Circus of the Grand Design

by Robert Freeman Wexler

  They had sat without speaking, he on the bed watching her, she at his desk, staring at the impenetrable windows. He wanted to say something, but after so long in silence no speech would be monumental enough to warrant giving voice to it. Eventually, he had slept. When he awakened, she had turned the chair to face his bed. She frightened him. He didn't understand what she wanted. Yes, he had desired her, longed for her company, but now...now he wanted someone normal, like Martha.

  How could he have left Martha like that? She wasn't so bad. A bit cold, sure, but she meant well. They'd had good times at first, but now, look at this, he had left her for another woman. How could he have done that? No, no, that's not how it happened. He had left her, left Are No's burned-up wreck of a house, but not for another woman. He had run off to join Dillon's circus. Cybele came later.

  "Could use a private room though," Gold said. "That would hasten a more fulfilling relationship. Maybe I could get Brisbane to move in with Barca, or Dawn could move in with someone."

  Thinking of Cybele reminded him of Desmonica's pregnancy. "Who do you think is going to take over on the horse?" he asked. "Those women with the acrobats?"

  "Mere trollops," Gold said.

  Gold had a way of twitching his head, which Lewis thought of as "the haughty shake," to be used when showing his superiority: his eyes would roll upward and his bangs would shimmy.

  "I doubt that any of them have the coordination for anything besides sexual acrobatics." As if to accentuate, Gold performed a double haughty shake, then smacked his lips, extra proud. "We obviously need someone with drama and charisma, someone who can thrill an audience, who can..."

  Who would that be, if none of the new women fit Gold's description? Dillon would have to recruit from the outside, or transfer someone. Dawn perhaps. He liked her, liked the way she looked, so much more a real person than Cybele. Too bad about her sexual preferences—he had thought they might...but how could he even consider another woman, when Cybele...Gold was still talking—did he never stop? Something about playing netball, whatever that was. Lewis ignored him. He wondered what would happen if he continued to sit, lost in his own thoughts while Gold talked on. Would Gold notice that Lewis wasn't listening? Would he eventually leave?

  Lewis looked up again and was elated to discover that Gold had left. Then Dillon walked in.

  "Good," Dillon said, with a tone suggesting impatience.

  "Did you need to see me?" The dining car felt warmer. Was Cinteotl baking something?

  "Come, there are several items needing discussion." He turned around and Lewis followed him into the gym. They reached Dillon's door and went inside. "I suppose you know of the situation concerning Desmonica Rienzi?" Dillon asked. He sat behind his desk.

  "Her pregnancy?" Lewis couldn't believe Dillon really was going to consult with him about who would ride the horse. He sat opposite Dillon, leaning forward expectantly.

  "Lives are always in flux, ours more so. The unexpected is the best friend a performer has. The ability to improvise on any situation is imperative."

  Dillon tugged on the drawer where he had placed that gigantic hardbound book on one of Lewis's other visits, Monoli-something-scape. Leaving the drawer partway open, he looked at Lewis as if expecting a response.

  Lewis remained seated, refusing to move or say anything until Dillon offered something besides a riddle. Dillon spoke.

  "You will be the new rider of the mechanical horse."

  Chapter 21: Costumes and Encounters

  Lewis browsed fragments and tatters of discarded costumes, looking for...inspiration?...purpose? He wasn't a performer—why had Dillon picked him? Not a secret the horse intrigued him, but...In college, he and a roommate had taken a drama class, more to meet girls than from any desire to perform. Not likely there was anything he could pull out from that—too much time had passed. And the circus, the horse!, this was real, not some made-up scenario from a class. He stopped in front of the armor-covered mannequin. When Lewis was a child, his grandfather had read to him the tales of King Miltos. He had loved the magic and mystery, the swordfights.

  He let out a fat groan of exasperation.

  This situation came from Cybele's influence. He hadn't asked for her company, her intrusion into his privacy. She would find he wasn't someone who could be manipulated. She was probably sitting in his room, waiting to flaunt her mastery of him. Well, he was in no hurry to see her.

