“MAGIC, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!” cried Major Tib, and the lights flared up to reveal a huge green-bronze cannon in the ring below, with a bunch of men fussing urgently around it, a flash of fire, a cry, a crashing explosion, a cloud of smoke shooting out, and flying through the air toward the platform, a streak of gold, a zooming bird, a figure—
And then, landing on the platform, clutching the rope supports with a gasp and a flex of golden muscles, was a beautiful girl with sleek brown skin and sleek black curls pulled back tight from her intent, alert face. She was dressed in a sleek gold suit and was smiling broadly, looking for all the world as if being shot from a cannon and landing on a small platform a hundred feet up in the air was her idea of perfect fun.
Charlie barely recognized her.
“The one and only, the beautiful and magical, mystical, adorable—Miss Isabel Andart, known to her phalanxes of fascinated fans as the fabulous, the fearless PIROUETTE!” cried Major Tib. “Ladies and gentlemen, this girl can
fly!
”
The band broke into a fine habañera, trapezes fell from the roof, and Pirouette focused her mind, filled her lungs, bent her knees a little, flung her strong arms up to heaven, and leaped out into the abyss.
Well, she caught her first trapeze and twirled around on it for a while; then she stood on her hands, wedged her legs against the ropes, and brought the trapeze to a standstill. Another trapeze flew toward her out of the darkness—someone must have been up there controlling them—and she flipped over and caught it with her legs, so she was hanging upside down again by her knees and swinging gently, like a flower on a tree in a gentle breeze. How beautiful and hypnotic it was. The music slowed. She looked so comfortable and calm. Everybody sighed.
And then the habañera started up again, trapezes began to fly at her—some with people hanging from them by the knees—and she began to fly around the roof of the tent, from one trapeze to another, caught here by a catcher’s hands, being flung there to another, catching herself with arms and hands or knees and feet. She flew through hoops, and through hoops covered with paper (how could she know where she was going to end up? She couldn’t see!). Charlie could see the sweat on her face, and the tension, and the look of absolute joy as she swung away again and the hands released her to fly on to another trapeze below, where she built up more swing, until it was reaching the horizontal and higher, and she took another great leap, somersaulting in midair as she went, to yet another trapeze. She was fabulous. She
could
fly!
Then she and the catchers were swinging and leaping around the roof in a giant game of trapeze tag, and each time she caught one of the men—for she was by far the quickest—they tumbled and somersaulted down, down, down from the Kingdom of the Flying Trapeze to the solid ground below, like angels falling from heaven, or birds banned from the sky. Pirouette alone remained on high, swooping more slowly now, until she raised herself to stand on the big central trapeze, beautiful and exhausted, her curls escaping and sweat streaming down her face, looking as gloriously happy as anyone Charlie had ever seen in his life.
The trapeze rose up, and she disappeared into the shadows of the roof. Charlie gazed, dumbstruck. He couldn’t say a word.
She seemed to have had the same effect on the next act. Three clowns came in, gazing upward in adoration, calling to her, waving and beckoning, jumping up to be with her, crashing down again, bumping into one another and finally all lying down on the floor in paroxysms of unrequited love.
Then a big green-and-gold cage-wagon full of snakes rolled in, and a belly dancer took a couple out and danced with them. The clowns got scared, and then she let out a huge snake, so the clowns ran away, in a very comical manner. The huge snake was dancing along the ground, rippling and sinewy, and then suddenly it started flexing and thrashing about—what was it doing? It was a powerful mover—and then Charlie realized what was happening. It was shedding its skin. The whole patterned slinky surface was shimmying and rippling down from the snake’s body.
So what was underneath?
For a moment Charlie was scared.
Something pale was emerging.
“Arrghhh!” cried Charlie, before he could stop himself. And he wasn’t the only one to yell, not at all.
The shivery snakeskin fell away. The pale, naked snake body slithered on the ground for a moment, then with one last great thrash it reared its head and rose up to its—feet?
It was standing up.
On legs.
Waving to the crowd.
With its arm.
It was Bendy Ben, the India rubber boy.
