by Yaba Badoe
I meet Isaka in the café where Cobra and I first approached him. Introduce him to Cat and Scarlett, and a spark of recognition twinkles in his eyes. He takes Scarlett’s hands. Holds ’em between his palms and says:
‘I never thought I’d see you again. I tell all of you to run for your lives. And yet you – the one he wanted most – have stayed? Is that wise, my dear?’
‘The least I can do,’ Scarlett replies, ‘is help the others escape.’
‘Then be vigilant, my child, because Miguel and his men are still looking for you. And when you take that off – ’ Isaka indicates the black beret covering Scarlett’s hair – ‘you stand out like a beacon of light at night.’
Scarlett readjusts the beret to make sure that not a single red curl is exposed while Isaka plucks at a loose thread on his robe. Plucks it and says: ‘They warned me you were coming. Even so…’ Then, disregarding what he was about to say, his lips jerk into what resembles a smile. Behind his bland exterior, he’s as wound up as I am.
‘Are you ready for what you must do?’ he asks Scarlett. ‘Are your wits steady enough?’
Scarlett nods.
‘Then come this way.’
Isaka guides us to the back entrance of the café. When he’s sure no one’s watching, he darts down an alleyway, his robe fluttering behind him. We follow, walking quickly through the shadows of the old city, past the ramparts, down to a beach in the bay of Cádiz. And as we walk, Cobra and Cat either side of me, Scarlett hidden behind Isaka, I mull over what I’ve just heard.
First off, seems that before we met her, Isaka helped Scarlett get out from under Miguel. Seems he’s helped others as well. Perhaps that’s why he stays with the scumbags he works for: to help Young Ones escape. Then it comes to me, the same sensation that overwhelmed me in the stable yard. Call it intuition or a simple hunch. Whatever it is, it rises from the marrow of my bones to my head in a blaze of absolute certainty. Isaka said: ‘They warned me you were coming.’ Of course, I knew it already. Every cell in my body sizzles as I realise that since the upheaval of my last visit, Isaka has been hand in glove with the restless dead. The truth seizes me, shakes me by the throat and I begin to grasp how long they must have waited for this moment. Fourteen years. Five thousand two hundred and eighty-nine days and nights. My whole life they’ve been watching me, anticipating my every move, to bring me here today.
‘Don’t worry,’ Isaka says, reading my mind. ‘It’ll be over soon.’
Easy enough to say, but then why do I feel as if forces beyond my control are pushing me to the edge of a precipice? I stop in my tracks. Dig in my heels. Cobra links his fingers in mine, gives me a tug, and we continue walking.
My feet drag, and I almost stumble as I wonder what Isaka meant when he said to Scarlett: ‘Are you ready for what you must do? Are your wits steady enough?’ Does he know how dangerously flaky she can be at times? How disturbed and erratic?
Isaka checks, once again, that no one’s tailing us. Cobra’s fingers in mine tighten. I hold my breath until Isaka, satisfied we’re alone, shepherds us into the Caleta – a huge pleasure-dome pier made of wood and concrete. Its legs, straddled on the beach, paddle in the sea at high tide. Right now the tide is out and banked on a crest of the shore are rowing boats. The pleasure dome, newly painted, resembles a curved cluster of gigantic blowflies relaxing in the sand; their wings, open windows, shimmer in the sun.
Isaka releases the door of the Caleta restaurant. Inside, waiters in white gloves are laying tables. Silver knives and forks are placed precisely on starched linen while huge vases of roses are carried in. Above the tables, hanging from the restaurant’s cavernous ceiling, are three trapezes. We look at ’em and Isaka explains what he wants us to do:
‘The Captain will eat here with his friends when the time comes. The maestro will give me a signal, I’ll nod, and you three will jump through the trap-doors on to those swings. All you have to do is create a diversion with your act and the spirits will do the rest, understood?’
Cobra and Cat nod, then I say: ‘Might be better if we’re up there right from the start, Isaka. Trap-doors can be dicey.’
Isaka shrugs and Cobra adds: ‘We need to test those trapezes as well. Make sure they’re safe.’
‘Do what you need to,’ Isaka replies. ‘But I repeat. Wait for my signal before you begin your act.’