  What act could he make from the armor? He lined a shoe up with one of the boots. Appeared to be his size. Might as well try them on. But to remove the boots from the mannequin required taking everything else off first, helmet, sword, chain mail, and tipping it over...He didn't like being in this claustrophobic storage car filled with ghosts of old costumes and long-dead performances. He would have to carry it all back to his (Cybele-free, he hoped) room to try on.

  One of the lockers held an empty duffel bag. That would make the stuff easier to handle, and would keep it hidden—he didn't want to be forced to explain the armor to everyone he passed.

  ~

  Barca sat at a dining car booth with Dawn and Leonora, maneuvering three plastic elephants across the tabletop. Lewis paused for a moment near the door, resting the armor-filled duffle on the floor. His shoulder hurt from carrying the bulky load, but he was afraid if he stopped to rest they would ask him what was in the bag. As if it was their business! No one ever asked if he minded being intruded on, not Cybele, or Gold, or Dillon; everyone assumed he was there to be maneuvered around like a toy. Did they think that was what a publicist was for? He lifted the bag to his shoulder and continued.

  He wasn't the publicist anymore.

  Dawn looked up. "Congratulations Lewis," she said.

  How did she know? She smiled at him, and he noted the graceful curve of her arms and shoulders where they emerged from her dark blue tank top. She looked down again at the plastic elephants and started relating something to her companions. As she talked she stretched her arms up over her head. He couldn't stop staring at her underarms, feathery hair, the stretching of her deltoid muscles, the way they joined the biceps at the shoulder, the hollow underneath, especially the hollow, the armpit. It was like an extension of the breast, no, more the inverse of a breast. Dawn clasped her hands and lowered them to the back of her head. There they were, taunting him, twin pockets of seduction.

  Conscious of a growing erection pushing against the inside of his jeans, he kept walking, assuming no one would notice. Once in the first residential car he adjusted himself and continued.

  Armpits—no, don't call them that, sounded too much like a hygienic eyesore—underarms rather, had never fascinated him. Why now? He thought back to previous girlfriends. What about Martha? He couldn't even picture her underarms. Of course she had them, everyone did. Maybe it had to do with the fitness. Martha had been flabby. Not fat, but not toned like Dawn or these other circus women.

  There were probably cultures somewhere that considered underarms erotic. Dawn's called to him. He would kiss her arms, her breasts, working his way around the underarms until the time came to plunge into the moist hollow itself, press his lips directly into the skin and hair, taste her salty flavor.

  Now, aroused, he wanted Cybele to be in his room, wanted to explore her underarms, wanted...He opened his door. She had gone, leaving only a residual scent of citrus.

  The chain mail and helmet clanked when he dumped the duffel bag onto his bed. He stared at the bag. What right did Cybele have, forcing this on him? He couldn't perform. He was happy in the background, conducting his mathematical research and watching the circus. Now this. How would Dillon put it—thrust from the vault into public exhibition?

  But he was tired of being an outsider.

  Was Dawn lesbian or bisexual? She had noticed him now that he was a performer. Gold wasn't the only one who would have women follow his performances. He unzipped the bag and unpacked the costume.

  Knee-high boots, thick, long-sleeved cotton shirt to go under the chain mai
l, and a short skirt of leather all fit as though tailored to him. He buckled on the sword belt, slipped the helmet over his head, and turned to the mirror. The helmet had a short brim and hung down over the back of his neck; its top pointed forward. Was that really him? Maybe the outfit would go better with a beard. The metal gleamed in the overhead light. He felt strong. He looked strong. He unsheathed the sword and waved it around, vanquishing imaginary foes.

  He would talk to Perry about practicing on Gautier—Dillon hadn't mentioned whether the mechanical horse was available for rehearsing. It would have to be, right? How else could he prepare? Planning an act was the next step, something more exciting than riding around waving his sword. He sagged onto his bed, pushing the helmet off and dropping the sword.

  Was he trying to fool himself? This was ludicrous. He couldn't perform. But the sense of freedom when he joined the end of the promenade...that lured him. Nonsense, he couldn't plan an act...but Perry. Perry would be good at that kind of thing, and he would be flattered to be asked. Lewis needed to flatter Perry. Perry knew things. Lewis wanted to know things too, and he would never learn anything from Dillon.

