by Yaba Badoe
4
Arm in arm with Cat, I peek at townies ambling on the ramparts of the old city. A sea breeze whispers in my ears and kisses my cheeks. Hovering above the waves of the wild Atlantic, Priss is fishing. No one sees her today but me, and no one feels her thrill as keenly as I do. Irises widening, she glimpses a fleck of silver and dives. Feeding time for Priss, while Cat and I begin the task of sowing a field of clover.
First off, we stalk a family and imitate ’em. They pat a toddler on the head. Cat and I pat each other. They kiss, so do we. It’s a game we play called Blending In. We may look different, but we figured out long ago that if we walk like other people walk, pretend to talk and be as much at ease as they seem to be, they’re less likely to notice that we’re working. Playing ’em.
We follow our family into the park. Gravel crunches underfoot. Pigeons fly away. We trail them past palm trees and pink oleander, past restaurants in the market square. They don’t seem to realise that they’re moving in the direction of Midget Man’s accordion.
We smile at everyone we see. That’s our job: to look excited. So excited that families follow us and come to see our show. It’s easy when you know how to be friendly but not too friendly. Look convincing, and no one can tell who’s following and who’s leading; who’s the piper and who’s dancing to his tune.
The accordion picks up pace, Cat claps her hands, and we add a hop and a skip to our walk, a lilt to our hips. We wave the crowd on and begin to run as they follow us into the cathedral square. Midget Man’s music always attracts an audience. Even more so when he opens his mouth and begins to sing in a ragged Romany voice, the voice of a born traveller.
Half in the shadow of the cathedral lights, cheeks flushed, curly hair thick and wild, he looks like a gargoyle dislodged from above the cathedral doors to a stool in the middle of the square. Goosebumps freckle my arms as his tenor voice rips through the night.
‘“Dos Gardenias,”’ a young woman in a restaurant calls out. ‘Sing “Dos Gardenias”.’
Midget Man strokes his goatee. Hooded eyes twinkle, then, with a courtly flourish to the woman, he obliges and the crowd swells – the cue for Cobra and me to mark out our territory. We spread a sprinkling of sawdust to create a magic circle around Midget Man in which anything can happen. Not too big, not too small, but snug and intimate. Mama Rose’s Circus is flexible, portable. Quick as a flick of the wrist, shiny as a shower of glitter.
Soon as we’re done, I slip in the back of the truck to get ready. Mama Rose is almost dressed: red jacket above a striped red-and-white circular skirt, underneath the skirt, a trillion petticoats. Pulls on a pair of black riding boots. Puts on grease paint: rouge on her cheeks, ruby-red lipstick. Smudges thick lines of kohl around her eyes and then, her face dusted with powder, says: ‘What sort of house have we got tonight, Sante?’
‘Pretty full,’ I reply.
‘Good girl. We’ll be on for an hour and a half at the most.’ She taps a top hat on her head and peps herself up by saying: ‘Let’s give ’em what they want!’
‘Sure we won’t get busted halfway through?’
‘Where’s your spirit, Sante?’
I want to say, ‘Left me in Greece,’ but don’t. No point in raking over the past when talking about it brings back the certain knowledge that there are people in this world who’d like to see us dead.
‘Don’t worry, Sante.’ She pulls on her lucky white gloves.
Mama Rose is forever claiming that the best performances are achieved through daily application of strength, discipline and persistence. Luck has little to do with it. But the fact remains: most people in our game are mighty superstitious. Entertainers. Can’t help it. Once it’s in you, there’s no way you can get it out again: those rituals that help us give our best. Before any performance Midget Man rolls his head around one hundred times, wiggles his tongue to the count of forty. Redwood lies flat on his back and burps. Fifty times, last I counted. Bizzie Lizzie kisses her mirror, while Mimi stands on tiptoe and spins twice. What I do is kiss Priss and touch her feathers for luck. Bird smells of fish tonight.
‘Eat well, did you?’ She blinks as I smooth her down and sit her on her perch in the truck the way I always do. Finish by rubbing sawdust on my hands. Then I watch Mama Rose taking in the crowd.
The cathedral square’s almost full, just as I said. Mama Rose looks at the faces of children, their eyes bright with curiosity, fingers itching to clap. Then, like an old diesel engine revving up, she begins shaking her large behind to the beat of the music box Midget Man’s left playing. She shakes herself about and steels her muscles so hard, beads of sweat gather on her brow. Finally, she looks at me and says, ‘Ready, Sante?’