The crowd cheered as only a crowd that had been genuinely frightened and was now genuinely relieved could cheer.
So then Bendy Ben did his bendy act, during which, among other things, he sat on his own head and fed himself with his feet, using a knife and fork. Julius had told Charlie that Bendy Ben had sold his skeleton to a clinic in the Empire Homelands for a hundred thousand pounds. Charlie had assumed that the clinic would get it after Bendy Ben died, but looking at him now Charlie wondered if he had had his skeleton surgically removed, and was held together inside with bits of elastic.
Charlie glanced across to where Mabel and Maccomo were sitting.
Oh dear, where were they?
He looked around. He couldn’t see them.
His heart thudded.
No, stay calm. Search the crowd. Look carefully, scan across.
Scanning. Looking.
He found them. Maccomo was in his seat. He must have been bending down. Mabel was working her way back down the row of seats. She’d been to the restroom or something. That was okay. Charlie would have been more worried if it had been Maccomo who’d left.
But he could do without that kind of fright.
Meanwhile the Icarus Games had started, where Sigi Lucidi lay on his back and little Beppe Lucidi did acrobatics on his dad’s feet, including a handspring, and then the Lucidi men lay on their backs in a circle, each with his hips propped up on a wedge-shaped thing called a trinka, and they juggled their children between them so that the kids flew from one set of feet to another, rolled up like little bundles as they flew. Then Hans came on with his kitten. It ran up a very tall pole and leaped off the top, with a parachute, floating sweetly back down to earth, meowing and twinkling its whiskers.
How sweet, Charlie was thinking, but then the air went out of his lungs and he gasped and froze.
Sitting with Maccomo and Mabel was a dark figure. Shaven-headed. Leather-coated.
Rafi.
Francis the cowboy rode in on a white horse, his monkey on his shoulder, guns blazing, and tried to kidnap Major Tib, shouting that he was Paul Pennacorrente’s brother and he would have his revenge!
Charlie squatted like a frozen toad at the ringside. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t even think. He kept his face turned down, away from the circus lights, away from any chance of being recognized.
The trick riders were all riding in at once on their strong piebald horses, galloping after Francis and trying to catch him. The band was going crazy. But Charlie wasn’t watching. He was hiding under his turban, desperately trying to gather his thoughts, desperate to look up again and check. Perhaps it’s not Rafi. Perhaps it’s some other young guy with a sleek shaved head and a black leather coat. And the same shape face, and the same cool look . . .
The ring lights dimmed for a moment as the rest of the trick riders disappeared and Francis took charge of their horses. Charlie risked looking up.
It was Rafi all right. Maccomo was talking to him and he was smiling, his eyes flickering around. Was he looking for something? Or someone?
The audience was cheering. The drumming of the hooves and the sweet salty smell of the horses came strong from the ring, and another smell, like pine—the smell of the sticky rosin that was rubbed on the horses’ backs to keep the riders from slipping. Charlie felt sick. He stared down at the sawdust, breathed in the smell, and felt sick. Why was Rafi here? And if he had come for Charlie, why was he wasting time watching the circus? What was Rafi doing with Maccomo? How did they know each other? How long had he been there? Had he seen Charlie? Charlie had to assume he hadn’t, because otherwise all hell would have broken loose . . .
Down in the ring, two trick riders were standing on horseback, leaping, driving banks of fine horses, doing laps and calling out how clever they were. Charlie was frozen in position, the cheering of the audience ringing in his ears. He wanted desperately to sneak away, but he didn’t want to draw any attention to himself, and he wanted to keep an eye on Rafi too.
Oh—was his horrible dog with him? Was Troy going to come slobbering and snarling . . . No, Charlie remembered with relief. Dogs had to stay outside during performances.
The audience was cheering again. All except one person.
“What d’you call that? That’s pathetic,” this man called out.
Charlie stared dazedly at him. He seemed mad, or more likely drunk.
“I could do better,” called the drunk, and, heaving himself up from his seat, he staggered down the aisle toward the ring. All around him people frowned and pursed their lips and cried “Oi! Behave!” The riders ignored him to start with, but as the pest started down to the ring and began shouting even louder, they reined in their horses, looked over to where the pest was, and started laughing.