  The rosemary on his desk caught his attention—it was in a white ceramic pot about the size of a coffee mug. Cybele must have potted it for him. He had never seen a plant root so fast, though it couldn't have rooted. The part he had pulled off the bush hadn't been green enough.

  Someone knocked on his door. He ignored it, but the person knocked harder. Must be Dawn. He wanted to see her, especially while she wore that tank top, but he needed to be alone. The door shook from the knocks. It could only be one person; he got up to answer. Bodyssia loomed in the doorway and his heart started beating faster. She must be ready to kill him, knocking like that. He started to tell her he was sorry.

  "Wow, it's Good Prince Lamb."

  The costume, he had forgotten he was wearing the costume. He smiled up at her, relieved she wasn't pounding his head into the floor.

  Then she did something he wouldn't have thought possible. She curtsied. "Would you be willing to escort a damsel to dinner?"

  The day-illumining in the hall had dimmed to night, and as she came into the light of his room, he saw she wore a short denim skirt with a white linen jacket. She had curled her hair too and applied lipstick.

  "You look great," he said. "What's the occasion?"

  He told her he would change out of his costume and meet her in the dining car. He couldn't risk antagonizing her, not when events had brought him so close to acceptance into the circus, and to show he appreciated her effort, he put on khaki slacks, cream shirt, and black penny loafers, the clothes he had worn his last day at work, before taking the train to Are No's.

  ~

  The dining car had transformed into competing bouquets of minty green. A planter box filled with ivy and ferns now ran along the window sills, spilling greenery onto the tables and down the walls, which had been repainted a warm terracotta. Flowering plants hung from the ceiling in wicker baskets, and on the floor by the counter, a dark-leafed shrub exploded from a red and yellow ceramic pot. The room exuded an atmosphere of expectation, as if the bones of the train welcomed Lewis into his new role.

  But hadn't he just walked through here with the sack of armor? He must have been so preoccupied with his new role (and the shape of Dawn's underarms) that he hadn't noticed the changes. No—before that...before that...sitting...listening to Gold.

  A hand gripped his elbow. "Hey prince," Bodyssia said, her voice soft.

  Why were his knees resting on the floor?

  "Felt faint for a second," he said, lifting himself back up. "I'm okay now."

  Cinteotl bowed to them. "Good evening, my fine customers. A many-limbed banquet awaits you, dish after succulent dish." He reached behind the counter for a white linen cloth and placed it over one of the tabletops. They sat. Bodyssia took off her jacket, revealing a black, silky-looking tank top. When she twisted around to drape the jacket over the back of the bench seat, Lewis stared at her newly revealed underarms, banded by muscle, deep and mysterious.

  Cinteotl returned with a candle in a silver candlestick, bottle of wine, and two glasses. He bowed again, filled the glasses, and left.

  Bodyssia raised her glass. "Forlorn, unborn, shining sunrise, come to me now in warm embrace," she said, and he clinked his glass to hers. "Soft sky, lie upon the world. Steal away my soul on freight of gold. Shake yourself free of dust and time."

  He found himself enjoying her flow of language and expression, so out of character for her. No one on the circus train was ever what they first appeared to be. Perry, with his books and metal, Dillon and his pennywhistle, Dawn...

  "How often I lie outside where the winds blow dark. I follow a path laid by each step as I take it."

  They finished a course and Cinteotl brought another. Lewis felt as though he was stocking up on food, preparing his body for a time when he would have none.

  Feasting over, Bodyssia picked up her jacket and reached for his hand. She rose from the table, pulling him along. "Away with us to abodes of silken splendor." She draped an arm over his shoulders, forcing him to match her long stride. He lay his palm on her back, feeling the thick muscle beneath the fabric.

  Her room had no furniture besides a futon mattress on the floor. The walls were bare white. A pile of straps and balls from her animal act lay in a corner.

  "Oh, pleasures honed by honest labor, I claim this moment of our choosing." She picked him up and kissed him.

