Circus of the Grand Design

by Robert Freeman Wexler

  "Thanks, they look good," Lewis said. "But I don't have much of an appetite now. Maybe later?"

  "Fruit then? I have a nice durian." The cook pointed to a basket filled with spiky, football-sized fruit.

  "No thanks, I really don't feel like I can eat. But can you sit down? I'd like to ask you a few questions about the routine around here."

  "Too busy." The cook carried the doughnuts back to the counter, then left through a door next to the refrigerator. Lewis heard the click of a bolt.

  First a moody porter, now a cook who was only nice when offering food. Lewis stared at the window and imagined the world flowing by on the other side. Quaint villages and stinking factory towns, apple orchards, cornfields, rivers. Without sunlight, how would he be able to judge the passing of day?

  He wrote in his journal about his experiences at Are No's and his meeting with Dillon. The Are No part—he didn't want anyone to see that. Not that he ever showed anyone his journal, but now it felt different. What he wrote incriminated him, proved he was responsible. Not likely Dillon would have taken Lewis if he had known about the arson.

  The cook returned to his post carrying something that looked like a giant turkey.

  "You cook slow or they're tough, especially these small ones from the highlands."

  The juggler entered, bouncing two small white balls. He nodded at Lewis. His red terry-cloth robe dragged on the floor behind him.

  "Morning Cinteotl."

  Never heard a name like that, Lewis thought. He turned his head so he could see them.

  "I've been chopping onions and carrots," the cook said. "Not to mention wrestling with this bird. It's good I plucked it right after I caught it."

  The juggler bounced the balls on the counter twice, then flung one of them behind him. It hit the floor a few feet from the far wall, caromed into the wall, up to the ceiling, down to the floor, to the ceiling, and back into his hand. He pushed the balls into a pocket.

  "How about a couch," the juggler said. "Haven't had one since...last night."

  From behind Lewis came the sounds of an ice machine, then the juggler sank into the seat across from him holding a plastic cup of iced coffee. "I'm Garson Gold. I juggle."

  "Yeah, I saw your act last night." He introduced himself and started telling Gold about having been just hired to do public relations. "I'm doing a complete marketing package, biographical sketches..." What an idiotic way to talk. He wasn't working with engineers anymore.

  "Well I was born juggling. My parents recognized my talent immediately and made sure I didn't grow up playing crackle-box all day like everyone else. My father knew this guy, the leading juggler of his day until he fell off his unicycle. He wanted to sharpen me up, but there was nothing I needed to learn. I was ten. The year after that I got a job on the Carmen Hill show."

  The cook called out for Gold to pick up his food. Lewis closed his notebook and pulled out a legal pad (not wanting work to creep into his journal). He wrote: juggler—TV show. Gold returned with his food, a circular bread about the size of a dinner plate, like a pita but thicker; reddish sauce oozed out an opening in one end.

  "Do you have a resume? That would help me with my bios."

  "I don't need a resume. People come to me." Gold shoved some sandwich into his mouth but continued to speak clearly, as if his words were too important to be stopped by an act so mundane as eating. "I play the piano too."

  Of course you do, Lewis thought. Watching Gold eat made his nausea return. He pushed his plate away.

  "You okay? You look a little green."

  "I feel seasick or something. I can't eat."

  "Everybody gets that way at first. Except me." Gold reached for Lewis's suicide roll and bit into it. "There's a certain peace one gets while juggling—everything revolves around the center of your existence. Once you've found your inner center, you achieve the proper flow. You can juggle anything. Millions of good jugglers never reach this. They lack the total fluidity of movement that I have." Gold pantomimed juggling, tossing invisible objects into the air and catching them. He knocked over his cup; ice spilled onto the floor. Lewis held back a laugh, pleased that Gold couldn't control every object he touched.

  Gold ignored the accident. "I learned about the inner center during my apprenticeship with the master who trained me. Before that I was all style with no substance." Gold got up, taking his glass. "Before I became what I am now."

  Lewis heard the sound of ice tumbling into a glass. Gold returned to his seat juggling ice one-handed, as if to make Lewis forget about what he had just spilled.

  "Of course the Academy recruited me. During the first season, I went out on the road with the varsity. I was the youngest, and the star. It was on one of these tours that I found the first love of my life. I was signing autographs and giving a demonstration a few hours before showtime. She was strolling with some friends. They stopped to watch, spellbound. As soon as I saw her, I knew she had perfect jugglies."

  "Perfect what?" Behind Lewis, the cook clattered plates and silverware. He seemed to be making more noise than was necessary. Several loud thuds made Lewis turn around.

  "It's best to pound the whole spices yourself right before using them," the cook said. "Otherwise they lose their essential oils too quickly." The cook had wheeled out a portable gas grill and set it up beside the counter, apparently for cooking the giant bird.

  Gold pantomimed juggling briefly, then put his hands flat on the table. "We ended up in her dormitory room, on a sweltering night, and though she was probably my age, I of course seemed the elder because of my worldly experiences, which needed no embellishment. When she took off her shirt, I knew I had been correct. She stepped up and down from a stool while I held her perfect jugglies." Gold closed his eyes, apparently overcome by the memory.

  "We made love standing up."

  Gold took the rubber balls out of his pocket and looked at them as though unsure whether to juggle or fondle, then he slid out of his seat. "See you around."

  "Wait—do you know where I can find Mr. Dillon?" Lewis asked. "I have to go over some things with him."

  "Next car is the gym, then his, elephant's foot knocker," He walked out dribbling the balls against the ceiling.

  Lewis hoped not everyone in the circus would be like Gold. Would he find any likable people among them? And what would they like about him, a regular guy, with no thrilling tales and exploits?

  He sat writing everything he could remember about public relations, as though creating an essay for a college exam. Finally over his queasiness, he decided it was time to look for Dillon.

