The former antagonists repeated "no recrudescence" and embraced. Cinteotl brought them a towel for the scarred acrobat's nose and a bottle of clear liquor. The acrobats clinked their glasses and began singing.
Lewis left the remains of his mush and returned to his room. On the way, the hall lights dimmed, simulating dusk.
~
Faint music, the song Lewis had heard in the dining car, came from somewhere. The cello and the singer with the sad voice. The cloudy windows glowed more orange than usual, soothing but not soporific. Leaving the lights off, he sat at his desk and thought about the citrus woman. Maybe he would ask Cinteotl for oranges, to lure her back. Twice now he had seen her, and that was enough, apparently, to spark an obsession. Dark and deep, her eyes held the secrets of the world; her ageless face haunted the night. With each of her gliding steps toward him, that night, he had moved equally closer to her. Recalling her visit gave him a sudden erection.
Again, he thought of leaving. He would avoid the circus crew, get food in the mornings, or whatever felt like mornings in this train with no sunshine, stay in his room, bags packed and ready to leave next time the train stopped. He pulled his backpack out of the closet and began stuffing clothes into it. But he needed to see the citrus woman again before leaving. He could search for her while waiting.
Leaving clothes scattered, he took out the diagram he had made during his exploration and tore off a clean sheet of paper. He added the four residential cars, the dining car, and sketched an elephant, horse, and three capybarabears. The residential cars each had three rooms. Should he knock on doors to see who lived in them? He sat staring at the clouded windows, imagining stars passing beyond the gray-orange wall. Something nagged at him. He slapped the desk, trying to remember. He would have to ask Jenkins for a list. Idiot—Jenkins had already given him one, a sheet with everyone's names and rooms, when he brought the antique typewriter. Lewis dug through his satchel. There, crumpled at the bottom. Now he could label the residential cars.
Someone rapped on his door. Please, not Dawn again. He considered not answering. But what if it was the citrus woman? He hid the train diagram and list of personnel under his journal notebook and went to open the door. Leonora stood in the hall with a piece of paper in her right hand and a coffee cup in her left. She looked up at him, not frowning but not smiling either.
"Yes?" He kept himself in the door. He didn't want her to see that he was packing. And he wasn't going to interview her.
She held up the piece of paper. "Résumé. I don't have time for no interview for your whatchacallit."
Her harsh voice was so unlike the citrus woman's. He wondered how Gold could like this person. And her stiff hair. That couldn't be her real hair color. But her face, if she smiled and you imagined long, dark hair, soft like a cat's, she could be beautiful. Her body was probably as hard as Dawn's. Harder. At least Dawn was sweet. Leonora probably collected hunting knives. He had known a woman in college—they had gone out a couple of times—who liked knives. He didn't stay with her long enough to find out what she did with them.
"You takin' this thing or what?" Leonora shook the résumé at him.
"Okay, sure." He took the sheet. "If I need something else I'll let you know, okay?"
"Lemme use your can, this coffee goes right through." She pushed him out of her way. "Lookit all this crap. You heard of cleaning?"
"I was in the middle of reorganizing." He hoped that would satisfy her. He squatted by the backpack and folded a shirt. She came out of the bathroom and left without saying anything else.
~
"Leonora Lynn Fields," the first line of the resume said in Copperplate Gothic, an elegant but overused typeface. He wondered why she didn't use a stage name, something catchy like Desmonica Rienzi. "Education: Master of Kinesiology" from some school he hadn't heard of. "Dancer, Pegasus Company." He dropped the sheet on his desk and uncovered the diagram and list of personnel, then filled in the names of the appropriate cars.
Look at that—all rooms and people accounted for except the one next to his. He would try that door first.