She dashes into the circle we’ve made, whip in hand. Bows and simpers, salutes the crowd with her top hat. ‘Ladies and gentleman,’ she roars in broken Spanish, ‘girls and boys. Welcome to Mama Rose’s Family Circus for an evening of magical entertainment. An evening of incredible tricks and daring feats created for your delectation alone.’ She brings down her whip, a dash of sawdust mixed with gravel leaps into the air, and I’m on.
Since before I could walk, she’s been training me. Bareback riding. Me and Taj in the ring together. Me in a turquoise tutu studded with luminous stones. Taj’s mane a shower of silver ribbons. Drew the crowds when I was younger, still got the crowd where I want ’em today. A shining black girl on a white stallion, his flanks rippling and gleaming like seashells in moonlight.
I’m bigger than I used to be, but Taj’s back remains broad and strong. I stand on his rump and, as he trots, flip forwards and land on his back, arms outstretched, a smile on my face. I execute a whole heap of flips in quick succession, then a handstand. I steady myself and slowly bend over backwards.
Taj begins to canter, calm as you please, his rhythm steady, sure of every beat. Slows down as I straighten up, and then using his body as I would a wooden bar, slip under and over him. Legs straight, toes pointed, hips flexed, moving this way and that. After a final somersault, I’m on the ground again, arms open wide, embracing applause. ‘Bravo! Encore!’
I strut around the circle, back arched, Taj nodding and bowing with me. I wrap my hand around his ear and he snuffles my cheek. ‘Good boy, Taj,’ I say, and the crowd yells for more.
We’re the opener and for now we’re done. After the fifth roar of, ‘More! More!’ we step back and Midget Man and Redwood, Mimi and Bizzie Lizzie, dressed in gaudy clothes, their clown faces on, stumble into the ring. Tumble on the ground, miming with hands, faces and eyes. Hunger. Anger. Love. Despair. Bizzie Lizzie chasing Redwood bumps into Mimi. Mimi falls down. Lizzie trips over her, then Redwood careers over ’em and Midget Man’s on top. The Smallest Man in the World is King of the Castle. A king who bursts into song, Midget Man’s favourite aria, a throbbing song of love. Mimi, Redwood and Bizzie Lizzie join in.
The audience laughs and cries at the same time. They laugh loudest at Lizzie ’cause she’s all arms and legs, long, elastic face topped with a mop of crazy, cherry-pink hair. Lizzie swoons. Makes eyes at Midget Man. Skips around him. Embraces him. Would have him too, but Mimi leaps on Lizzie’s back and now they’re all fighting again.
From where I’m standing in Mama Rose’s shadow, Priss swinging above me in the truck, I see children cackling. When the Old Ones begin to catch fire as well, the cathedral square crackles with belly-bursting laughter. Can’t hear for the thunder in my ears, so I don’t notice it at first. Not a glimmer. Don’t see anything suspicious, not even when I feel them staring at me, probing my insides: a sure sign something’s not right.
Deep within me I sense a quiet patting sensation. Gentle, like I’m a kitten and fingers are running through my fur, tickling my belly.
‘Who are you?’ says whoever’s poking about. ‘Are you who I think you are?’
Someone I don’t know is asking questions about me and I don’t like it one little bit. Don’t answer, not even in my thoughts. I don’t say: ‘What business is it of
yours, scumbag?’ Not me. Not this time. My eyes flit over the audience searching for whoever’s asking, whoever’s interested.
Old Ones stroke their youngsters. Lovers link fingers. City folk, arm in arm, smile. Have to look hard to track ’em down. I search faces old and young, tourists, locals, before I find ’em. A bald-headed man, an African, same colour as me. Shiny, coral-black. And beside him a middle-aged white man, grey hair spruced in a crew cut. The African’s not much taller than I am, but both of ’em are bulky, jowly. And both sets of eyes are fastened on me.
My fingertips tingle. I step deeper into the shadows but those eyes follow, magnets drawn to iron. The white man’s gaze is as ravenous as a lone wolf on a winter morning: a wolf with grey eyes. Fear spikes my innards and before I can blink, I’m shivering.
