Broken People

by Ioana Visan

  The woman smiled, colors swirling on her cheeks and around her eyes as she nodded for him to pass through the gate. Like all of the other circus employees, she wore a mask that seemed to be painted directly on her skin.

  Instead of resisting, Dale let the visitor flow guide his path. Food stands alternated with souvenir and game stands, the vendors wearing the same bright orange on their faces, although no two masks were alike. Here and there, small tents broke the uniformity, and people paid extra to be let in by the mauve-faced owners. The rides had been installed on the north side: the big wheel, rollercoaster, the house of horrors, and a few other minor attractions were all grouped together for those less faint at heart.

  Rocket Girl’s special arena included her giant cannon. Each time, she flew high, did two or three flips, and landed effortlessly. Fireworks shot from her shoulders as she pumped her robot metal fist, and the crowd cheered.

  Loud music fell from above while bright spotlights turned the night into day. The power used to run the circus for one evening could serve a small town, but the visitors were too taken by the sights and sounds to wonder where the circus got all that power. It couldn’t be, could it? Dale discarded the thought.

  In the middle of it all, between the yellow cord and the train cars, reigned the three-story circus tent. Blue and yellow stripes spread down from the top of the pointed roof, widening at the base. Despite the dirty and discolored canvas, the tent never failed to impress with its size and sheer presence, like a battered, but dignified old ship.

  From elevated platforms, dancers dressed in flames and sunlight waved at people to go inside while men on stilts patrolled the area in front of the tent’s entrance. In between announcements, fanfare music blasted loudly, making it hard for the dancers to keep the beat.

  Now and then, customers grumbled because the entrance fee for the main attractions was higher than a night out in the city. It came with a complimentary light bulb the size of a child’s fist, which didn’t have to be returned. Grumbles or not, everyone paid. The shows were getting better every year, those who saw them agreed on that if nothing else, and those two hours were the highlights of the season before the bleak winter came.

  Dale caught bits and pieces while walking through the crowd. The kids let out happy giggles, and the adults buzzed with excitement. The stilt men waved, smiling widely, and one of them stopped in front of Dale. He bent at the waist, as if to get a better look at him, and pointed commandingly at the big tent. In you go.

  Two mimes with happy faces appeared on either side of him and escorted him to the entrance, thrusting a light bulb into his hand. Their grip was stronger than necessary and put him on guard. The mimes had felt his weapons when they grabbed him. Could they take him for an unhappy customer, the kind who showed up on the other side of the tracks? They didn’t seem too concerned with the security—not counting the occasional man whose face was covered in pieces of obsidian.

  He didn’t hurry to find a seat in one of the front rows but climbed on the high bleachers, remaining close to the busy aisle. An arena this size took up to twenty minutes to fill. Then the lights slowly dimmed until it became pitch black. Dale fought the uneasy, claustrophobic feeling, but the kids in the arena weren’t as successful. Several began to cry, and a few sniffles echoed in the darkness. Those turned into gasps of awe when the light bulbs in their hands came to life.

  As if following a command, everyone held the light bulbs up.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to The Nightingale Circus,” a shapeless voice spoke clearly, though not shouting. “Let the magic begin!”

  A spotlight aimed high above the center of the arena focused on a silhouette walking suspended in the air. As the circle of light increased its diameter and more spotlights were turned on, a red spot that followed the man’s steps became visible. In a flash, red, phosphorescent light spread along the rope attached to two tall poles planted on opposite sides of the arena.

  The acrobat continued his ballet until a flying shape snatched the man off his rope and flew away with him. Two aerialists fought over their prey, then three, then four. The audience gasped each time the aerialists tossed him in the air.

  To an untrained eye, the moves might have seemed random, but Dale easily identified the pattern. Someone with basic physics knowledge, like himself, could visualize the magnetic fields and predict when they would go on and off based on the way the limbs clasped together. The awareness removed the magic from the performance, but it was still an impressive act.

  The lights came flashing back on, basking the aerialist ensemble in an array of colors that made their golden costumes and masks glow. The only white spots left on their faces were their teeth when they smiled. Dale couldn’t remember the last time he had felt this way. He slipped the light bulb back into his pocket. Its light had long since died.

  Other acts followed. The mean tricks by the clowns made the kids laugh. Among them, only Jacko turned out to be a decent juggler. Dogs, monkeys, and egrets chased them off the stage. The contortionists were only slightly better than the clowns. All in green, they curled and leaped like alien frogs.

  The act that allowed them a peek behind the curtain unexpectedly came with a pretty ballerina. While following a swarm of butterflies, she danced her way around the stage in her white tutu. The music accompanying her had vocals as enchanting as the dance. Dale guessed this was the famous Nightingale singing. Her voice was hypnotic, and it put people in a trance.

  It didn’t work on a pair of clowns who came on stage as if out for a walk and, seeing the ballerina, started harassing her. She managed to escape them for a while, but one of the clowns eventually opened a panel in her chest—those in the front rows got a good look at the pump and loose wires inside—and, shoving his hand into the cavity, turned off a switch. The poor ballerina froze in mid-spin, standing on the tip of her ballet shoe, both arms and one leg raised high in the air. The trick worthy of the house of horrors had the audience gasping while the clowns laughed like madmen.

