“If you two keep fighting, you will make trouble for all of us!” Hana raises her eyes toward the coach, who is ambling to the pit.
“Everything okay over there, ladies?” the coach calls out.
“Everything’s fine!” I call back.
Hana bows her head, then raises it to give a small smile to the coach.
He heads back to his chair, reassured by Hana’s good manners. “Keep it that way,” he hollers.
When the three of us have climbed out of the pit, Hana brings her backpack from where she left it at the side of the room. She unzips the pack and shows us the thermos inside. “It’s boricha. Barley tea in English. I brought it with me from Korea. You two must try it. Right away. Boricha helps when you feel nervous.”
“I’m not nervous.” I want Genevieve to know I’m not afraid of her—that I’m not afraid of anything.
Hana says we must go straightaway to the cafeteria for cups. She invites Anastasia to come along too.
I walk with Hana, who is still babbling about boricha tea. Anastasia and Genevieve are up ahead, walking close together. Something Genevieve says makes Anastasia giggle.
Then Anastasia turns around to look at me. “You two were fighting over Leo?” Her eyes are laughing.
“Not just Leo,” I mutter.
“Well, there’s no use fighting over him,” Anastasia says. “Everyone knows he and Guillaume are a couple. They’ve been going out since last summer.”
“Really?” I say.
Genevieve puts her hands on her hips. “Are you joking?” she asks.
Anastasia gives us each a look that seems to say we will never—ever—be as sophisticated as a member of the Bershov family. “Would I joke about something like that?”
I can’t believe I didn’t figure out that Leo and Guillaume are together. And that I was convinced Leo liked me. The only thing that cheers me up is Genevieve not having figured it out either.
The four of us have to walk a long corridor before we reach the staircase that will take us down to the cafeteria. Along the way, we walk by the windows that look out over Second Avenue.
I notice a worker adjusting the Canadian flag hanging outside the Cirque de la Lune headquarters. “Look,” I say. “The flag. What do you think’s going on out there?”
Anastasia presses her face to the window. “Oh my god,” she whispers. “They only fly a flag at half-mast when someone dies.”
We hear the elevator doors slide open at the end of the hallway. Terence comes flying out toward us. For the first time, I notice the fine lines around his eyes.
“Why are they lowering the flag?” Anastasia asks him. “Who died?”
Terence wipes his nose. Has he been crying? “We just found out there was an accident earlier this morning at Cirque Viva,” he tells us. “A climber died during practice.” He pauses before he adds, “It was someone I went to school with. Many years ago.” He looks down the hallway. “In this building.”
Anastasia slumps forward.
I bring my hand to my mouth.
Genevieve gasps.
Hana drops her thermos of tea. It tumbles out of her backpack and rolls down the corridor.
It isn’t until later that I realize neither Genevieve nor I bothered asking whether the climber who died did tissu or rope.
Twelve
I don’t want to be alone. Not after Terence’s news. The other girls must feel the same way because when Hana suggests we go hang out in the MCC library, we are all quick to agree.
The library windows overlook the small gym, and from here we can see a student swinging back and forth on the trapeze. She’s swinging so peacefully, I decide she must not yet have heard that a local circus performer is dead.
Dead.
I can’t get the word out of my mind.
I’ve known circus performers who’ve been injured—who’ve sprained ribs or ankles, who’ve dislocated shoulders…I even knew a trampolinist who broke her arm—but never anyone who died. It’s weird to think it could have happened while we were eating poached eggs in the cafeteria this morning.
Anastasia sits down at one of the computer terminals. Hana flips through a book about the history of circus. Genevieve and I seem to have made an awkward truce. We sit at opposite ends of the couch, watching a DVD of a performance by Circa, an Australian circus troupe that performed in Montreal last summer.
Genevieve fast-forwards the DVD to get to the climbing act. A redheaded woman with muscular shoulders climbs the tissu with the speed and ease of a monkey.
“Nice,” Genevieve says to the screen.
