Circus of the Grand Design

by Robert Freeman Wexler

  "Excuse me, Mr. Publicist Person." He turned his head until he could see her. She had lowered the back of the chair and was lying down with her arms raised, as though reaching for something above her. "Aren't you supposed to ask me questions now? I've got a busy schedule, you know."

  He flipped to a new page. "Do you know anything about the mechanical horse, where it's from?"

  "No." She dropped her arms and turned onto her left side, away from him.

  Stupid—one of the first rules of interviewing he had been taught was not to ask yes/no questions. The wasp on her shoulder had black wings with a red body. Another tattoo began at the base of her spine, the outline of a sun with jagged rays. He reached toward it with his right hand...real sun, the smell of grass and earth...

  "Okay then. Gold said you started out as a dancer, tell me about—"

  "Did you have to mention that stickhead?"

  "I'm sorry, I forgot you two had been involved. What type of dancing was it?"

  "Where are you from? I had a scholarship. I studied under some of the world's finest ethnographers." She popped up from the chair, kicked it back a few feet, and did a handstand. Then, still on her hands, she lowered her legs into a split and walked her body around so that her crotch was in front of his face. The dark mat of hair drew him. He leaned closer, experiencing, with a suddenness that startled him, both an erection and the desire to push his tongue into her.

  She lowered her legs and sat beside him on his chair. "Now hey"—she waved a finger at him—"how much of this stuff are you going to print? I haven't told János about when my parents died in a zoot crash and I had to have sex with their sleazy estate lawyer."

  Haven't told your interviewer yet either, lady. "János is your new boyfriend, one of the acrobats?"

  "The best of the acrobats. So strong, yet gentle. Never violent, or loud, and he truly cares for me as a person instead of a vehicle for sexual favors. Of course that doesn't mean we haven't had sex, because we've had great sex."

  Her eyes half-closed with either exhaustion from her swim or her feelings for János. Never violent or loud. So she must have a high pain threshold. Or likes it that way. Damn circus people...no, it wasn't them—he was a prude, a sedentary fool who settled with a woman despite incompatibilities, instead of sailing off on life's adventures. Well, that's what he was doing now. His urges regarding Desmonica's exposed vagina—he had never done that with lips or tongue. Fingers yes, but the other, the idea of it had always disgusted him. Prude. That described his past, but no longer.

  Without saying anything, he left Desmonica in her János-rapture and headed for the dining car. He had to eat something, no matter how strange. His last good meal had been the locobird stew, or whatever it was. Why didn't Cinteotl make something like that again? Lewis could think of nothing but food—acres of barbecued chicken, tables covered with lasagna. Chips and guacamole. Lentils.

  In the distant recesses of the gymnasium Bodyssia was lifting weights, with her broad back toward him. He wanted to exercise too, be strong like these circus people.

  Cinteotl stood behind his counter. "Highland squash cake, nutritious and delicious. Vitamin A, vitamin C, calcium, iron, fiber, protein, antifungaloids." He handed Lewis a plate and plopped a gray-white rectangle onto it. The cake was browned and crisp on the edges, glutinous inside with chewy reddish bits. Lewis forced himself to eat all of the rectangle. It didn't taste like any squash he had ever had. Probably best not to ask what the reddish bits were. At least it wasn't as bad as the fermented slop. He doodled on a blank page in his legal pad, drew an awkward picture of the mechanical horse. Too bad Desmonica didn't know anything about it. Not surprising though. The people here only knew what was in front of them. Finding out about the mechanical horse interested him more than getting to know these new companions of his, these performers. He would try Floyd Perry. If Perry took care of his own horse, maybe he was responsible for the mechanical one as well.