  The location of the frozen ballerina became an impediment for the next number so, when the gymnasts took the stage, one of them picked her up and moved her to the side. For the next six minutes, Dale found himself paying more attention to her than the gymnasts. Sure, they were fine in their skin-tight costumes, with emphasis put on muscles, but the idea the audience had already discarded kept nagging Dale. Was the ballerina real or not? She stood like a statue, and while the mask hid any possible blush, her muscles strained, and a vein pulsed along her throat. If she wasn’t real, kudos to the master who’d made her.

  The gymnasts jumped off, destroying the human pyramid, and took their bows. The enthusiastic applause that followed failed to keep them on the stage. They didn’t do encores.

  Nicholas le Fleuriste, as the announcer introduced him, brought out his trunk of tricks. He took off his white gloves and picked up a wand, then stopped with a grim expression, looking at the human decoration on the set. Shaking his head, he strode up to the ballerina and flipped the switch back on. He barely had time to close the panel on her chest before she finished her pirouette and danced away, leaving the magician with an outstretched hand holding a red rose.

  Dale sank low in his seat. He didn’t care for the magic tricks. However, the blue light the magician had made appear when he struck his hand inside the woman’s chest was not for show. Dale had seen it before in less peaceful circumstances. Telechargers had fought giant robots on the battlefield for years, and kept dying because of it. The memory got him thinking, and his thoughts drifted for a while. The presence of a telecharger changed things.

  12

  After years of playing the magician, Nicholas had reached the conclusion that people liked to be fooled. He tossed his gloves on top of his trunk and ran a hand through his hair. A flock of girls dressed in feathers rushed past him on their way to the stage, but he was done for the night. He rotated his acts so he wouldn’t do the same tricks each night. Great, breathtaking acts could a
fford to be repetitive without anyone complaining, but he didn’t belong in that category. He didn’t plan to, either. Over the past few years, Nicholas had made a point of keeping a low profile and, so far, it had worked.

  It wasn’t working so well now. The small magic shows he did when he could afford to rent the theater hall in a city here and there were assumed risks. The big show he’d agreed to put on for the circus was a whole different story. If anything went wrong, they would not only be run out of town but, Nightingale or not, there was a fair chance for them to be lynched, too. Nicholas tugged on his necktie. He didn’t fancy a new type of collar.

  He didn’t like the number of ties that kept connecting him to the circus. It wasn’t safe—not for him or anyone. Big Dino wouldn’t have allowed it. Damn him for going into hibernation earlier this season.

  Nicholas’s discontent grew when Riella arrived backstage, her fiery hair bouncing on her shoulders. It was too soon for her number, so she had to be looking for something—or someone, considering her flesh-colored costume left nothing to the imagination. After ignoring him for years, she’d developed a sudden interest in him once he became the art director.

  “Where have you been?” Riella scolded him, her red lips pursing but, at the same time, promising to turn into a smile if he did his bidding wisely.

  “I’ve been working,” Nicholas said, closing the trunk.

  “Well, Rake’s been looking for you.” She tapped her foot on the floor. “And he’s in a hurry. He needs to go on next.”

  That didn’t explain why Rake was looking for him. He probably wasn’t looking at all because Rake knew where Nicholas would be during the show, but all those details were irrelevant to Riella. If she’d agreed to do Rake a favor, she most likely hadn’t bothered to ask more about it. “Okay, I’m done here. Where is he?”

  “He’s waiting outside.” Riella glanced towards the exit.

  With a nod, Nicholas fetched his gloves and top hat, and headed out. He found Rake in the back of the big tent, leaning against an anchoring pole.

  “What is it?”

  “The chief of police is here,” Rake said in a gruff voice. “He’s not happy, and he wants to talk to the man in charge.”

  Nicholas blinked.

  “That would be you.”

  “Ah.”

  “And after you’re done with him, Armstrong is here, too.”

  “Did I tell you I charge per hour?” Nicholas replied.

  “You wish.” Rake gave him one of his rare smirks. “He’s over there.” He pointed in the direction of the cotton candy stand.

  Nicholas peered at the round-bellied silhouette of the chief of police. The man stared at the white clouds of cotton candy handed over by a vendor but didn’t reach for his wallet to buy one.

  “What should I tell him?” Nicholas asked.

  “I don’t know what he wants, and you can’t stop in the middle of the conversation to come and ask for consultation so—” Rake raised his shoulders, “—be creative.”

  “Oh, you don’t want that.” Nicholas laughed ruefully, shaking his head. “Any other advice besides that?”

  “Sorry, I don’t have any. Just do your best.”

  “Right.” Nicholas straightened his back. “Here we go.”

  The chief of police had his back turned when Nicholas approached him. Reminding himself he was supposed to be someone important so he could afford to be bold, Nicholas tapped the man’s arm with the handle of his walking stick. “Chief Horak …”

  “Mr. Renard,” Horak grunted. “The mayor said I’d find you here.”

