Circus of the Grand Design

by Robert Freeman Wexler

  She finished the kiss just before he passed out, then lifted him and put him down inside the pen. He leaned against the fence, heaving, gulping air.

  The other two animals came over, grunting and growling. In that film he had seen them tear apart the large bird—he put the tip of a shoe into one of the links of the fence, a few inches off the floor. He wasn't sure he would be able to pull himself over. He had to though, before the animals or Bodyssia...She bent over a canvas shoulder bag. The animals moved toward her, and she reached back to pat one on the head. It sniffed her hand and made a sound somewhere between a bark and a growl.

  "Not yet, boys. In the bowls." She pulled three pieces of hacked-up bloody meat out of the sack.

  That was it—had to leave now, while the animals occupied her attention (and the meat occupied theirs). He closed his eyes and pushed up, over the fence; she must have heard, must have seen, she would pull him back, but no, and he kept going, running without stopping until he reached his door.

  Chapter 18: Visitations and Outside Air

  Lewis retreated to his shower, allowing hot water and steam to soothe jangles mental and physical. The importance of a good showerhead could not be minimized. The spray needed to be thick and forceful, a strong, determined flow. A few years ago he had purchased a marvelous showerhead that he took with him on several moves, replacing the apartments' inadequate devices with his own. But where was it now? Still secure in Martha's shower—no one could say he left her with nothing to show for their time together. Few things on the train were his alone, few things that weren't new or insane. His room, his shower, welcome sanctuaries. He hadn't known what he would find on the train, hadn't known whether he would even have a private bathroom; his happiest moment came when he discovered that his new bathroom possessed the equal of his abandoned showerhead.

  Afterwards, he dried himself and examined his tender thighs. There were red splotches from that chain-link fence. He didn't think Bodyssia meant to hurt him—an over-affectionate giant, that's all, giant bear woman with her trained capybarabears. He turned off the room lights and got into bed. The bathroom light was still on, but he didn't feel like getting up again.

  What would it be like to share a bed with Bodyssia? She was so thick. At least in bed he wouldn't feel so dwarfed. He closed his eyes, but reopened them, aware of a limonene fragrance and a presence beside him. The citrus woman—Cybele?—occupied the space between him and the wall. Naked, on her side, facing him, and from her body, warmth reached out, wrapped long fingers around him. He lay on his back, head turned toward her just enough to catch her profile. He was afraid to change his position, break the spell that had brought her. His eyes were a movie camera panning from her toes upward. She is woman, flesh, features, shape. She is here, close enough to touch, but inches became miles, chasms black with depth; only his eyes could span the distance, body trapped and longing. The gulf separated them, as if his narrow bed had grown to the width of one of the train corridors and they occupied opposite ends. At the thought of reaching toward her, extending a hand into the inconceivable gap, a great fear overcame him. The gap, aside from its vastness of horizontal distance, encompassed a depth that reached past the center of the earth. If he moved...and he dared not...he would fall, and in falling, tumbling infinite, would pass from the world.

  Could she read his longing? She pressed a palm to his chest, resting it there, warm and prickling. His breath stopped, unwilling to intrude, to move his chest while her contact lingered.

  His camera gaze continued to traverse her landscape, stopping when it reached her face. She smiled and in his next moment of awareness, she lay on top of him.

  As with her first visit, he thought he was merging with her. He reached frantically for her lips with his and ejaculated against her belly.

  Quiet spread through him, a flow of soft light, the patterns of which spelled out his desires in blue and green. The quiet invited him to doze, but he wouldn't, not while she was here, finally, beside him in bed, the position he had yearned for her to take all these long nights alone. He held her on top of him, and her skin beneath his fingertips spoke the seven tongues of desperation, each as distinct as the petals of a rose.

  ~

  From a brief, dreamless sleep, he woke refreshed, better even than waking after drinking Cinteotl's tea. But Cybele was gone. He rolled onto the other side of the bed, trying to absorb the warmth and smell left by her body, but found only the chill of his cotton sheets.