  Chapter 14: Metal

  "So who the hell are you?" Perry's voice was small, like his body, with a raspy edge. Lewis introduced himself from the doorway. The room had the clean, hard scent of metal, and the mustiness of old books. Returning to his work, Perry picked up a hammer and hunched over a small anvil on his metal desk; he banged on a sheet of brass. Metal racks held rolls of foil-like metals, copper, brass, and aluminum. Beside the neatly made bed, the sheets looking tight and firm as the rolls of metal, was a gray safe that served as a nightstand. Books were piled beside the safe, their warmth out of place amongst the metal. Perry put down the hammer, placed the beaten sheet against the cover of a hardback book, and bent it over the edges to form a solid shell. He lifted the book and held it out, then brought it closer until the cover was about an inch from his eyes. The gleaming metal reflected his thin, pinched face.

  "It will soon tarnish," he said, "but so do we all."

  "Is this metal for your act with the mechanical horse?"

  "A success such as this demands a drink." Perry took tin cups from a drawer, blew into each, and polished them on his pants leg. "Bourbon?" He filled a cup for Lewis.

  Lewis looked around the room, seeing other metal-covered books and some without. "The metal. Did you make the mechanical horse?"

  "I take care of Gautier. The finest Camarque horse ever bred."

  "Don't you fix it when parts wear down?"

  "Not allowed to touch the thing." Perry picked up the book again and opened it to the middle. "The horse is Dillon's province. He fetches it and puts it back and locks it up. All very hush hush."

  Perry had to know more than he said. The questions always led back to Dillon. "Then what's the metal for?"

  "Can you imagine a world without books? I've seen one. Right now it's metal jackets, but what I really want to do is print the world's classics on paper-thin sheets of brass."

  "I'll have to go talk to Dillon again."

  "You think they would be too heavy?" Perry clanged his cup onto the metal top of his desk. "They're already heavy with the weight of their own profundity, with the weight of their beauty. I want them to stand firm for all times."

  "Doesn't anyone give a straight answer around here?"

  Perry pushed the newly brassbound volume into his hands. Lewis looked down at his reflection in the cover, unsure what Perry wanted him to do with it.

  "Some worthy things are recognized in their own lifetime. Rare, but wonderful happenings." Perry lowered his voice to a whisper. "One such is the book in your hands."

  Lewis opened it and started to read the title page aloud.

  "Be quiet," Perry said. He went to the door and looked out into the hall. "Can't be too careful." He came closer to Lewis and whispered up at him. "Put it in your satchel. Don't show anyone. Only take it out in your room."

  When Lewis slipped the book into his satchel, he noticed the calculus text. He took it out and opened it to the first chapter. "You see this reference to the priests of Cybele—do you know who she was?"

  "I'd stay away from that one. Unless you want to end up like Attis." Perry made a chopping motion with his hand.

  What did he mean? And who was Attis? He started to ask, but a lump in his throat kept him from speaking. The warning shouldn't be ignored. Perry was the most lucid person he had met on the train. But his Cybele wasn't a threat. Not to him anyway. He picked up his satchel. His hands were shaking. It's the bourbon. Wasn't used to hard liquor.

  Perry opened the door again. "Come on now, I'm showing you Gautier." Lewis followed him down the hall but when they reached the dining car, he stopped.

  "I'm sorry, can't. I feel faint." He sat at the closest booth and put his head down, using his satchel as a pillow. He didn't care what Perry thought. Far away, he heard the door on the other end open and close.

  ~

  Lewis woke with his cheek against the gray window. His head throbbed, his throat was a contracting tube of raw flesh. The sun baked his skin to pink, to red, to a peeling dead brown. He looked up; no sun here, but
the whiteness of the ceiling burned through him. It had been cold and rainy at Are No's, sunny the next day when he went to the circus. Nothing around him now but gray windows. How long since he had seen the sun?

  He got up and splashed his face at Cinteotl's sink. The cook placed a hand on his shoulder. "Boiling water for root tea, fix you up right away."

  Cinteotl knows what's wrong. He'll help. Lewis sat back at the booth and watched Cinteotl fill a teapot. Had the cook been in the room the whole time Lewis slept? Cinteotl brought him the pot and an empty mug. He filled the mug, and steam floated into Lewis's face. The smell bothered him. Strong and smoky.