  “And here I am.” Nicholas opened his arms wide, putting on the warmest smile he could muster. “What can I do for you, sir?”

  “Hmm.” Horak frowned at the surrounding crowd. Although the big show was still on, there were a lot of people enjoying themselves outside, too. “You’ve done enough already. Half of my agents are here, working on a Saturday night.”

  “And bothering my audience,” Nicholas said. “I won’t thank you for that.”

  “We need to make sure your people aren’t causing trouble, especially now.” Horak gave the cotton candy one last mournful look and then stepped away from the stand.

  “We’ve been stopping in the city for years, and there have never been any problems, even before the rules changed and you banned us.” This topic had been widely debated among the circus employees, so Nicholas felt confident in his speech. The only extra thing Big Dino could have done was to slam his big fist into one of the stands, shattering everything, to make his point. But Nicholas was not a supporter of gratuitous violence. Everything had to be done for a reason. “The agents weren’t very friendly with us when we went to the theater today. My people can’t perform well during rehearsals when they’re harassed. Accidents can happen. And there’s little time left to begin with.”

  “That is not my problem,” Horak said. “My only concern is the citizens’ safety.”

  “Mayor Ternchiev has approved the show, so he obviously doesn’t share your concerns.”

  “Mayor Ternchiev has other priorities.” The unhappiness in Horak’s voice hinted at a deeper problem. “Up until now, we only had to double our numbers on the outskirts of the town, but now we have to pay extra attention to downtown, too, and that’s more sensitive. It takes many men and working hours, for which we have to pay.”

  So this is what’s eating him. Horak wants a share of the profit, too. They should have expected it. “I’m sure we can come to an arrangement that is satisfactory for everyone. We could …” Nicholas pretended to think about it. “We could offer a subvention to the city police as a sign of gratitude for ensuring good working conditions for our show.”

  Horak didn’t have to think twice about it. “No. The show’s a front. There are other activities you’re doing that the mayor is overlooking, which are far more dangerous. My agents aren’t pleased.”

  And disgruntled agents tended to display rough behavior. Of course, if money was exchanged, those agents wouldn’t see any of it, but Nicholas couldn’t think of a way around it. He stifled a sigh. Rake and Spinner weren’t going to be pleased, but since they had left it up to him, he had to make a compromise. “Very well. We can spare five percent of our side business, but not a cent more.”

  “We can talk about it,” Horak drawled.

  “Not … a … cent … more,” Nicholas said. “I’m sure Mayor Ternchiev would be more than happy to receive that amount on behalf of City Hall, and we’re ready to take our chances with the people living in the city.”

  Horak stomped his feet against the cold ground a couple of times, then nodded with a grunt. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to drag the missus out of the fortune teller’s tent before the damned woman tells her she’ll be getting rich or something.”

  Nicholas chuckled quietly as the chief of police walked away. It hadn’t been so bad. He’d agreed to five percent, but he hadn’t specified out of what. Rake and Spinner would like that. Now it was time for the other meeting, and since it wasn’t wise to do it in the open, he walked to his car.

  13

  Dale found himself fascinated by the spectacle taking place high up in the air, close to the roof of the arena. This wasn’t like him at all. He didn’t even like redheads, but the music made it impossible to fight the attraction.

  Below the golden cage that enclosed a bird-shaped prop—the symbol of The Nightingale Circus—the body covered in a flesh-toned costume looked naked in the spotlight as she hung on long, red silks. The men in the audience had to be imagining doing things to it—maybe a few women, too. The vocals put ideas in his head, and he was unable to break free until someone pulled on his jacket sleeve.

  A midget stood by his side, still dressed in show clothes. “Monsieur Renard will see you now.”

  The short man hurried along the row of seats, not waiting for a reply, and Dale followed him, grateful for the distraction. When he threw one glance back, the woman with the red silks had l
ost her appeal. She was just another pretty girl put on display. Shaking his head, Dale stepped into the darkness.

  He had expected more light, but they had left the tent through a back exit that took them away from the agitation of the fair. The train cars weren’t far, though, and that was where the midget took him.

  The logo painted near the door differed from the one he remembered seeing on the side of the other car he’d visited. He didn’t have time to wonder why before they walked inside. Renard was splayed in a heavy armchair that had seen better days while Rake and Spinner were propped against the walls, both busy playing with their knives. After seeing their act, Dale didn’t doubt they could kill him in a second, so he stopped by the door.

  “Mr. Armstrong, we seem to have run into a bit of a problem,” Renard said.

  Dale stared at the magician’s gloved hands resting on the armrests of the chair, fingers tapping lightly at the scratched leather, and waited to see blue light, but the magician had apparently used all the magic during his act. The silence prompted him to speak. “Is there something wrong with my friend?”

  “Not exactly …” Renard nodded at Spinner.

  “The nerves aren’t growing as fast as we’d hoped,” Spinner said. “It’s not only the forearms, but the upper arms, too, although they were less burned. We’ve started working on the muscles, which are growing nicely, but the nerves …”

  “Isn’t there anything you can do?” Dale asked.

  “There is something we can do. It’s not what you wanted, but it might help.” Spinner hesitated.