‘Are you all right, Sante?’ asks Mama Rose, touching me. Feels a slick of sweat on my forearm, sees my eyes glazing over. ‘Sante, are you OK?’
I should tell her someone’s on to me. Should ask for time out. But it’s been bred into me: no matter the circumstances, the show must go on! So I nod and I’m on again. This time with Cobra, who’s in a costume that sparkles like the scales of a fish as it slips through water.
Cobra carries a huge basket on his head. While he shows the audience the tangle of slithering snakes in it, I play my bamboo flute. Long and slim with an ivory mouthpiece. It fits my mouth perfectly. Mama Rose gave the flute to me when I was twelve years old. Told me it was in the chest I pitched up in, along with a leopard-skin drum. Told me that’s all I arrived with, and where I’m from is as much a mystery to her as it is to me.
I purse my mouth, as if I’m kissing the cheek of an old friend, and blow. My fingers move down the bamboo ridge of the flute as youngsters shriek at the snakes. Cobra closes the lid and sits in the middle of the circle. Within moments snakes push the lid off and slide out. A few jump, leaping on to sawdust and gravel. Children shriek louder. I would too if I were them, but I’m playing. The tone of the bamboo’s warm, the music coming out of it mellow and slow.
Should be concentrating, but with those men’s eyes on me, I can’t. Can’t stop myself delving, can’t block my talent. They may be in the shadows out of earshot, but their muffled voices come directly to me.
‘It’s her,’ the African hisses. ‘I recognise Mamadou’s flute. I would know that sound anywhere in the world.’
‘Impossible!’ says Grey Eyes.
‘I would think so too, if I hadn’t been there. Believe me, it’s the flute we put in the chest. I know it is. I helped Mamadou make it.’
‘You’re deceiving yourself. Every flute sounds the same.’
‘They may to you, Wolf, but not to me. I made the mouthpiece myself with ivory from the Guinea coast.’
‘Well, if it is the instrument you think it is, the girl may know where the rest of the haul is.’
‘Don’t you see the stones on her dress?’
‘Those?’
I should be poised, precise, intent on charming snakes with Cobra. Should be, but I’m thinking: What’s wrong with my tutu? And Mamadou? Who’s Mamadou? All I do is say the name to myself, and the music I’m playing changes. The flute seems to sigh: ‘At last! At last!’ Then, as the weight of invisible fingers presses down on mine, a golden thread of sound reels me into a different world. A world before Priss, before memory.
I hear the roar of a leopard, screech of a vulture. I see the claws of a lion on the back of a gazelle, hear it yelp in pain, and then all at once I’m drifting through savannah. Fingertips graze over grass. Stubble underfoot. My fingers on the bamboo flute move faster and faster, notes reach higher and the snakes, jiving with those high notes, leap in the air.
They should be heading in Cobra’s direction, but the music’s got them as rattled as I am, and all of ’em, every single one of those thirty-one snakes, turn away from Cobra and head out of the ring to the audience.
Children scream while the Old Ones, backing away, say: ‘Don’t worry, this is all part of the act.’ Everyone cringes and wails, about to turn tail and run. Even Priss on her perch joins in, screeching and flapping her wings. She snaps and hisses as Cobra gets up from the ground and touches me. Cobra reaches into my heart and stops the riot there. A single touch and the music stops. He claps his hands and whistles. Then he sits down and closes his eyes.
The snakes, as if drawn to him by invisible yarn, turn and slither back. They glide around his hands and knees, slide over his shoulders, up his neck until all thirty-one of them are coiled, a writhing turban on his head.
Relieved, the audience claps loudly. They shout, ‘More! More!’ Roar and laugh like it’s Christmas tomorrow, while Cobra takes my hand and we bow. My legs about to buckle, I lean on him as he follows my eyes to catch a glimpse of what’s got me so twitchy, my hands clammy and cold.
The African and Grey Eyes are clapping hard, as pleased as Cat is when she gets a hunk of fresh bread and bites down on it. They’re delighted to have met me. They want more of me. Much more, I can tell, for the African says: ‘It’s her, all right. She plays just like Mamadou used to.’ He nods at me. Gives me a knowing smile, while Grey Eyes snorts in disbelief and laughs. He laughs, yet his withered eyes, old as the hills, scare me.
5
Before I can make sense of what’s going on, everyone’s talking.