  "Hard for everyone at first. Harder for you. Drink the whole pot. Then you'll be better."

  That was the most Cinteotl had ever said to him. Lewis looked up at his face, grateful but unable to respond. Cinteotl smiled and walked back to the kitchen.

  Lewis blew into the mug to cool the tea. It tasted like dirt, but he drank it. Maybe the train was going south, to a better climate. The thought made him happy. It would be a beautiful, sunny day at their next stop. The tea spread a warmth through his body.

  On the table, the brassbound book had slid out of his satchel. He was about to look at it, but remembering Perry's demand for secrecy, he pushed it back in. He took out his legal pad. Several typed pages protruded; he started reading.

  In a style unique to the Circus World (though from The Circus of the Grand Design, unique is the norm), our elephant artists, one an experienced modern dancer and the other a titanium medal winner in the opti-vault, stretch the bounds of performance with acrobatic displays while on the backs of their ponderous beasts.

  The elephants are trained by the incomparable Ham Barca, to whom it has been said, the elephants react as if to one of their own kind. Barca has been...

  He stared at the paper. When had he written this? The words had a certain lucidity and elegance. It had to be his writing. There were handwritten notes on the next few pages. Lewis's handwriting. It appeared to be an interview with Barca.

  About the elephants: "Both Clytemnestra and Percival are Indians. Paladin is African, from the Mountains of the Moon, from a race of the most heroic creatures on the planet. Raised him from a pup, and only I can touch him." The big, hairy one must be Paladin. Where were the Mountains of the Moon?

  About Barca: "I was born in an elephant stable, so I've had, from birth, an affinity with these beasts." (Why born in a stable?) "My father was a general, my mother a slave, though of noble birth from a conquered northern land. As the illegitimate son, I lived under the care of my father's elephants." Did they rock him to sleep in their trunks? Teach him to read? He pictured the hairy elephant doing long division on a blackboard, holding a stick of chalk in its trunk. "My life might have been different had my brother not been born, for then my illegitimacy could have been overlooked. But Cybele smiled upon my father, and he had many children..."

  Cybele again. Did everyone know about her? The Cybele Barca and his calculus book referred to must have been some sort of goddess. But what did that have to do with his citrus woman? The encyclopedias in the lounge would have an entry.

  Chapter 15: Movies

  Walking to the lounge he felt weak, but better. Cinteotl's tea had done something. He wished it had been given to him when he first arrived. On the way in the door, he thought he felt a breeze, but the windows were gray as usual. A real breeze would be so nice. He went to the shelves. B for Babylonia, C for Cybele. Their weight strained his arms. Still weak, no way he would be able get them back to his room—he would rest here, but the couch looked so far away, across acres of swamp and mist. He took a step toward it and his dizziness returned. Emptiness to either side. A murky corridor. Nothing below. Nothing above but infinity. Was the tea's benefit wearing off already?

  When he reached the couch he threw himself down and closed his eyes. A crash of cymbals made him re-open them. The television had turned on.

  ~

  In a narrow room with a low ceiling, a fireplace and a candelabrum casts a flickering light. A dark-haired man stoops over several bits of metal on a wooden table. On the soundtrack, a symphony plays. The man assembles the pieces of metal and steps back. Strings play a happy tune and a dark-haired girl, fourteen or so years old, rushes out from a doorway behind the man.

  "Father, father, we'll be late for the festival!"

  ~

  Lewis watched bemused, but when he saw what the father was holding, a horse, a finely detailed metal horse about the size of a kitten, he jolted to attention. Now he was fully awake. It was hard to tell on the black and white set, but the horse looked identical to Dillon's—a silvery body reflecting light from the candles, brassy hoofs, and a hair-like mane and tail.

  ~

  The man places the horse on the table, and it trots across. Its movements are jerky. The girl squeals and runs around the table to receive the horse when it reaches the other side.

  "It is so heavy father!" The horse's legs stop moving when she picks it up. "So wonderful!" She lifts it to her face and kisses the metal.