His instructions are vague, but then again, every once in a while we’ve had to improvise on less. So what if we haven’t practised on the trapeze for ages, and my hands are too soft to withstand friction burns easily? It’s like Redwood and computers: once you know how, you never forget. In any case, we’re members of Mama Rose’s Family Circus and no matter the circumstances, our aim is always to entertain.
‘What about the present for the Captain?’ I remind Isaka.
Isaka brings out a brown paper parcel from the pocket of his robe. ‘The ceremonial dagger that belonged to my family before I gave it to you, Asantewaa,’ he says, ‘I now give to Scarlett. When you see my signal,’ he tells her, ‘give this to the Captain. That’s all you have to do. Place it in his hands and the dagger will do the rest.’
Scarlett puts the parcel in the leather satchel that she takes everywhere. Pats it shut as we shadow Isaka to our final destination: a cramped dressing room for artists and helpers who are taking part in the Captain’s birthday celebration.
‘Have you got everything you need?’ Isaka asks before he leaves us.
He’s given us costumes to wear, masks to hide our faces and food to snack on while we wait. He’s showed us how to get up to the ceiling, and then on to the trapezes. Gone over what he wants us to do once the Captain settles down in his seat of honour in a few hours. We’re to hold the audience captive while Scarlett delivers the parcel. And when we’re done and what he describes as ‘the fireworks’ are over, we’re to skedaddle. There’ll be no questions asked, no debriefing. The police, Isaka assures us, will sort out everyone left behind. So, unless we want to be taken into custody, we’d better get out of there fast.
‘Understood?’ Isaka says, once again.
I nod at the same time as Cobra and Cat, while Scarlett stares vacantly at Isaka, which is most probably why he declares with as much authority as he can muster: ‘This time, my dear, when I say go away, I mean it. Go far away, because no good will come to you if you linger here.’
‘Of course!’ Scarlett replies and I wince. She’s using that voice again: condescending, chin raised in such a way that I’m convinced she has every intention of doing exactly as she pleases. Not what I’d call a team player, Scarlett. Not today at any rate. All the more reason to watch her closely.
Cobra, catching my drift, gives a triumphant told-you-so-Sante grin. He’s too canny to say anything out loud, but there’s a glint of grim satisfaction in his greens.
Cat and I stare him down. Stare so hard we wipe the smirk clean off his face.
Isaka bows, takes his leave of us, and we start to get ready.
*
Mama Rose is forever saying that once you’ve taken a shine to it, the lustre of show business never rubs off. What we do, day after day, when we’re covering ourselves in clover, lights up my soul and puts a smile on my face. That lump of granite may still be stuck in my gut, and the pup still grizzling at my feet, but by dressing up in a costume – any costume, any time of day or night – my heart spins higher than Priss reeling in the sky. And with luck, more often than not, I’m rewarded for enjoying myself.
Today’s performance is altogether different. Don’t need that grizzling pup to remind me, or my innards twisting and turning. I know in my heart, and the baggage of last night’s dream that’s still weighing on me, that whatever I do in the next couple of hours is much more than a calculated risk. It’s downright dangerous and could be the end of me. Even so, I pull gossamer mesh over my arms and legs. Heave myself into a bird costume with golden feathers across my chest and bum. Accentuate my eyes with a dash of kohl, then, once I’ve fastene
d a diamante mask over my eyes and nose, and covered my locks with a blonde wig, I’m more or less done. Arms, legs and belly are topaz yellow, while the diamante glitter of my mask turns my face purple, blue and black.
‘Not bad,’ Cat says about my outfit.
‘Not bad yourself.’
Cat, striped like a Bengal tiger, clips a feline disguise over her face, then buckles a knife around her waist.
‘You planning on killing someone today?’ asks Cobra, zipping himself up in a leotard. Leotard flickers emerald with his every move, a snake splashing in light.
Cat straps a second knife on the inside of her thigh. ‘You never know!’ she says, and begins helping Scarlett on with her costume – that of a serving girl.
According to Isaka, identical butterfly masks will hide the faces of all of the Captain’s Young Ones. What’s more, the girls will be dressed in the same outfit as Scarlett: a blue corset over a white blouse, an itsy-bitsy skirt over a flouncy underlay of lace. Boys will be in britches, girls in snatches of netting. They like to see our legs, the Captain and his friends. Like to look at their merchandise before they sample it.