‘What happened, Sante?’ Cat.
‘Are you all right, darling?’ Mimi.
‘She’s having one of her turns,’ says Mama Rose.
She rubs my arms, wraps a red shawl around my shoulders. When she hugs me, I realise that I’m shaking like a terrified pup.
Mama Rose turns to Cobra, questions him with a dark glow of those pebbled eyes.
‘Two men in the audience,’ he says. ‘Must have got to her somehow. If something’s not right, Sante usually feels it first.’
Cobra’s saying what I want to, but can’t. Tongue’s sluggish.
Mama Rose touches my forehead, places the palms of her hands on my cheeks and strokes ’em. Looks me in the eye.
‘Perhaps we should pack up and go,’ says Cobra. ‘Might be heading for trouble.’
Can’t talk, but I shake my head. There’s money to be made here. Money we need if we’re going to survive winter. Doesn’t make sense to leave before summer’s over, before the last tourist returns home. There’s trouble in the air for sure, but there’s something else turning me inside out, back to front. It’s frozen my tongue, left me dazed. Don’t know him, don’t much care for his smile but Mamadou’s friend, that African, of all the people in the world, may help me answer questions no one else can. Questions Mama Rose doesn’t like me asking.
Can’t talk, can’t breathe. I bend over, push my head between my knees. Then, when I’m able, I go to Priss. Slip on my gauntlet and she hops on my hand, blinks at me and straightaway I sense her strength flowing into me. The pulse and heat of her body warm me, until gradually my breath settles.
‘I’m OK,’ I say to Mama Rose. ‘I’ll be ready for Cat’s act.’
I try hard to stay calm, even though tears well up in my eyes. Redwood sees ’em. Wipes my face clean with the long nub of his finger. ‘We’ve got your back, Sante,’ he says. ‘Take your time. We’ll improvise.’
He runs into the circle with Midget Man and they start fighting. After the clowns have fallen over themselves again and again and the crowd’s still laughing, Mama Rose says: ‘Are you sure, Sante? There’s no need to risk it if you’re not.’
Taking calculated risks is what we do every time we step in the ring. It’s what we train for. I take a deep breath, kiss Priss, rub sawdust on my palms, and then run into the circle hand in hand with Cat. She’s in her throwing clothes, a glittering steel sheath of a dress that makes her every move sizzle.
She places me against a white wheel, straps me on to it, and sets the wheel spinning. It picks up speed. Cat smiles and settles down to throw knives at me.
Flashes of silver whizz past drawing the outline of m
y body. Knives around my torso, arms and legs. Cat’s fast, good. Knows exactly what’s she’s doing. Just as well, ’cause I’m trembling.
Those men are back in the audience again and they’re talking to Redwood.
My hands start to quiver, face sweats. Trick is to stay calm, keep as still as a sloth. ‘Breathe, Sante, breathe,’ I tell myself.
The wheel spins faster. Whoosh. Knives slice through the air carving out the shape of my hair; the left side of my neck. Only the right side to go, when Cat pauses.
I sense a flicker of uncertainty in her, a moment of distraction. She steadies herself, then throws. I shiver, and the last of her knives nicks me.
The audience gasps. Blood trickles from a nip on my neck.
First the snakes; now this.
The wheel stops turning. Cat mouths, ‘I’m sorry,’ and spins around. Her eyes pounce on a ginger-haired boy with a begging bowl, clothes mended in patches. Close by are a husband and wife who look just like him. Hungry. Woman’s skinny as a river reed, husband’s even skinner. Scrawny, hollow-eyed. And in the shadows, a girl with a mane of red hair, who belongs to them, head downcast in shame.
‘Hey, you!’ Cat shouts at the boy. ‘And you and you,’ she says as the couple tries to disappear into the crowd. ‘Yes, you two! If you want to see another sunrise this side of heaven, don’t mess with my hustle! And don’t make your boy do your dirty work. We’ve worked hard for our dues tonight.’
Cat’s the fiercest creature in the world I know. Got a streak of meanness running through her too. Comes at you suddenly, could kill you. But underneath the swill and bilge of emotion, there’s something glorious bursting to come out. Her brightness doesn’t show itself tonight and the family scuttles away.
We finish the show, and once the back-patting and applause is over, once we’ve passed a hat around and the audience shows their appreciation, we sit down and count our takings.