  Repelled by his empty bed, he stood and made his way to the toilet. But the scene outside the windows jolted him. The train was on the water—he could see the whitecaps of the open ocean. The rocking of the train dizzied him, and he braced himself on the desk. He leaned toward the window...no...train wasn't moving...stopped, someplace overlooking a bay. Stopped. He dressed and rushed toward the caboose.

  The train stood in a meadow colored by the blues, yellows, and reds of wildflowers. Past the meadow was a small, open-air amphitheater filled with a blur of people, and beyond that, a town.

  Lewis breathed his first real air since boarding the train. Intoxicated with the pleasure of being outside, he ran down the caboose steps and into the meadow, bending to look at a mass of white and yellow flowers, like miniature daisies, and a plant he recognized from his grade school playground that looked like a tiny fern, with thin, many-segmented leaves. When you touched the leaves, they closed. He ran around, stopping, touching, watching the leaves curl, running, working his way downhill.

  Near a red brick building that extended from one end of the amphitheater he stopped and brushed leaves off his clothes. He entered through an open door. The building's interior was warehouse-like, with a high ceiling. A square opening led into the amphitheater, where the circus crew was finishing their final parade. He stood aside as they filed past him, first Dillon, commanding in his white coat and top hat, and the rest. Miss Linda, in clown outfit, ran back and forth handing out balloons and candy to children in the seats near the exit. But the mechanical horse was the only thing he wanted to see, and there it was, with Desmonica on its back. He wanted her off. It looked so alive, the way it moved. He had to get closer.

  Everyone crowded around the exit, between him and the mechanical horse, all yelling and running. They were hard to recognize as his train companions. Larger, more alive, as though augmented by their performance. He stopped and ducked as one of the acrobats, apparently showing off for two dark-haired women, swung across the room on a rope hanging from a beam. Fragments of conversations broke through the confluence of words.

  Dawn passed him. She had painted her face silver. It was unpleasant being around them. They were linked by their conquest and he was an interloper.

  "...the greatest!" Gold shouted. He grabbed Leonora and lifted her. "And you were a sensation." She smiled and ran her hands through his hair.

  "...ache like hell," Bodyssia said, to no one in particular.

  Desmonica dismounted. Her leather outfit was mostly straps, with lots of skin showing. She shouted something about a matre de telos: "Where did you put it, János? I had to go on without it."

  Up close, the horse didn't look as shiny. A few dents marked its sides. But it was still amazing. The metal where the legs joined the body looked woven. Must cover whatever piston-thing made the legs work, giving the illusion of supple flesh. He reached for the pommel to pull himself up.

  "No time for playing," Dillon said from behind him. He took Lewis's arm and guided him away.

  Not away—Lewis turned his head to keep the horse in sight. Barca passed and Dillon stopped him.

  "The big one is not lame, is he?" Dillon asked. "He appeared to be favoring his right front foot." Barca shook his head. "Tomorrow then."

  Dillon released Lewis's arm. He took the mechanical horse by the reins and led it away. Before Lewis could follow, Barca moved the elephants into his path. By the time they were out of the way, Dillon was gone, probably back on the train with the horse secured wherever he stored it. />
  Despite Lewis's disappointment at not getting up on the horse, he felt ecstatic to be off the train. He ran back outside, craving more more more of air-flowers-rocks before nightfall. He wanted to climb the hills behind the amphitheater, but a crowd blocked his way. People leaving the circus, heading into the town on foot. He couldn't wait for them to pass.

  "Excuse me, please, let me through."

  He forced himself in. No one was speaking English. Their clothes looked funny too, lots of parachute pants and maroon turtlenecks. He pushed his way to the other side. A rocky outcropping near the top of a wooded hill looked inviting. He climbed. On reaching the outcropping, he sat on a flat rock overlooking the amphitheater, town, and harbor. It was darker in the trees. Not much daylight left. Would this be it, then? His one chance for the open? But Dillon had said, "tomorrow then." So the circus was staying. Though what did that matter to him? His bag was packed and waiting in his closet. This town might be the perfect place to stay for a while.

