The Tiger's Egg (6 page)

Doctor Tau-Tau's eyebrows disappeared into his fez. He was waiting for an answer.

“They were small hairy creatures who escaped through the window like monkeys,” said Miles. “I only caught a glimpse of them in the dark. I think there were two of them.”

“Monkeys, you say?” repeated Doctor Tau-Tau. He was staring at Miles with an odd expression, as though something rang a bell that he did not want to hear.

“They weren't monkeys,” said Miles. “The monkeys are all locked in their cage. I have the key in my pocket.”

“Are you sure . . . ,” whispered Doctor Tau-Tau, leaning close to Miles and enveloping him in his oriental breath, “that it wasn't your
tiger
friend?”

Miles was lost for an answer to such a strange suggestion. He was about to ask why on earth a tiger
would want to ransack Doctor Tau-Tau's wagon, when he spotted the little gray bird that had startled him earlier. “Look!” he said, glad of the distraction. “Your bird is loose.”

Doctor Tau-Tau turned to look. “Satu!” he said. “What are you doing out, you little feathered rascal?”

The bird hopped among the small red and gold envelopes that lay scattered across the carpet. She stopped suddenly and tugged one of the envelopes free with her fat red beak, then she hopped forward until she came to rest by Doctor Tau-Tau's embroidered slipper.

Doctor Tau-Tau bent down and held out his hand, palm upward. The bird jumped on board. The fortune-teller took the envelope and opened it, as though he had forgotten about Miles altogether. He removed a small yellowing card and read it with with a frown of concentration. “Impossible,” he murmured to himself. He glanced at Miles from under his bushy eyebrows, then he looked at the card once more, before slipping it back into its envelope.

“What does the card say?” asked Miles.

“Oh, nothing, nothing,” said Doctor Tau-Tau vaguely. “The cards were scattered, and Satu has had a fright. In such circumstances a mistake is
understandable.” He delved into his trouser pocket and brought out a few seeds, which he fed to the little bird, then he crunched his way across his scattered belongings, righted the cage and placed her gently inside.

“What kind of mistake?” persisted Miles. He was curious to know what the card could have said to make Tau-Tau's anger dissolve so quickly into puzzlement.

“Let's just forget about it, eh?” said Tau-Tau, forcing a smile. “It's the wrong card. It couldn't apply to you. Why don't you just come back first thing in the morning and help me straighten the place out, eh?” He tucked the little envelope into his waistcoat pocket, beside the notebook, and Miles noticed that his hands were shaking.

T
ariq Ali Mohammad III, bare-chested and oil-slicked, opened his mouth and blew a mighty ball of flame that would have put a dragon to shame. The audience gasped—indeed some of them ducked, and he blew another, just to keep them on their toes. Miles loved to watch Tariq make fire, but he had no time to watch now. He was behind the curtain, helping the tent boys to line up the big round platforms on which Tembo and Mamba would perform for the people of Nape.

A roar of applause told him that Tariq was taking his bow, and as the fire-eater marched through the curtain, spitting the last of the paraffin to one
side, Miles slipped past him and ran into the ring with a large rake. He quickly smoothed the sawdust as the tent boys came out behind him, rolling the heavy platforms on their sides like hula hoops. Miles ran back through the curtain, ducking under Tembo's trunk as she ambled in from the darkening field outside, led by Gila in a green suit with gold braiding.

“Steady, Master Miles,” said Gila.

“Don't knock over the elephants,” added Umor, who was following close behind with Mamba.

“I'll try not to,” said Miles.

“Can you help me with these wings, Miles?” said Little.

She was dressed in her sparkling suit and white ballet slippers, and a small pair of wings sat lopsidedly on her shoulders. They had been carefully stitched together from goose feathers by Delia Zipplethorpe, the horse mistress. She had done a fine job, but no amount of clever needlework could match the luminous beauty of the real wings that had once graced Little's shoulders. A tracery of graceful lines in the skin of her back was all that remained of them now; a faint reminder of what she had lost when she sang her real name to release Miles from The Null's monstrous grip, and in doing
so tied herself forever to Earth.

Miles tugged at the elastic straps that held the wings to her shoulders. They made him feel slightly sad, and he wondered how much worse it must be for Little herself. “Are you sure you want to wear these?” he asked.

“Of course,” said Little. “Haven't you seen the playbill? I'm Little, the winged acrobat.” She smiled at him over her shoulder.

“I know,” said Miles. “But you don't have to be. I could ask Fabio to change it.” He took a step back to check that the wings were straight.