“I wonder if the climber who died was doing tissu or rope,” I say quietly.
Genevieve doesn’t lift her eyes from the screen. “How should I know?” She sounds annoyed.
“Don’t you care that a climber died?”
“I care. I just don’t want to think about it right now,” Genevieve says.
Maybe she’s right. Maybe I shouldn’t think about it either. I try to concentrate on the monkey woman’s number instead. She is dangling from the red fabric by one ankle.
But then I start thinking about all the reasons why rope is better than tissu. A rope is rough and natural—there is nothing pretty about it. With rope, the focus stays on the performer. With tissu, the audience gets distracted by the beauty—the bright colors and the soft swish—of the Lycra.
Of course, I can’t say any of this to Genevieve. We’d just get into another fight. From the way she has burrowed into her corner of the couch, her hands crossed over her chest, I decide she must be as upset as I am about the climber’s death, even if she won’t talk about it.
The librarian is hunched over Anastasia’s computer. She’s a tall woman who wears funky clothes, and today she has on a colorful artist’s smock. She must know Anastasia has trouble reading, because she is pointing at the screen and explaining something to Anastasia. They both shake their heads and sigh. That’s when I realize Anastasia is not checking her email. They are googling this morning’s accident. Has it already made the news?
I pop up from the couch and head over to the computer. Genevieve stays on the couch, eyes glued to the screen, though I feel her gaze flutter and land on me when I get up.
The librarian moves over to make room for me. I was right. An article from the Montreal Gazette website is on the computer screen. The headline makes something catch in my throat. Rope Climber Dies in Tragic Circus Accident.
The librarian pats my elbow. Is it because she knows rope is my specialty at circus camp? I try to read the article, but the words keep getting blurry. An aerialist with Cirque Viva plummeted forty-five feet to her death earlier this morning. There will be an investigation, but preliminary reports indicate the aluminum carabiner to which the rope was attached broke. The victim was a woman, though her name has not yet been released. Several of the victim’s fellow circus performers witnessed the accident.
I’m imagining what it would feel like to fall forty-five feet, to hear my friends’ screams in the background. I close my eyes to make the picture—and the sounds—go away, but it doesn’t help.
Leo picks that moment to burst into the library. Other people enter a room; they walk or, if they’re in a hurry, they run. Leo bursts in.
He stops at the circulation desk. “Where’s Genevieve?” His voice echoes in the room.
Genevieve doesn’t look up from the screen. “She isn’t here!” she calls back.
Leo doesn’t get the message. He marches over to the couch. Now he notices me at Anastasia’s computer. “Hey, girls,” he says to all of us, “you coming skating or what?”
Genevieve keeps ignoring him.
When I look up at him, he walks over to the computer. “I guess you didn’t hear about the accident,” I whisper.
Leo freezes. “What accident?”
“An aerialist with Cirque Viva died this morning. They think the carabiner broke,” I tell him.
“Oh no,” Leo says.
Genevieve
has finally stopped watching the DVD. She comes over to the computer. So does Hana.
We’re all looking at the screen, not saying anything. Maybe because there are no words.
The librarian wipes her cheek.
That’s when I realize that even if the Gazette website hasn’t published the name of the aerialist who died, the librarian too may already know who the woman is. Didn’t Terence tell us she was a student at MCC?
“Did you know her?” I ask the librarian.
“We all knew her.” The librarian’s voice is soft and sad. “Louise and Terence trained together. At one point, they competed for the same position…” Her voice trails off, as if she’s remembering Louise and Terence together in la palestre.
“I guess we’re not going skating,” Leo says.
“We’re not,” Genevieve and I say at the same time.
So much for our catfight.
Thirteen
After the news of Louise’s death, the mood at circus camp changes.
It’s less noisy; everyone is more serious. But as Suzanne tells us on Monday morning, the show has to go on. She gestures to the flag outside—it will fly at half-mast all week. “Those of us who knew Louise will never forget her. But she’d want all of you to keep training, to keep doing your best, to keep trying to make a life in the circus.”
