorm is really coming awake. The day has started without me, and this particular day has a number of moving parts, all of which rely on smooth timing.
I scoop up my robe, and toss Zep his clothes. ‘I have to shower and dress for rehearsal. Don’t go to court without saying goodbye.’
He stands up to pull on his jeans, thread his belt through the loops. ‘I’ll text to find out where you are at quarter to one.’
We kiss before separating, and I try to reassure him with my eyes that everything will turn out all right. Then after Zep leaves and I’ve dressed, I make a phone call that sets all of my planned events in motion.
Rehearsal is punishing. I work my arms over and over, getting the movements I want exactly right. There is no room for error with this performance: this is the simplest set up I’ve ever devised, and the audience’s entire focus will be on me until the finale.
I have to use my puffer twice during practise, and then again after I race back to the dorm and pull together an outfit for a run-through in full costume. Part of me is worried that my lungs won’t last the distance. I have to exert all my self-control to manage the three key movements in this routine on a half-ration of air. But I tell myself that this is necessary, and that I’m probably tired from staying up for hours last night with Zep, and that there’s only two performances–one tomorrow and one on Sunday–before I get a break on Monday, our rest day.
Zep’s text comes through at twelve forty-five, as he said. In the mess. Want me to come meet you?
I text back quickly. I’ll be in the mess in 5.
On my way to the mess, I run into Bill–I was planning to hunt him up later this afternoon, but this is good timing.
‘Hai, Bill. All ready for the re-open?’
‘I guess.’ He shrugs, and all his wrinkles dance.
‘Bill, do you happen to have a cigarette on you? May I have one?’
‘What? Sure.’ He tugs his pack of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket, hands me one. Bill is one of the only smokers on the lot. ‘Although you probably shouldn’t be smoking, Ren. It’s bad for you–for people in general, but for you, with your asthma, in particular.’
‘Oh, it’s not for me,’ I say. I stash the cigarette in my pocket. ‘It’s for Zep. His court case is soon, and he’s nervous.’
Bill snorts. ‘Tell him good luck from me. I knew his dad, you know.’
‘Really?’
‘Old carnies, love. Angus was a mechan
ic and a petty criminal, and I was a pyromaniac–we ran in the same circles from time to time. His kid should cop a break. But maybe tell Zep he should take up another habit to deal with his nerves, something less hazardous, like…knitting.’
‘I’ll tell him,’ I grin, and make my way further to the mess.
Zep is standing in the front area near the serving line, talking in low voices with Fleur, both of them dressed formally. Fleur is wearing a sleek skirt suit the colour of milky coffee, her dark hair coiled. Zep looks uncomfortable in a charcoal-coloured suit with a white button-down shirt and a blue tie.
Fleur was right–the suit is a little big in the shoulders. He looks better in his stage costume. I’m not sure whether to hug him in his fancy clothes, but he resolves the question by reaching out and grabbing me.
‘I’ll put creases in your outfit,’ I protest feebly.
‘That is absolutely the least of my concerns.’ He tucks his face against my neck. ‘When I’m in the court room, I’ll be thinking of this hug to get me through, so squeeze as hard as you want.’
I put all my emotion into my arms, let him feel it in my body. My voice is a whisper. ‘I wish I could be with you for this.’
He pulls back, takes my hand and presses it to his chest. His eyes are intent. ‘You’re with me.’
‘Zep, it’s time,’ Fleur says. ‘Ren, I’ll text you as soon as we hear a verdict.’
I hold up the single card I brought for him from the pack of Bikes in my room–the ace of spades–and tuck it into his jacket pocket. ‘For luck.’
Zep kisses me one last time, a firm clasp of lips. Then he and Fleur leave the mess and I’m alone.
Usually I like being alone: no excess noise or movement, no distractions. The Indonesian word for ‘alone’ is menyendiri, which is interchangeable with the word for ‘lonely’, and I’ve always thought the lack of distinction between the two terms was an unfortunate error–I’ve been alone plenty of times and never felt the pang of loneliness. But right now, I think I get it.
I make myself a cup of hot tea and sit at a table in the empty mess. I’m so maudlin that when my phone rings, the screen reading ‘Santi’, I take the call just to hear the sound of another voice.