Little turned and hugged Miles around his waist. She smiled up at him. “Thank you, Miles. I do miss my wings, but wearing these makes no difference to that. This is a circus, and people want to see something magical. That's why we're here, isn't it?”

Another wave of applause followed Tembo and Mamba as they loped out of the ring and pushed through the curtain. They knew they had performed well and they were in a hurry to find out what treat might await them with their evening meal. As they trotted out under the stars, the slim figure of Etoile, the dark-haired acrobat, strode in past them, patting both their trunks in turn as she made for the curtain. Her sister, Henna, stumbled
along after her in spike-heeled shoes.

Although they looked alike, Henna and Etoile could not have been more different. Etoile was immaculately dressed and perfectly made up at any hour of the day. She was always polite, never late, and despite the circus's harsh work ethic, no one seemed to mind—or to notice—that she never troubled to get her hands dirty.

Henna, by contrast, was usually to be found in overalls, a cigarette dangling from her lips and her hair looking as though the macaws had been nesting in it. She mucked out the animals, shaved and shod the Zipplethorpe family's fine Arab horses and scrubbed down the wagon, inside and out, that she shared with her sister. She never even thought of getting ready for a performance until ten minutes before it began. She would still be touching up her mascara right up to the moment she walked into the ring, but as she stepped through the star-strewn curtain a transformation came over her. It was as though she could throw on like a costume the elegance and poise that her sister wore all the time, and once under the spotlights it was hard to tell the two apart.

“Vite, chérie!”
called Etoile to Little.

“No time for the gossip,” added Henna, making
last-minute adjustments to the straps of her costume.

“See you later,” said Little. She fell into line between Etoile and Henna, and the band struck up a whirling tune as the three acrobats, heads up and backs straight, strode into the center of the ring, and the dark-haired sisters stepped out of their high-heeled shoes, ready to begin.

Miles busied himself helping the tent boys to stack the rectangular sections of the lions' cage, ready to be quickly assembled during the intermission. Countess Fontainbleau and her Savage Lions always opened the second half of the show, and the cage had to be built in the time it took the audience to buy a bag of popcorn and drop half of it down between the seats. The work helped to take his mind off the knot in his stomach, which began to form as the time approached for his own act with Stranski the Magician. The rise and fall of applause washed through the curtain like waves breaking on a beach, and when he glanced upward he could see the shadows of the acrobats curling gracefully across the canvas roof.

On a final wave of applause Henna and Etoile came hurrying through the curtain, followed by Little, whose face glowed in the dim backstage
light. Henna produced a cigarette from the sleeve of her costume and clamped it between her lips, and Papaya the clown lit it for her as he passed by on flapping shoes.

“How was it?” Miles asked Little.

“Good,” said Little. “I slipped a bit on the rope, but I think the audience finds it more exciting when that happens.”

“There you are, Little,” said Countess Fontainbleau, the lion tamer, bringing the chill air with her as she strode in from the darkness. “Did you speak to my Perseus for me?”

“Yes,” said Little, who had never lost her ear for the music of animal speech, “and you were right. He has a toothache.”

The countess, dressed in an immaculate red coat with gold braiding, gold tights and pink fluffy bedroom slippers, sighed theatrically. “Then I will have to go on with just Nestor and Eunice,” she said, “and Nestor is so
lazy
when Perseus is not there to bite his backside.”

“It's okay,” said Little. “Perseus says he'll perform tonight, as long as you get the dentist to look at him after the show.”

Countess Fontainbleau's face brightened up, and her haughty expression melted into a smile. “Thank
you, Little, you're a princess!” she said, and she blew her a kiss before turning and stalking out of the marquee.

“Oh, Countess!” called Little.

The countess stopped and turned, the lamplight picking out her long neck and high cheekbones. “Well?” she said.

“Perseus said not to put your head in his mouth tonight, unless you want to finish the show without it.”

The countess gave a whinnying laugh, and disappeared into the gloom.

“Master Miles!” barked Fabio. “Where are you supposed to be?”

Miles thought for a second. “Elephants,” he said. “Helping Umor and Gila.”

“Then get moving, before you take root,” called Fabio, and he disappeared through the curtain.

“I'll come with you,” said Little. “I want a word with Mamba before she goes to sleep.”