The metal knob had a tarnished pewter sheen. It felt stiff and clicked repeatedly when it turned, like a combination lock. The door opened with a pop, and a puff of damp air blew out, a mulchy, spring-like scent. He peered into a darkness that the light from the hall couldn't penetrate and groped for a light switch; the inside wall felt rough, like a tree trunk. Something brushed his hand. Startled, he jerked back, but it was only a pull-string for the light. The light revealed a circular space, about ten feet in diameter with white walls, floor, and ceiling. The door curved on the inside to conform to the shape of the walls. The white walls had a shimmering quality, as though made from a translucent material. He stepped inside, shutting the door to keep anyone from noticing, and drew the room on his diagram.
When he looked up from his legal pad the walls and ceiling had disappeared. Ahead of him, he saw only misty white light. He turned all the way around; each direction was the same. He had no idea how to find the door. The air in the white space was warm and moist against his cheeks. He stepped into the white mist, walking at a measured pace. He would have to reach another wall eventually.
Hiking had always calmed him, taking a backpack and walking the trails for a few days, a week. He had never had the time to stage an extended trip—that was what he would do when he left the circus. How long since his last hike? Before Martha. A city girl, she hadn't liked the outdoors. She spent all her time arranging meetings with friends. He had fallen into the rhythm of her life, the events, the dinners with whomever was next on the schedule, and along the way gave up the outdoors. That had been part of what sent him to Are No's. But moving to the city hadn't been a mistake. Though it wasn't his kind of place, it held so much, art, grit, life. He might return there someday. It was large enough to hide in; he could easily avoid the kinds of places Martha would frequent. The main thing was being able to escape to the countryside when necessary. Difficult without a car, but trains led everywhere. Including, of course, Point Elizabeth. That was a direction he wouldn't be trying soon. He wondered what was happening there right now. Maybe they wouldn't even be looking for him. The man at the diner would say he had asked about the phone—that proved his innocence.
A curved doorway stood in the wall opposite him. He opened it and stepped into the hallway of the train car.
Chapter 13: Advice on Love
Lewis's shirt hung damp under his arms and down the sides. He leaned against the wall. All that limitless white space...his throat was a dry, scaly thing. So stupid of him, he knew better than to hike without food and water. Ahead of him, the crazy snake of the train stretched on toward forever, but his door was close, and inside, respite. He set off, swaying as he walked, but before he could reach his haven, the doors to the next car swished open to reveal Gold, carrying a briefcase.
On seeing Lewis, Gold let out a whoop. Ignore the fool, Lewis thought. Don't let him in. He nodded a greeting and tried to get to his door before Gold could reach him.
"Hey guy. Been looking for you I don't know how long."
Gold followed him into the room. Did no one respect his privacy? Lewis was too tired to care what Gold thought of his clothes on the floor or the open backpack. In the bathroom he filled a glass at the sink and drank it down. When he came back, Gold had plopped cross-legged in the middle of his bed. It was a position that had always annoyed Lewis, mainly because whenever he tried it himself his legs quickly became numb.
Gold had started talking about Leonora, describing a moment during a past performance in which she fell from Percival the elephant. "Some dog-ass threw a bottle..."
Lewis wondered what would be that fastest way to get Gold out of his room. He wanted to rest and eat, not listen to some lovesick prattle. He looked up at his etching: Cybele Confronts the Magma. Who was Cybele? Such a musical sound. That must be the citrus woman's name.
"You may not believe this, but Leonora is the first woman wh
o hasn't fallen for me immediately." Gold stopped talking and seemed to expect a comment.
The first? Or just the first he's admitting to. Did women find his knobby nose and big ears attractive?
"I am of course mainly referring to the period after I became an accomplished performing artist with the confidence in art and self accompanying my success. Sometimes I feel like I've been chasing her forever and never catching up."
Like the search for Cybele. But finding her will be a greater reward than Gold's Leonora. Such an unappealing person. He should show Gold her résumé.
"I had been here for at least a cycle when she arrived, with a retinue—two men in that state of physical health that proves an innate lack of intelligence. The train departed without them, though they had meant, so I heard, to join our crew. I immediately knew this was an omen."
Cybele, a woman of the spring, of orange blossoms. He needed her. Martha had been winter, cold and unforgiving. Spring was his season. His birthplace.