In the afternoon, we try out the German wheel—two interconnected metal wheels that are bigger than any of us. Usually, I’d be excited. Today, I’m…well, a little afraid. If those wheels fell on one of us…I stop myself. I’m beginning to think like my dad.
“I get dizzy just looking at that contraption,” Guillaume says.
“Put one finger on the tip of your nose, like this”—I demonstrate for Guillaume—“and stare at a fixed point.”
Hana is still carting around that library book about circus history. She flips to the page about the German wheel and reads from it, slowly, enunciating every word. “The German wheel was invented by Otto Feick, a railroad maker, who was imprisoned in the 1920s in Germany, but many people believe the German wheel originated long before then as an instrument of torture. Oh my.” Hana slams the book shut.
“Torture? Now why doesn’t that surprise me?” Leo asks with a laugh.
Everyone laughs except Genevieve and me. I don’t think it’s only because we’re still upset about Louise’s death. I think it’s also because we both feel Leo was playing with us. Maybe that’s what happens when you feel disappointed by someone who is funny—his jokes stop working on you.
The acrobatics coach shows us how to step into the German wheel and how to use the footboards and handgrips. “This is a heavy piece of equipment, and it accelerates quickly,” he warns. “So you need to know how to keep it stable. Also, make sure your shoelaces are tightly tied—you don’t want them catching on the apparatus.”
Catching on the apparatus. Already I’m picturing that happening—the shoelace coming loose, the German wheel falling, the performer trying to pull his leg out of the way but not being able to. Stop it, I tell myself. Concentrate on the lesson.
The coach gestures for us to give him some room, and then, because we ask him to show us something fancy, he demonstrates an advanced move: the spiral. He leans into the wheel until it’s hovering over the floor. It’s hard to tell where his body ends and the German wheel begins. The two swirl so quickly, it’s like watching a dropped coin spin to the ground. When he’s done, the coach steps out of the wheel as if he’s stepping off the bus. How can he not be dizzy?
Anastasia is the first to try the wheel. The coach wants her to get into something called the stride stand position. “Stand tall,” he tells her, though he doesn’t have to because Anastasia always stands tall. Standing tall must be a Bershov family trait. “Straight legs! Toes over the edge of the footboards!” The coach nods at Anastasia, then turns to the rest of us. “See how her body is centered inside the wheel.”
We won’t be doing any spirals today—the first lesson is just getting into proper position, then rocking the wheel from side to side. It doesn’t take long before the sweat is dripping down Anastasia’s cheeks.
Suzanne walks into the gym carrying a folded-up sheet of paper. She and the coach exchange a quick look. Like Terence, Suzanne has also begun to look older to me since we got the news of Louise’s death. “Anastasia,” Suzanne says, “I need to speak with you, please. Privately.”
Anastasia must sense something is wrong. She inhales sharply and follows Suzanne out of the gym.
We all turn to watch, even though we know it would be more polite to give Anastasia some privacy. Suzanne closes the gym doors behind her. She doesn’t want us to hear whatever it is she’s come to talk to Anastasia about.
Only seconds later, Anastasia cries out—just once, but loudly.
Oh no, I think. More bad news.
Genevieve, Hana and I are up on our feet. The acrobatics coach extends his arm like a traffic cop. I can see from his face that he’s trying to decide whether to let us go to Anastasia.
But we’re already going. We don’t have to ask Anastasia what has happened because as soon as she sees us, her face crumples and she whispers, “My father had a heart attack. I’m going home.”
Anastasia goes upstairs to pack. She is leaving for Moscow tonight.
“But she won’t be here for the end-of-camp show,” Genevieve says.
“For a girl,” Hana tells Genevieve, “her father is the most important man.”
* * *
Later, after Anastasia has said a tearful goodbye to all of us, my cell phone rings. “Hi, Mom,” I say. “What’s up?”