  Chapter 6: The Schedule is Ephemeral

  Lewis entered a vast, murky space. The shadows and peculiar light made the greenish walls seem far away and close at the same time. The air tasted musty, thick, with traces of animal scent, of human sweat and past activities. A rubberized jogging track ringed the room. Needing a path, he stepped onto its surface and followed it toward the far door. From above came a rustle, a repeating swish and plop; he looked up. Four men flowed from trapeze to trapeze, constant motion of arms and legs, leaping and catching. Afraid to walk under them, Lewis moved into a darker part of the room. He passed a miniature pickup truck painted bright yellow, then various types of exercise equipment. Off to his right was what appeared to be a carriage—an aluminum frame with four bicycle wheels and a pedaling mechanism. The configuration of the pedals looked as if the carriage was meant for an animal to operate, like bicycles for bears. He wondered if it was used by the giant guinea pig-like animals he had seen parading with that woman.

  Emerging from the gloomy recesses of the gym, he saw that Gold and his assistant had entered and crossed under the acrobats to a bare area near the far door.

  "Distractions as usual," Gold said, nodding to Lewis.

  It was the first time Lewis had stood near Gold. He hadn't realized how tall the juggler was, almost a head taller than Lewis.

  Gold stripped off his robe to reveal a dazzling white tank top a
nd black nylon shorts. "Let's get started," he said.

  "Aren't we supposed to work on my act today?" the assistant said. "I've been practicing for months, and you haven't even showed me how to find the center yet."

  Gold's voice assumed a patronizing tone. "You're not ready for that. I was juggling for six years before I received real training."

  Lewis wondered how old the assistant was and how he had ended up in the circus. He was about an inch shorter than Lewis, but much thinner. His clothes were overlarge, perhaps castoffs from Gold or other performers. He seemed too young. Did children still run away to the circus?

  One of the acrobats shouted "Pishta" and tumbled to a thick mat spread beneath their trapezes. He lay for a moment, then sat, looking dazed. A man hanging by his legs from one of the trapezes spread his arms like an apology. The seated acrobat looked up and shook his fist, yelling in a language Lewis didn't recognize. The other three acrobats landed on the mat, and the acrobat who had been dropped jumped to his feet and shouted at the one who had apparently committed the error. They all looked identical, same height, hair color. Lewis wondered if they were brothers. They didn't act like brothers. Not like brothers who were close, anyway. The acrobat who had been dropped butted his head into the other one's stomach, knocking him down. He shouted once more, turned, and stomped away. The other pair stood over their comrade, who lay gasping, clutching his stomach.

  "Should we do something?" Lewis asked Gold. It scared him to think that these people depended on each other to perform.

  "I don't affiliate with them," Gold said. He raised an eyebrow, as though trying to communicate more than he was saying. "These mountain people...though they are in their eccentric way, artists, and deserving of some praise."

  The two acrobats who hadn't been involved in the conflict helped their companion to stand and walked toward the far door, supporting him between them. Apparently uninterested in the drama, Gold and his assistant began practicing their routine.

  ~

  The next car was similar to the other residential cars, but had only one door in the middle of the hall. And there was the brass knocker shaped like an elephant's foot. Lewis tapped with the foot and waited.

  Dillon's voice called out: "Enter," and Lewis did.

  The room smelled of turpentine and oil paint, like Are No's frozen studio. Dillon stood facing an easel with a canvas showing three irregular black splotches. A glass palette covered with dabs of paint sat on a nearby table. Lewis closed the door behind him and waited for Dillon to turn around. Off to Lewis's right was a wooden desk, of plain design, though the wood had a warm, buttery glow. A few paintings hung on the walls, abstract like the one on Dillon's easel, paintings that filled him with a combination of unease and gratitude, and he thought of eggshells, of a massive chrysalis giving birth to a creature of uncanny beauty.

  Dillon laid his brush on the palette and stepped back from the painting. "The light is sometimes difficult here, but I paint more from memory anyway," he said, without turning around.

  Lewis forced his attention away from the paintings. "Can I get a performance schedule?" he asked. "Then I can write press releases and send them out at our next stop. There's a book that has newspaper addresses all over the country. I had one in my office at work, but there wasn't time to go get it. So we'll need to pick one up somewhere."

  Paint smudged Dillon's fingers. He picked up another brush and waved it over the canvas, perhaps unsure what to do next. He stepped back, then lunged at the canvas and painted a yellow band around the black splotches. The effect of the yellow and black was hypnotic. Dillon refreshed the brush with yellow paint and continued surrounding the black splotches

  "Yellow, green, and black are the colors of our dreams," he said.

  Why had he come to see Dillon?...press releases, the program guide, his job. "So then, the best thing would be for me to see a whole show, then maybe begin interview—"

  "The schedule is ephemeral. We follow a twisting convolution of a path from show to show." Dillon set his yellow brush in a jar of turpentine and backed about ten feet from his canvas. "Give me the press releases, and I will see that they reach the proper places."

  Not liking the way Dillon was trivializing his job, he began dictating additional details: "I'll need a list of everyone in the circus and their acts so I can start roughing out the program, and I'll need to know how much you want to spend on all this, and I'll probably..." He felt as if his voice was fading, seemingly unable to force itself into the indifference of Dillon's room.

  "Jenkins will give you a list of current residents," Dillon said. He reached for another brush, one with a wide, fan-like tip, which he dipped into a blob of green paint. Now what was the man doing? Dillon began a vertical green line, painting over part of a black splotch and its yellow border. The act of covering up dismayed Lewis. He liked the black and yellow, didn't want anything to happen to them. He wanted Dillon to stop.

  "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."

  Chapter 7: Spring Rain

  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 be
yond. 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.