Charlie wondered. Could this disturbance be an opportunity for him?
Think, Charlie, think! he urged himself silently, but his mind was too confused.
“I could do better than the lot of you!” shouted the drunk un-clearly. He was rather bundled up, with a scarf and a hat he hadn’t taken off, and a big beard.
The riders looked at him and laughed even harder. “All right!” cried one of them, Fabien. “Come on then, big boy! You catch Francis the sharpshooter, and we’ll find a lovely reward for you!” Francis, laughing, took off around the ring, backward on his saddle for a better view.
Charlie, still frozen in position, was realizing miserably that there was nothing he could do. He put his hand to his eyes, and glanced up to the seats beyond. Maccomo and Mabel were watching the show with professional interest. Rafi was looking vaguely amused.
Fabien was sneering at the pest. He unhitched one of his pretty rosinbacks and handed over the reins, saying, “Here, why don’t you start the easy way?” Whereupon the pest clambered up the horse—and toppled straight over it and down the other side. It would have been pretty funny . . . Then the pest managed to get up, but the moment the horse started moving, he fell down the side again and was hanging by one leg from the saddle. When he tried to hoist himself up, he went down the other side again, then he fell off completely. Fabien and Francis could hardly control their laughter.
Maccomo was leaning in toward Rafi, as if he were trying to interest him in something. Rafi was looking as if it was all a bit childish, really.
Well, thought Charlie, he’s not looking at me, or for me, which means he doesn’t know I’m here, because if he knew, he’d be looking. So that means Maccomo hasn’t told him.
The pest, angry now, was tearing off his coat and jumping back on the horse, galloping halfway around the ring, and falling off again. This time he tore off his suit jacket, jumped back on, and fell off again immediately. His vest came off: He tried getting on from the other side, and failed, galloping around hanging over the saddle on his stomach like a sack of flour. The horse drew to a halt again, then took off again, rearing up so that the pest slid off backward and landed on his bottom.
So perhaps, thought Charlie, it’s a coincidence.
Could it be?
Could it?
At that moment, Maccomo and Rafi both looked up and scanned the ringside. Maccomo pointed. Rafi stared and focused. On Charlie.
It seemed as if it was the weight of his heart lurching that flung Charlie back into the shadows just beyond the circle of ring lights. Had Rafi seen him?
Charlie’s breath got short. He felt his shoulders tightening and his lungs shrinking.
Not now, he told himself. Not now, please . . . Keeping himself carefully in the shadows he reached for his inhaler and started doing his breath-control exercises.
Charlie’s eyes were closed, counting his breaths. Calming himself, calming the asthma attack. He didn’t notice when the pest threw himself up to stand on the horse’s back. The horse looked as if it were about to take off again, but the pest uttered a great cry, tore off his hat and his long baggy shirt, and—
Charlie opened his eyes.
It was Madame Barbue standing on the horse, beautiful in a tiny, pale green sequined ballet outfit and tights, her beard curled and oiled, her arms bare and her toes pointed in their pretty slippers. “Alley-oop!” she cried with a gay laugh, and the horse, which seemed to be laughing too, took off around the ring, Madame Barbue balanced on its back, throwing her arms out and looking as elegant as you please.
Charlie breathed, slowly and gently. He kept his face well back. Nothing was happening over on the other side of the ring. No one had leaped across, shouting: “You uppity little squit, I’ll get you . . .” Rafi, Mabel, and Maccomo were still in their seats, still watching the show.
Madame Barbue was gathering together all the horses that Fabien had been driving, and doing a tour of honor around the ring before scooping Francis up onto the horse behind her, and delivering him to Fabien with a flourish.
Charlie’s breath began to settle. He seemed to have edged back up the aisle without even meaning to.
I will stick with my plan, thought Charlie. I have to. There’s nothing else I can do. It’s too complicated to try to change it.
I
have a lot of horses to keep in line too. An image sprang into his mind: the lions all hitched up in reins, and him driving them across the Seine to the station.