  ~

  Lewis stared at girl, younger, but the same hair, eyes...She had to be Cybele.

  ~

  The girl puts the horse back on the table. It trots toward her father, but stops partway there. The father picks it up and adjusts something. They repeat the trotting across the table routine as the stringed instruments play.

  ~

  Cybele and the horse—why hadn't he known they were connected?

  A new scene unfolds in an outdoor bazaar. The camera bobs and darts through the crowd before closing on the father and daughter.

  Though disappointed that they weren't carrying the horse, Lewis was thrilled to be able to watch Cybele and her father.

  ~

  A man emerges from the shadow cast by a fat man eating sausage and walks toward them. The music has become ominous. The man has a short black beard and wears loose-fitting black cloth. The father tells Cybele to buy herself some marzipan. The man speaks...

  ~

  The villain. Lewis was catching the clues in this too-obvious melodrama. "So now he'll threaten the father with something or other," he said aloud. The story though, something familiar about it.

  He opened encyclopedia C.

  ~

  "Cybele [sib'-uh-lee] is revered for her beauty and feared for her jealousy. She controls fertility and untamed nature. Her young consort, Attis, symbolizes immortality. Before his death he castrated himself out of devotion to her and violets sprang from the ground dampened by his blood."

  ~

  Lewis's mouth was dry. So that was what Perry had meant by his chopping motion. His Cybele wouldn't demand such a forceful expression of devotion. And he wouldn't mutilate himself for her, or anyone. Attis was a fool.

  ~

  "Worship of her culminates in an orgiastic state transcending physical pain. A joyful spring celebration honors her and commemorates the death and resurrection of Attis."

  ~

  He was Attis. Cybele had lured him to the circus to be reunited with him. A warmth spread through him now that he had acknowledged his place in her life.

  The camera switched back to Cybele. It made sense that she had been a child actress. She had obviously been involved with the entertainment business from an early age. She had invested in the circus with money from her acting. She was Dillon's partner. The scene shifted to the father and daughter back in his workroom. A larger mechanical horse, about the size of a collie, walked beside the table. Its movements were slower than the smaller one's, but more fluid. The girl was older now, seventeen or eighteen. He couldn't believe how beautiful she was.

  ~

  The door to the workroom bursts inward. The dark-clothed man enters with two other men. "You must pay in kind if not in currency." The dark-clothed man sneers and looks toward Cybele, who is clinging to her father.

  The screen fades, and in the next scene Cybele is washing a fat man's soft feet. More cymbals cras
h and a wailing chorus chants in the background.

  ~

  Lewis couldn't watch, couldn't stand to see Cybele's pain. But she was here, she must have escaped.

  ~

  The chanting chorus continues; the scene shifts to the father working on the body of a life-size horse, then back to the fat man's bedroom.

  Her father had to save her. That's why he was making the horse. Now Lewis recognized the story: the film was a retelling of the fairy tale. He had forgotten about the mechanical horse, made by the father to save the daughter and carry her away. The fat man tore off Cybele's clothes. Lewis stared at her naked body, the body he wanted to lie with every night. She picked up a brass candlestick and cracked it over the fat man's head. The mechanical horse carried Lewis up a steep slope to a cliff overlooking a starlit desert. When the horse stopped at the edge of the cliff, Lewis leapt from its back and into the air, but had trouble staying aloft. Sinking, gliding, arms outstretched, the desert floor drew closer. He landed on his feet but tumbled forward into the soft sand. Brushing himself off, he walked up the steps of the caboose and into the train.

  Chapter 16: Missed Performances

  "Didn't know you were the athletic sort," Bodyssia said, glancing back over her shoulder at Lewis. In a far corner of the immense gymnasium car, she sat on a stool performing an arm flexing exercise. Grunting, she gripped the handles of a metal bar and brought them together, apart again, together. Her flexed biceps looked bigger than his thighs. She released the bar and let her arms hang limp. After a minute or so she stood, a gradual unwinding of her long body, and Lewis took a step back, feeling suddenly insignificant beside her.