‘This is the sort of look Miguel likes,’ Scarlett says, teasing on a pair of black net stockings.
‘Kind of slutty,’ Cat sniffs.
Scarlett twists her hair in a ponytail bun, covers it with a mop hat, and then eases a butterfly mask over her face: ‘Do I look tasty or not?’
‘Slutty but tasty!’ Cat confirms.
I chuckle nervously in case that skimpy outfit inflames flirty Scarlett and she jumps out and scorches us again.
‘With that ridiculous mask over your face,’ says Cobra, ‘you look more like a demented insect on legs than a human being.’
Scarlett flicks her tongue out at him. ‘A bit like you!’ she replies. And he does too, ’cause he’s disguised in a mask identical to hers.
We laugh and from the outside looking in, it seems that Scary Scarlett is buttoned up as tightly as that corset.
A little later, after we’ve eaten our snacks and Cobra, Cat and I have worked out a routine on paper to perform on the trapeze, the dressing room is hijacked by long-limbed dancers. Men and women, all of ’em a good deal older than us, some with slithers of grey in their hair. Flamenco dancers, I reckon, ’cause as soon as they come in, they start to limber up by playing castanets and tapping their feet.
One of ’em is Carlos’s sister, Imma. Of course I don’t know that to begin with. We’re sitting on stools in a corner, our backs to the door, when a woman practising her moves behind us, pauses. Feet stop strumming the floor, and in the silence that follows, I turn.
Head cocked to one side, left hand rigid from palm to elbow, her right hand twitches mid-air as she stares at us, Scarlett, in particular. Dark eyes clamour with questions. Then, the woman rushes up to Scarlett and says: ‘Are you crazy? Are you looking for trouble?’
Scarlett’s mask with its exaggerated butterfly eyes hasn’t fooled Imma. Infuriated her more like it, for she goes on to say: ‘Does my brother know you’re here? Do the others?’
Scarlett sitting on a stool, plays dumb. Bad move, ’cause Imma grabs her, hauls her up in the air and shakes her not once but twice. Scarlett pushes her away. Pulls down her corset, and says in that high and mighty voice of hers:
‘Why do you Spaniards have to be so exhausting? Why don’t you just die and leave me alone?’
Imma steps back as if she’s been punched in the chest. You’d think they’d never met each other before; that Imma never offered us refuge at Carlos’s farm. She’s about to turn away when Cat winks at her. Puts a finger to her lips. Imma nods. Nods a second time, crumples at a dressing table, and flicks a switch.
Make-up lights glare at the creases on her brow, the crow’s feet around her eyes. Meticulously, she rearranges her rumpled features with grease-paint: beige base, foundation, powder. Her eyes and lashes coated dusky blue, Imma pauses. She looks at Scarlett once again, baulks at her sleazy get-up, and takes a phone from her bag. Talks rapidly to someone at the other end.
She’s speaking to Carlos. Why else would my innards knot? If Carlos knows, the Old Ones will find out as well. Where we are. What we’re up to. I reckon Imma’s telling her brother that we’re digging a grave big enough to bury ourselves in, or words to that effect, ’cause she sighs, is about to confront Scarlett again, when – of all the scumbags in the world that I’d rather not see – Barrel Man barges in. On his right is Concha.
My heart falters, almost seizes as Barrel Man’s presence sucks all the air in the room.
There’s no better method to test out a disguise than to flaunt it in front of the person you aim to hide from. This I know and yet what I’m feeling is altogether different. If I could, I’d disappear in a puff of smoke. I take a deep breath, and begin to stretch. Stretch my gossamer gold arms and legs; tease out a knot of tension in my shoulder as Barrel Man’s eyes flit over the room.
There’s no light in those eyes, only the dull, milky sheen of a dead fish, which the moment it brushes me, raises the hairs on the back of my neck. Hackles bristle, pulse quickens, and then, as Barrel Man’s gaze settles on Scarlett, I get ready to jump him or run.
Cat, to my left, touches the middle of her forehead, our signal for ‘Steady. Hold your ground.’
Not an easy task when my armpits, already wet with sweat, grow clammier by the second. The bloodhound pup scrambles over my feet, jumps up at my chest, and I breathe slowly to stay calm.