  Where should he put his hands and what should he do with them? He couldn't imagine trying to undress her. She put him down and started unbuttoning his shirt. He surprised himself by unzipping her denim skirt. The skirt fell; she kicked it off, then bent to remove her shoes. He did the same with his own. When he looked up, she had taken off her shirt...muscles and skin, so much skin. She reached for his penis, so insignificant beside her long, thick fingers. An erection would be impossible.

  "Pale member, may you find comfort soon," she said, and kissed him there. She lowered herself onto the bed, pulling him after.

  He started trembling, a slow shake that began at the toes and continued up his torso. She kissed his lips, then his chest. Why was he trembling? He touched her stomach, felt the hard muscle there, then slid both shaky hands along her sides to her breasts, unintentionally slipping the fingers of his right hand into the warm space of her underarm. She pulled him inside her and grunted; she cried louder, shook him, held his hips and moved him back and forth until she orgasmed, a soft, sweet whisper, then he did too, inhaling sharply with it.

  She held him tight, keeping him inside her. Half expecting her to disappear like Cybele, he stroked her chest and stomach, kissed her breasts; she smiled and closed her eyes. After a minute or so, she relaxed her grip. She started snoring.

  He lifted himself off her, gathered his clothes, and dressed.

  When he reached his car, Dawn was coming toward him. It looked like she had been rehearsing. She wore tights and had pinned her hair up. Her long-sleeved top covered her underarms.

  "There you are, big guy, all dressed up nice and pretty."

  He couldn't help laughing. After being with Bodyssia, it relieved him to encounter someone so much smaller.

  "Well I guess you're glad to see me too." She reached up to kiss him. He could smell elephant all over her. "I got here just as soon as I finished rehearsing. I was going back to my room to get paper to leave you a note."

  Note about what? He hoped this wouldn't take long, whatever she wanted. As he opened his door to let her in, he had a sudden tinge that Cybele be there, but the room was empty.

  "I brought something to toast your new part." She held up a bottle of wine.

  Dawn's newfound interest confused him, but then so had Bodyssia's. Everything conspired to throw him off balance.

  "Luck, lights, and love," she said as she handed him a glass. "May the spotlight always give us happiness." They sipped. She stepped closer to kiss him again, then put
her glass down on his desk. "Can I borrow a shirt? I want to get out of these stinky things."

  He chose his tank top, a long-waisted basketball jersey from his college intramural team. The shirt would fit her like a dress. He handed it to her, wondering whether she would take off her clothes in front of him, but she went into the bathroom.

  While she changed, he opened his journal and sat at the desk. Sex unlocks, he wrote, disassembles miniature puzzles and hides the pieces, each in its own universe, each whole even when apart, each taking on a semblance...Dawn emerged wearing his shirt. She raised both hands to the back of her head to unclasp her hair. He looked at her underarms, which had excited him so much when he saw them in the dining car, and found himself getting another erection. He needed to be close to them, press his lips in deep. He had barely brushed the surface of Bodyssia's, but Dawn, here before him, hers would be his treasure. When she sat on his lap he thought of the reversal of positions from his encounter with Bodyssia, but when she kissed him he stopped thinking.

  Later, it was his turn to fall asleep and hers to leave. He heard her open and close the door. A few minutes later, he got up and went into the bathroom. When he came out, Cybele was sat at his desk, staring into the cloudy windows and stroking the rosemary. At least she's clothed, he thought, noting her sleeveless green dress, tied at the waist with a supple vine. She rose and pulled the vine apart. Her dress crumpled at her feet.

  He was still naked, and as she reached toward him, he watched, amazed, as his penis grew erect to meet her fingers.

  She released him and sat on the bed, waiting. He gazed at her, wondering how he could ever have loved anyone else. She raised her arms to bare their underside, and he rushed toward them, burying his face in the warm, tangerine-scented hair and skin.

  ~

  He awoke curled fetus-like beside her, his head resting beneath her breasts. He was surprised, and pleased, to find her still there. With her skin against his face, a gentle scent of citrus flowed over him, like waking beneath blooming orange trees. He slowly became aware of his hands pressed against her thighs, and began to stroke her stomach. She stirred, but didn't wake; he pressed his cheek into her breasts. Despite her concrete presence in his bed, she remained an apparition to him.