They walked quickly between the trailers, through the bustle of animals, performers and their props. Everyone was busy preparing for the second half of the show, or packing away their acts from the first. Miles and Little ducked the flailing tail of a crocodile as his trainer, Gina, wrestled him into a
carved wooden box on wheels. The elephants were munching the last of their apples in the small enclosure that surrounded their wagon.

“Here he is,” said Umor.

“I thought there was something missing from this shovel,” said Gila.

He held the handle of the shovel out to Miles. Miles attempted to tweak his nose, but the little man was far too quick for him, and skipped out of his reach.

“No good, Master Miles,” he chuckled.

“A snail could do better,” said Umor.

“And they have no fingers.”

Miles took the shovel with a sigh, and began to scoop up the elephant dung and tip it into the waiting wheelbarrow.

“Did Doctor Tau-Tau find out who broke into his wagon?” asked Little. Miles opened his mouth to answer, but he was interrupted by Umor.

“'Course he didn't,” called the little man.

“Nothing to tell,” said Gila.

“Just the local kids,” said Umor.

Miles shook his head. “They weren't kids. I saw them. They were covered in hair.”

Gila dunked a brush in a bucket of soapy water and began to scrub at Mamba's wrinkly hide. “Kids
are very hairy these days,” he said.

“I blame the parents,” said Umor.

“Me too,” said Gila. He paused for a moment in his scrubbing. “Why?”

“Man with a beard. Woman with long hair,” said Umor, emptying his bucket in the corner. “Recipe for disaster.”

“Either that,” said Gila, “or too many vitamins.”

“Vitamin H,” called Umor. “That's the culprit.”

Miles pictured the strange little figure with the birdlike movements, perched for a second on the darkened sill. He shook his head. “They weren't kids,” he repeated, “and they weren't monkeys.”

“There's nothing between,” said Umor.

“Kids or monkeys,” said Gila. “That's all there is.”

“Your barrow is full,” said Umor, “and there's a man waiting to saw you in half.”

Miles shrugged and picked up the heavy barrow. He pushed it with difficulty through the soft mud, heading for the manure truck. Little walked beside him, leaving no footprints.

“They didn't like that question, did they?” she said when they were out of earshot of the two little clowns.

“It's hard to tell with them,” said Miles. “Doctor Tau-Tau wouldn't answer me either. He just kept
changing the subject and asking me about the tiger.” He took a run at the wooden ramp that leaned against the manure truck, and heaved the contents of the barrow into the back.

“You should be careful,” said Little.

“I feel a bit sorry for Tau-Tau,” said Miles. “Lots of the other performers won't talk to him.”

“Maybe there's a reason for that,” said Little, jumping over the rope by which K2 was dragging a brightly painted cannon toward the big top. Hector the monkey was perched on top of the cannon, and he jumped onto Miles's shoulder as they passed, chattering softly in his ear.

“What's he saying?” asked Miles.

Little laughed. “He says you should watch more carefully when he's picking pockets tonight. Stranski relies on you to spot the ones he misses.”

“Ask him why he always seems to pick people who smell of cheap cologne,” said Miles, scratching the monkey behind his ears. Hector and Little chattered back and forth for a minute, then the monkey dropped to the ground as they passed Stranski's wagon and scampered up the steps.

“He said that if you lived with someone who smells like Stranski,” said Little, “you'd seek out
people who smell a bit nicer. He used to think Stranski might take the hint, but he never did. Now Hector just likes the smell of cologne from the wallets he borrows.”

Miles rummaged for his keys as they approached the Bolsillo brothers' wagon, where his costume was kept. “I don't really think Tau-Tau means any harm,” he said.

“Maybe not,” said Little. “His song is not a bad one; he just doesn't seem able to hear anyone else's. I can just hear Silverpoint saying, ‘Don't trust that Doctor Tau-Tau. He has a nose for the wrong path.'”

“By the seven hills of Hades!” came a voice from the darkness. “Have I made such a bad impression?” Doctor Tau-Tau appeared around the corner of the wagon, his faded red fez perched on his head and a smile stretched tightly across his face. He looked as though he were mastering his annoyance with difficulty. “And who might this
Silverpoint
be, who would think so ill of me?”

Little turned her clear blue gaze on his brick-red face, and smiled. “Silverpoint's a friend of ours. He's not from around here, and he never trusted anyone,” she said. “And it's just that you're so . . . mysterious.”

Doctor Tau-Tau straightened up and tugged the creases from his jacket. “Well, yes,” he said. “I suppose I am.” The smile was gone, but he looked rather pleased with himself. “I am,” he repeated, “indeed very mysterious.”