"I'm sure I can trust you." Gold snapped open the briefcase. "I've never shown this to anyone."
He pulled out a book, holding it so Lewis could see the dust jacket: Glory of the Flat-Chested Woman. The cover art was a black and white photo of a woman from waist level. Tank top, long, wavy hair, and a python wrapped around one arm.
"I saw it in a bookstore just before joining the circus. I fell in love with the woman on the cover. And the other pictures of her are wondrous. I had to have it. When Leonora arrived, I knew it was her, even though the name in the book is 'Grail.'" Gold rested the book in his lap, caressing the cover photo for a moment before continuing.
"Now, as I said, retinue, sign, dot, dot, dot, but unfortunately I had just become embroiled in a messy affair with Desmonica that has only now played its course. I find myself in the heretofore foreign situation of desiring a woman only half interested in me. You may not believe this, but I'm desperate."
He stood and began pacing. Five steps...turn...five steps...turn. "So what do I do? I've seen the effect you have. Everyone's talking about you. Even Bodyssia."
Talking about him—why? His heart raced. What were they saying? Leonora must have reported his packing. And Dawn could be saying anything, telling everyone that he was coming on to her. He looked back at his etching. Cybele. He didn't care about Gold's stupid crush. "I have to find her."
"This minute?" Gold stopped pacing. "I think she's rehearsing with Barca. What are you going to say?"
No, find Cybele you dolt. He couldn't believe he had said that aloud. What kind of advice could he give, anyway? "I meant you have to find her." Gold ran to the door.
"No, not literally go and find her now. Find who she is as a person." That sounded pathetic, but Gold, nodded and wrote it down. What else could he say? "Do nice things for her. Show a sincere interest. Share something with her that you haven't told anyone else. But don't brag." No way Gold could follow that one. Bragging was like breathing for him. Now, let him go. Good.
~
All Lewis wanted was a few hours sleep. Before Gold had finished closing the door, he flopped stomach-first onto the bed and closed his eyes. What were people saying about him? Maybe he should have asked Gold. He turned onto his back. Cybele, if that was the citrus woman's name—she must talk to someone. After he rested...but now he couldn't rest. Too many questions buzzed through his head, and Cybele's face floated above everything.
He slipped on his sweat pants and a shirt and hurried to the dining car. Now, he wanted to see another person, but no one was there, not even Cinteotl. At least there was coffee in the carafe. He took it to a booth and sat down. Cybele should stop teasing him. She had to be close—why not show herself?
It was so hard, being here alone. He put his head down on the table and closed his eyes. No one real to talk to. Maybe it would help if he tried to do some interviews. Work would keep him busy, would prevent them from suspecting his plan to leave. Didn't want to get near the acrobats though. No interview, make something up about them. They had enough already. And everyone talking about him. What could they be saying? He hadn't done anything.
Lewis woke up, startled. Cinteotl had come in and started clattering pans and pounding something. Lewis couldn't believe he had fallen asleep at the booth. How long had it been? The cook might bring him something inedible. He lowered his head again.
The pressure of somebody rubbing his shoulders awakened him. He looked up. Desmonica. Had she been one of the ones talking about him? She stopped rubbing, but kept a hand in his hair. She was giving him her usual pathetic attempt at a seductive smile. "I would love to cut your hair sometime, Lewis."
"Okay." Not her. Not without someone else there to make sure she didn't slip and cut an artery.
"I can't now. I'm on my way to the pool."
"There's a pool?" He looked at her again, this time noticing her billowy green skirt and matching bikini top. She wasn't someone who should be wearing a bikini. All that flab, her fleshy breasts, but at least she wasn't hard, like Leonora.
"Don't you know anything?" She started walking toward the gymnasium.
"I need to see it." Even if it meant being with her. He got up to follow.
"I'll be busy doing my laps. Performers have to maintain their fitness you know."
Want to see the damn pool, not your flabby ass. If she got that figure by maintaining fitness, he didn't want to see what happened when she did nothing.