But it isn’t my mom. It’s my dad. “Dad, why are you call—” I stop myself when I realize how that must sound. “Hey, Dad, how’re things in Vancouver?”
“Mandy.”
I know from the way he says my name that he’s heard about the aerialist who died. He’s probably going to tell me to take the next plane home.
“I just read on the Internet about the young woman with Cirque Viva who fell to her death,” Dad says.
“I’m not coming home.” Even though there are thirty-one hundred miles between us, I can feel my body bracing for a fight. Probably because I’m so used to fighting with my dad. “They think a carabiner broke. It was a freak accident.”
“That isn’t why I’m calling.”
It takes me a moment to register what my dad just said. “It isn’t?”
“No, it isn’t. Your mom is out at Pilates and, well…I just wanted to know how you were doing. How you were taking the news of…what happened.” I know Dad is trying to avoid saying the words fell and death again.
I feel my shoulders relax. “I’m okay, I guess. A lot of people here knew the woman who died. Louise. She went to MCC. My climbing coach, Terence—he trained with her. They’re flying the flag across the street at half-mast.” I’m babbling. And I haven’t answered my dad’s question. “I guess the news hasn’t really sunk in yet.”
“Just promise me you’ll be careful,” Dad says.
“I’m always careful.” I don’t mean for the words to come out sounding sharp, but they do.
I could apologize for my tone, but changing the subject is easier. “This other girl at camp, Anastasia, she’s flying home to Moscow tonight. Her father had a heart attack.”
“I’m sorry to hear it. Is he going to be all right?”
“They don’t know yet.”
I nearly tell him Anastasia is from a famous Russian circus family, but I stop myself. Dad won’t think it’s cool the way I do.
I can hear the TV in the background. “You watching baseball?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I should probably get off the phone.” This may be the longest conversation I’ve had with my dad all year.
“Mandy.” The way he says my name sounds different than it did before. “The aerialist’s death… it’s bringing up a lot of stuff for me. Memories of your grandfather’s death. I think that’s why I needed to
know how you were doing—how you were handling the news.”
“Like I said, it hasn’t really sunk in. Was it like that for you too?” It’s the first time I’ve ever pictured my dad as a teenager.
Instead of answering my question, Dad does something that takes me by surprise. He tells me a part of the story I’ve never heard before. “Your grandmother was too upset to go to the morgue to identify the body. So I had to go instead.”
There’s a lump forming in my throat. “Oh, Dad,” I say. “That’s so sad. And you were just a kid, right?”
I know my dad must be remembering—picturing the scene at the morgue. “I was fifteen,” he says. “The same age as you are now. Just tell me you’ll be careful.”
“We already had this conversation.”
When I hang up, I feel relieved the call is over—and irritated with my dad. Why does he have to keep dumping all his worry on me?
It isn’t until later that I wish I hadn’t snapped at him.
Fourteen
Terence isn’t in la palestre when we show up for aerial class on Tuesday morning. While we wait, Genevieve hoists her feet up against the wall and starts doing these killer push-ups. I could do them too, but I don’t want to look like I’m copying her. Besides, I don’t think I could handle more than six of those things.
Genevieve does three sets of twelve before she collapses spread-eagle on the mats. “I had a nightmare last night,” she says without looking up at me. “About the aerialist who died. You having nightmares too?”
“Not so far,” I tell her. “But I keep picturing it…the carabiner breaking, the rope slipping loose…”
Genevieve sits up and looks right at me. “There must’ve been something wrong with the carabiner,” she says.
Terence is ten minutes late. “Sorry, ladies,” he calls from the doorway. I’ve never seen him in a suit and tie before. He looks more like a bank manager than an aerial instructor.
“How come you’re all dressed up?” Genevieve asks.
I nudge her. She may be better than I am at doing push-ups, but she’s not so good at figuring stuff out. I look at her and mouth the word funeral.
Learning the Ropes Page 5
