Ascension (17 page)

He remembered Etel and turned to her. He could tell that she knew who Salvo was, that he was their missing brother, and he lost his nerve. He did not catch any inkling of Etel’s true feelings, that she was afraid and would gladly have fled. If he had they would
have been miles away by the time Salvo came down. Instead, they stood at the door of the building that had supported one end of the wire, waiting for Salvo to exit.

As Salvo stepped through the door and onto the street, it took his eyes a moment to adjust to the light. He heard cheers as people recognized him, and he linked his hand in Margit’s and raised their arms in salute. For several minutes he shook hands with admirers and well-wishers, saying little but smiling and nodding graciously as warranted. Slowly he became aware that someone behind him was watching him; he could almost feel eyes boring into his back. He turned to see who was there.

Salvo would later describe the sensation as similar to being suddenly immersed in ice water. He instantly recognized András. His mouth went dry, and his throat constricted.

András forgot all his hesitations and fears, and stepped forward, embracing his brother. He wept freely and did not let go of Salvo until his tears began to abate. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Salvo asked, finally able to speak.

András half laughed, half began to cry again. “I don’t know.”

Then Salvo saw Etel. He did not know who she was, but he knew somehow she was related. She could not have looked more like an Ursari.

“This is our sister, Etel,” András said, seeing Salvo’s confusion.

“But she is—”

“No. Our father placed her in his tool trunk during the fire. She survived.”

Salvo felt weak in the knees. “I didn’t know. I watched the house burn. I didn’t know you were in the trunk.”

Etel said nothing. She was still not sure what to make of Salvo, though he seemed less and less like a ghost. She moved
towards him ever so slightly. “I don’t remember it,” she said, her voice a whisper.

András stepped between them. “Why did you leave so quickly?”

“I was afraid. I went to burn the church. I found I couldn’t.” Salvo hung his head, ashamed.

András locked his eyes on Salvo, waiting until he raised his head. “I could,” he said, his voice serious.

Salvo nodded, understanding. “They would have been looking for you.”

“They were. I think they have stopped now.”

Etel listened as her brothers exchanged small details of their recent lives. Salvo seemed real enough. Maybe he actually was her brother. She smiled slightly at the thought that it could be true. But a voice inside her told her to be careful.

“Where did you learn to do that?” she asked, pointing at the wire.

Salvo put his hands in his pockets. “A man taught me.”

Etel thought about this. If Salvo was not a ghost, if a person could actually do what she had seen him do, then she would like to do that. “Can you teach me to do that?”

Salvo looked at András. “Yes, I can.”

András shook his head. “We could not learn that.”

“Of course you can. You are Ursari.”

Etel smiled a wide smile. She had two brothers now.

The two couples danced on the wire, the men with their backs to each other, the women opposite their partners, moving in perfect time. Below, the Viennese gentility marvelled at their grace. The music stopped, and the women retreated from the wire, as did the older-looking of the two men. The remaining wire walker—almost
handsome, with green eyes that shone all the way to the ground—paused, patiently waiting for the audience’s full attention.

He faced the end of the wire and from a standing position fell backwards, sending the crowd into a collective gasp. Before the gasp died he was on his feet again, having executed a seamless backwards somersault. A young woman with the same eyes walked out, handing him a chair. He placed the chair on the wire, the length of the wire running down the middle of the seat, the four legs dangling. As though gravity did not exist, the man’s own legs rose into the air, and his hands came to rest atop the back of the chair. His handstand was flawless, which impressed the crowd, but not as much as when he wobbled slightly, placing one hand perpendicular to his body for balance, deftly recovering. They did not know that he was never in danger of losing his balance, that this was done simply for effect.

He returned his feet to the wire and, lifting the chair to his waist, was rejoined by the man and the other woman, by far the smaller of the two, blonde hair instead of black. She stood between the men. The chair was placed behind her, and as she sat it was hoisted to the men’s shoulders. The Viennese clapped, astounded. This stunt they hadn’t seen before. The woman was returned to the wire, and the wire walkers returned to the platform, where they bowed graciously. The next day the newspapers would run a story recounting this evening’s feats, and many would wish they had not missed the show.

Tomas Skosa was at the performance, but he did not perform. He hadn’t in the two years since Salvo had effectively taken control of the troupe. His connections with booking agents and intimate knowledge of the cities of Europe were valuable, though, maybe more valuable than his skills on the wire. He was not a young man any more; he doubted whether he could have
walked the wire, even if he wanted to. As he watched the others perform, he was coming off a very bad day—not the worst he had gone through since Margit had attacked him with the kettle, but definitely on the negative side of things. That morning he had been unable to pull back the blankets on his bed or tie his own shoes, even the simplest tasks of coordination presenting difficulty. He felt better as the day went on, but not so much that he wasn’t presently having trouble lighting his cigarette. He dropped his lighter and smiled as the woman sitting next to him retrieved it and ignited his cigarette for him. He leaned the tip of his cigarette in and inhaled, relieved. “Thanks,” he mumbled self-consciously, awkwardly taking back his lighter and fumbling it into his pocket.

The woman was pretty, and there was a time when he would have asked her out to dance. Tomas thought of the good time they would have had, how their bodies would have soared with music and movement. No more, he knew. On a day like this one his feet would be frozen, his arms jerking as if in a hanged man’s death spasms. When such days came along, he was forced to consider whether life was still worthwhile.

He turned his attention to the wire. The boy Salvo, who was no longer a boy, had treated him far better than he would have expected, and, Tomas realized, far better than he had ever treated Salvo. A part of him hated Salvo for his kindness. If he were not obliged by circumstance he might have left. But what kept him there more than anything was the simple fact that this Rom was without a doubt the best wire walker Tomas had ever seen. His brother and sister weren’t bad either, and even the girl Margit, once properly taught, had shown more skill than Tomas had thought her capable. But none of them was in the same class as Salvo.