"After your swim, I can interview you for the program." He might as well make a pretense of work—if they were talking about him, it would get around.
"Oh, I suppose. You sure are pushy."
He glanced at the tattoo on her shoulder, a wasp, not a butterfly. As they left the dining car, Cinteotl waved his cleaver at them and pointed to a large squash on the counter beside him. Squash would be good later. Stay away from fermented slop though.
In the gym, Miss Linda sprinted around the jogging track. Lewis waved to her but she didn't respond. When they reached the lounge, Desmonica took him to the laundry room; at one end was a narrow door that he had assumed was a storage closet. She opened it. A wrought iron circular staircase led to a room about the same size as the lounge. The rectangular pool was about thirty feet across, with a green-tiled bottom and a tile walkway around it.
Lewis lay on a lounge chair and looked up at the ceiling—a skylight, cloudy like all the windows. The legal pad was still in his satchel; he pulled it out and wrote: pool above lounge. He would modify his train diagram later.
Desmonica dove into the pool. He closed his eyes and listened to the rhythmic slapping of her arms and legs. So far from home now, worlds away from his life with Martha. "You need to do something interesting so you can tell me about it," Martha had demanded of him a few months ago. He was lying on their couch. Not knowing what to say, he had stared at the ceiling.
"You bring nothing to this relationship," she said.
"I was supposed to bring something?" She had left then, stomping out in her work boots and slamming the door.
She should see him now, see this crazy train and all the people on it. He was glad he had left her to face the investigation into Are No's fire. Maybe the two of them would get together. Are No's insurance would pay for a new, even more hideous beach house, though still with no heat for guests. They would sit on Project Poseidon II drinking wine and making nasty comments about him.
How long would Desmonica be swimming? Tired of waiting, he went down to the lounge for a book. He pulled out one with a yellow spine—Historical Development of the Calculus—and flipped through the pages. He was about to put it back when a diagram caught his attention. Something about parallelograms and instantaneous velocity vectors. Maybe that was what Dillon used to drive the train. That was it—-mathematics—this book, other books, would tell him everything. First, he could make his diagram of the train accurate. Those immense rooms. Wasn't there some way to measure things like that by taking sightings and angles? The preface said that calculus was the principle
quantitative language of Western science. He needed something definite like that.
Walking back to his seat by the pool, he stepped on something soft, and looked down. Desmonica's bikini top. She was about a third of the way across, swimming on her back. He stood at the end of the pool, staring at her. She looked better in the water. Harder to see the fat. He didn't think she had been naked when he left.
He sat back on the lounge chair and opened the book. Chapter one was about Babylonian and Egyptian geometry...the fertile crescent...A=7/9d2. He read on: "The priests of Cybele could calculate the volume of a prism." The same Cybele depicted in his etching? He wondered who she had been. Maybe that wasn't the citrus woman's name after all. But her lips were the banks of the rivers. He would have to wait for her to explain. He looked over the book at Desmonica, now swimming on her stomach. Funny how she could swim for so long and still be fat. "The concept of area is inherently more complicated for curvilinear surfaces in space than it is for plane regions."
Desmonica's curvilinear surfaces had considerably more area than anyone else's on the train. Oh no, she was getting out—all that naked flab at once. She walked up the pool steps; her breasts rose and fell as she caught her breath. She had transformed, rolls of fat gone, melted away in the water.
"I just can't get enough swimming," she said, her words an out-of-breath gasp. She threw herself on the deck chair beside his and lay on her back with her eyes closed.
Impossible for swimming, or anything, to take weight off so quickly. Hadn't she been fat on their way to the pool? He looked at her sleek legs, stomach, breasts, arms.
"I get this great feeling, like I'm floating in the air, if I just concentrate on my stroke." She raised her arms and pantomimed a swimming stroke. He watched her breast bob with the movement of her arms. Would it be okay to touch her? Not in a sexual way, no interest in that with her, but...was she real? She must be taking some kind of weight loss steroid. He looked away, wishing she would put her clothes back on.
Circus of the Grand Design Page 8