  The sun was setting behind him. He would need to go down soon—didn't want to risk a twisted ankle walking down the hill in the dark. Not back to the train though. He set off for the town.

  The streets in the harbor area seemed designed for pedestrian traffic only, no cars or busses anywhere. The largest building was maybe a dozen stories high and shaped like a pyramid. Its exterior had a dull finish, like stone, but translucent. Through the walls he could see lights and the shapes of furniture. Music, the sounds of a fiddle and mandolin, came from a building that jutted out over the water. He came to a steep, winding street that ended at the bay. The buildings along the street looked older; a few were brick, the rest stucco painted with bright colors.

  Lewis sat on a stone bench. A young couple ambled by holding hands. They weren't speaking English either.

  The moon emerged, first as a glow, then the fat and full disk rose before him. He stared at it until he thought it would absorb him. So much larger and brighter than he remembered. He gripped the edge of the bench to keep from falling toward it. A filament of cloud swept across the face, and high above the buildings nighthawks darted in and out. A breeze from the west stirred his hair; he breathed a scent of sea mixed with pine and closed his eyes.

  ~

  "...Oblong Henry is always tossing some kind of party," a woman's voice said.

  Lewis looked down from the moon, reluctantly withdrawing himself from its magnificence. Two people passed, a woman with stick-like arms and a heavy man with red-hair and a wild beard. They both carried musical instrument cases. A short, dark-haired woman followed a few steps behind them, pulling a wheeled instrument case that was larger than she was.

  Attracted by the sound of English, Lewis shadowed them up the hill, walking slowly to avoid catching up. At the summit, where a side street turned along the crest of a ridge, the two in front paused, allowing the third to reach them before they continued along the side street. Lewis turned also. Far ahead the ocean stretched, a band of darkness distinct from the night sky. The trio stopped, and Lewis bumped into the short woman's instrument case. He mumbled an apology and crossed the street to look at a small church made of yellowy limestone. It looked ancient; ocean winds had worn furrows in its walls. Carvings of intertwined snakes surrounded the windows, and one of the stones under the eaves was carved into a woman's face. It was a darker stone than the rest, a style unlike the other carvings, perhaps reused from a previous construction. The woman's sad smile drew him.

  But the trio had meanwhile turned up the driveway of a stone house opposite. Lewis crossed the street. A tree-like rosemary grew beside the driveway. He rubbed his hands over one of the lower branches and smelled them. So nice—he broke off a long piece and tucked it into his waist, under his shirt. It tickled when he moved.

  The downward-sloping path gave way after a few feet to a short flight of steps leading to a patio at the rear of the house. Because of the steepness of the hill, the house had a lower floor in the rear. Beyond the patio was a garden and beyond that, the hillside dropped to the water. Forty or so people were scattered around the patio, garden, and house. He had become so accustomed to the circus people that the party felt tame. No yelling, juggling, no one running on their hands. He walked to the back of the garden and looked down at the harbor. Even with the full moon's buttery light, the train was too distant to see.

  When he returned to the patio, the musicians were talking to a short man with sloping shoulders. The sleeves of his baggy shirt hung over his elbows. Floyd Perry approached from the direction of the house, and the man turned toward him. "Hey, you're Floyd Perry," the man said.

  This guy knows Perry? Though short himself, the man was several inches taller than Perry. "I remember seeing you race at Bandera. That was the time..."

  "Guises of perception and deception in time and space," Perry said. He sipped from a tumbler of amber liquid.

  Lewis recognized the phrase from somewhere. Had Perry read it to him?

  "Wish I had said that," the man said. "Mind if I paraphrase you?"

  "The author of A World Without Walls can take whatever liberties he wants." Perry drained the last of his drink and raised his glass to the writer. He seemed extraordinarily pleased with himself. His smile had to be over more than the quality of the Scotch.

  Lewis turned toward the house. Through a picture window he could see Bodyssia and two of the acrobats, and despite her presence, he went inside, where he found a long buffet table. The recognizable food thrilled him. He filled a plate with shrimp, bread, and roasted eggplant.

  "Hey cute guy." Bodyssia pulled him onto her lap.