‘You,’ Barrel Man says at last to Scarlett. ‘What are you doing here?’ Instead of waiting for a reply, he bellows: ‘You should be in the kitchen with the others going through the drill.’
Scarlett hurries out of the dressing room with her satchel.
I continue stretching. Swing my arms, twist my torso. Extend my thigh muscles. Cobra and Cat, following my example, expand arms and chests. Barrel Man stares at us, is on the verge of inching closer, when Concha says: ‘We’ve the others to sort out before the Captain arrives. Come along now.’
27
‘All right, Sante?’
I nod. Cobra and I are sitting side by side on a trapeze. A second trapeze, adjacent to ours, is lower down, as is the third. We’ve tested all three of ’em to make sure they’re secure. They are. Our problem is they’re static trapezes, and Mama Rose and Redwood trained us on the flying variety: whizz-through-the-sky-leap-and-catch, better-have-a-safety-net-or-you’re-likely-to-die trapezes!
Our challenge is to create an act that uses our skills and brings us together. As it is, though we can move from side to side and up and down, we can’t dazzle spectators by swinging from one trapeze to another. Nonetheless, we can leap and jump and create momentum. We can synchronise our moves, and try out a few tricks.
There’s a mighty turbulence racing through my heart, a crazy tension sparking my nerves, ’cause as soon as I start to dwell on what might happen next, I start to feel wobbly. We create a distraction and then what? The restless dead have waited a long time to bring me here, and even though I’ve had to trust them to come this far, I haven’t a clue what they’re planning to do, or what they really want.
There’s one thing I do know: if that ceremonial dagger they gave me is going to be part of the mix, folks are likely to freak out Big Time. In an hour or so, there’s going to be mayhem down there.
The restaurant, already filling with the Captain’s friends, bustles with the chatter of middle-aged men and women, a few old folks and young ones as well; all of ’em smiling and joking, kissing cheeks and hugging. Laughing toddlers in buggies, babies in prams, little ones cradled in their mother’s arms. Dressed in pale summer suits, splashes of colour here and there – a red pocket-handkerchief, a blue silk cravat, men nod and wink at each other; while women in light linen dresses, scarves fluttering, hair swept back, fiddle with heavy gold bangles sunflower-bright.
A few Old Ones enter with a swagger; confident, a touch overbearing. Used to being waited on. Used to giving orders
, ’cause when the head waiter ushers ’em to their seats, most of ’em can’t be bothered to thank him, let alone look him in the eye. Not all of ’em are rich, though. There are poorer folk among the Captain’s family and friends: black-clad in ill-fitting suits and loose clothing. Ruddy-faced relatives, hands calloused from working on the land. Reckon it takes all sorts to know the Captain and be invited to celebrate his special day.
Even Barrel Man’s family are here. I recognise ’em from the photos on his phone: wife pinched, daughters pigtailed and plump. Barrel Man sits ’em down at a table, then clicks his fingers. Five of Miguel’s gang scuttle up. He tells ’em what to do and they do it. A man in every corner of the restaurant, while Barrel Man and another hulk position themselves either end of a top table.
Not a single one of the guests, or Miguel’s crew for that matter, has any idea what’s in store for them; but then neither do I. And if something were to go wrong? If that dagger was to whizz through the air and plunge into someone? If that someone got hurt, badly hurt, would I be to blame?
Cobra covers my hand with his on the trapeze: ‘Come on, Sante, let’s do this!’
We manoeuvre ourselves into place: Cobra at the top, Cat at the bottom, me sandwiched in-between. Cobra nods, the three of us point our toes, and with hands on the ropes of the trapezes, swing our legs.
More guests take their seats. Waiters fill glasses with sparkling water and teams of serving girls, dressed in the same ridiculous costume as Scarlett, carry buckets of Cava to each table.
I search for Scarlett among ’em, but can’t make her out, ’cause every one of those corseted girls is disguised in masks that make it impossible to recognise their features. Hair’s completely hidden as well and there isn’t a twizzle of maple-red, brown, black or blonde in sight.
Bottles pop open. Froth spills into glasses and is gulped down. Pop! Amid joyous sprays of laughter. Pop! Pop! Pop!