Whether Salvo had any idea of his talent, he never indicated. When he was on the wire he appeared as though he was oblivious to everything else, which, Tomas reflected, was exactly what he had taught him. His pride in the boy, a pride he kept secret, kept him with the troupe as much as the people he needed to contact in various cities or the many duties he had.

Margit, when she spoke, which was rarely, did not speak to Tomas. For two years she had managed to avoid saying more than a few scattered words to him. The thing was, she didn’t seem to be afraid of him. She wasn’t. Margit had discovered that Tomas had no more power over her, that his days of doing as he liked were over, and she need no longer fear him. To Margit, Tomas Skosa was already a memory.

András and Etel, who were never seen apart, had adjusted quickly to their new lives as wire walkers. It was not, András knew, so different from the life of a Rom. The main difference was that wire walkers could, if they were good, enjoy the respect and admiration of
gadje
, if only for the moments when they were performing. András took a strange pleasure in knowing that they were cheering for him. The wire was not the only trick that was going on.

Where Tomas had been harsh with Salvo’s training, Salvo was patient. The concepts were the same, and failure was no less an option, but Salvo preferred to coerce rather than threaten. Besides, Salvo would never have struck a woman—either Margit or his sister especially—and he would likewise not strike András, who could easily thrash him.

When they had begun to train, Salvo was stunned when it was András who took to the wire least. Margit had some training already and had a definite head start, so he wasn’t surprised there. Etel, in spite of her enthusiasm, had worried him most.

“If you fall, you die,” he told Etel sternly. The look she gave him made him feel as if he had just insulted not only her but himself somehow as well, so he gave up such admonishments. He had commenced training the next day.

First they learned immobility. Margit had no trouble, as she had already learned it, and Etel caught on almost immediately. It took András a week. After that they took their first steps. If they lost their balance, which they often did, they were not allowed to fall. Always they were made to grasp for the wire, hold onto it, then drop to the ground. If they missed the wire, or did not attempt to catch it, Salvo would have to fight hard to control his rage. “You just killed yourself,” he told them, “and probably one of us, too.” His voice made them ashamed, and after a month they could cross back and forth and no one ever fell.

Balancing and tricks came later. These took time, repetition and a sense of balance that was only perfected after hours and hours on the wire. Negotiating the wire had to become second nature before any tricks were possible. In time, though, they were ready, and even now Salvo continued to teach them any trick he knew, had seen or was able to envision. After two years, he was able to confidently trust each of them with his life, but he still preferred to be alone on the wire.

In the last six months Etel had grown four inches. Soon she would be as tall as Salvo. If her hair was cut and her nose was larger, she could have passed for a younger version of either of her brothers. In temperament, though, she resembled neither. Where András was slow, Etel moved with a quickness reminiscent of a hummingbird. Where Salvo was secretly fearful of very nearly everything, Etel was secretly afraid of nothing. She hid her courage, not wanting to appear brazen. She spoke in a voice softer than her own and often slouched, embarrassed by her height. She made no
effort to keep herself clean, constantly having to be reminded by András or Margit to wash her clothes and face. And she smoked incessantly; she loved the smell of it.

I
N 1937 THEY SECURED A BOOKING
in one of Europe’s most prestigious venues, Berlin’s Wintergarten. It was a lavish setting, its curved stage and superior acoustics the envy of theatres across the continent. Its patrons, dressed in their finest tuxedos and gowns, ate meals worthy of royalty as they were entertained by the best acts Europe and the world had to offer. As each guest entered the Wintergarten a star on the ceiling was lit, and when the house reached full capacity the ceiling was ablaze with a splendour that rivalled nature.

The wire was strung between two velvet-ensconced private boxes, sixty feet above the stage. Below, a twenty-piece orchestra scored the act, strategically scattered in case one of the wire walkers fell. The house was sold out, as usual.

There was a rumour circulating that Cole Fisher-Fielding was expected to be in attendance, which sent Salvo into a panic that left him aching, his hands sore and stiff from the frightened fists they were permanently contracted into.

Nearly fifty years earlier Cole Fisher-Fielding had, along with four of his brothers and two of his sisters, started the Fisher-Fielding Extravaganza, a meagre spectacle consisting of seven or eight acts, most of them involving at least one family member. In less than twenty years the Fisher-Fielding Circus Company had come to employ over fifteen hundred people and was the undisputed giant of the North American circus world.

Cole Fisher-Fielding was the second youngest of his siblings, and the youngest to enter the circus business. Of his thirteen brothers and sisters, only half had taken an interest in the circus,
although sooner or later they had all taken an interest in its financial prosperity. Cole Fisher-Fielding was the sole surviving member of F-F’s original founders, sixty-six years old, twice married and twice divorced. He would almost certainly die without an heir. Such was the fate of the majority of the Fisher-Fieldings; of the seven who had started the business, only three had produced children. It baffled many, for the sexual proclivity of the Fisher-Fieldings had never gone unnoticed. It was widely speculated that there was many a Fisher-Fielding who bore a bastard name wandering the streets of America.

That Cole Fisher-Fielding outlived his brothers and sisters was no accident; more than one associate of the F-F Circus Company had remarked that Cole would bury the entire family, some with malice and some without. He was the sort of man it was impossible not to have a strong opinion about. But whatever could be said of him, none could argue that he hadn’t earned the title of King of the Circus. During the early 1930s, when the Depression had broken most, if not all, of their competition, the F-F under Cole’s direction had not only survived but turned a profit. In fact, in the fifty years that the Fisher-Fielding Circus Company had operated, it had never once missed a pay call. There was no other circus on earth that could make that claim.