  That was too much. He pushed on her arm that encircled his stomach, but couldn't dislodge it. "I'm not your toy," he said.

  "Sorry chief." She let go, and he moved to the chair beside her. "Nice place," she said with her mouth full.

  He ate a shrimp. The food calmed him. Wasn't much point arguing with someone so huge. And he had always liked bears.

  "Whose house is this, that guy outside?"

  "Henry something. Somebody at the show gave us the address."

  "Oblong Henry," Perry said. He had come up behind Bodyssia. Even sitting down, she was taller.

  "Oh, the book you gave me." That was where he had read the phrase Perry told the writer.

  "Quiet. And don't mention it to him. It doesn't exist here," Perry said. "Although it might soon, now that I've put the thought into his head." Perry smiled and walked out the door.

  Please, not another enigma.

  Across the room, Dawn leaned against a kitchen counter beside a taller woman. Dawn had taken off her silver makeup. The woman bent over to whisper into her ear.

  Bodyssia tapped his shoulder. "Hey look out there." She pointed to the picture window. Outside, an iron pipe by the door rose to the second floor, and one of the acrobats was climbing it. He passed out of sight, but a few seconds later came a shriek and a thud on the floor above them, then a crash of glass shattering. Bodyssia laughed a raucous, bellowing laugh.

  The trio of musicians had set up at the far end of the patio. They were playing, but Lewis couldn't hear them inside. When he saw Dillon walking toward them, he gave Bodyssia his plate and went out to the patio. Dillon greeted the trio and pulled a pennywhistle from his jacket.

  "How about 'The Tinker's Coin,'" Dillon said to the musicians. The thin woman nodded; Dillon played a sad, slow melody on the whistle, and the burly man sang.

  From behind, Lewis heard a woman's voice, distracting him from the music, and he turned to see Dawn and the other woman, who was bent over, with her lips near Dawn's ear.

  "I'll bet her heart was broken," Dawn said.

  The woman straightened her back and looked at the musicians. "NOT the heart," the woman said. She bent her lips again to Dawn's ear. Lewis thought she was about to eat it. Instead, she continued speaking. Her accent was hard to place, like the language he had been hearing. "People always associate emotion with the heart. The heart pumps blood. A person's essence is
a core in the middle of the brain. This is what hates and loves, not the heart. Definitely NOT the heart."

  She kissed Dawn's cheek, leaving a trace of red lipstick; Dawn turned her face to kiss the other's lips.

  If she preferred women, why had she pulled him on top of her that time? It had to be because of Cybele. Once Cybele had touched him, her power made all the women on the train desire him.

  The song ended; Dillon began something fast on the whistle and the rest followed. Lewis sat on a wrought iron bench near the stairs leading to the street. The music was like time, relentless, moving forward into the mist. It pulled him with it.

  Chapter 19: The Circus Performs

  Poised for a dive, Lewis stood naked on a ledge several feet above blue-green water so clear he could see clusters of sea urchins on the bottom. A buoy bobbed on the swell about forty yards away. He dove in and swam toward it. He hadn't seen anyone from the circus yet this morning. Who knows how long everyone had stayed at the party. He had listened to Dillon and the other musicians for a few songs, then returned to his room to put the rosemary branch in water and take a sheet and a blanket outside so he could sleep in the meadow near the train.

  Now it was day, real day. The sky so blue above him, bluer than he remembered. The sweet air made him laugh. He loved the feel of the water on his skin, soft, alive. He hadn't swum nude since he was ten years old, at summer camp. He didn't care if anyone saw him. He swam around the buoy toward the shore, then back again. Treading water, he looked up at the bluff, where he could make out the top third or so of the train. Ever since boarding, he had envisioned it as a long, sleek projectile, but it looked more like a late nineteenth century train—boxy, wooden cars with flat roofs.

  He swam back to the shore and pulled himself out, dressed, and took his things back to the train. After showering, he went to the dining car and asked Cinteotl to fix him a breakfast he could carry with him. He would eat in the hills, away from the train. On the way back to the caboose he ran into Jenkins carrying a stack of magazines.