Circus: Fantasy Under the Big Top (5 page)

I stood there, numbed by too many emotions. The joy of the music—its melody and rhythm—still lingered in my mind, but it was rapidly giving way to a great sense of loss. I knew the music would fade, my memory of her dissolve over time like a badly developed heliotype.

I saw a man, dressed in suit of black, trimmed at collar and cuff with braid of gold in a mock-military fashion. He carried the red box in his hands as he moved towards the back of the carriage. It was not until he had disappeared behind the Calliope that I realised his connection and decided to follow.

“Excuse me, sir,” I said, finding him turning a series of valves jutting from a boiler tank fastened to the carriage’s rear end. He looked up and scowled.

“I was wondering about the calliope player,” I said, “and if it might be possible to know her name? I found her performance most gratifying and would like to thank her with a note.”

The circus man stared at me for a moment and then laughed. “So y’want to send a note of thanks to our Kally, eh? Yes, I’m sure she’d value a note from you, kind sir.”

He stood up from his task, wiping his dirty hands on a rag, and tapped the side of the carriage with his fist.

“She works hard, our Kally. Always appreciates a bit of appreciation, she does,” he said and thrust his right hand out at me. I took it, shaking gently as his firm grip encompassed my smaller hand.

“My name’s McKenzie,” he said. “Why don’t y’come back tomorrow night, on me, and deliver your note in person? I’m sure Miss Kally would love to meet you. We’ll be up at Moore Park the next three nights, and then we’ll be movin’ on.”

McKenzie released my hand and bent back to his task. I stood there, expecting Kally to exit the trailer at any moment. “I don’t think she’ll be coming out too soon, sir,” McKenzie said, intuiting the reason for my hesitation. “I
will
tell her to expect you tomorrow night though.”

His tone was a little harder now and when he didn’t look up again, I took our conversation to be over. I knew I would return tomorrow night. I had, after all, been invited and it would be impolite to refuse. Of course Miss Kally would like her admirers to deliver their thanks in person. It was only sensible.

I turned back towards the wharf and had only taken two steps when a horn blared from across the water. The ferry was already three quarters of the way across the harbour. There wouldn’t be another for almost an hour. And I’d donated my last penny to
McKenzie’s Universal Circus & Museum of the Bizarre
.

There had long been talk of bridging the north and south sides of the harbour. Francis Greenway first proposed the idea of a bridge in 1815 and, despite some enthusiasm, work was never commenced. It’s an engineering feat I would have liked to have seen—a bridge of iron stretching from shore to shore—but Mr. Beach’s Pneumatic Rail System proved so successful in New York that the City of Sydney commissioned one too and all talk of a harbour bridge was soon forgotten.

Begun in 1888, the
Pneumatic Cross-Harbour Subway
, or the
Tube
as it is commonly known, was a daring enterprise. Many died during its eight year construction, but it has been hailed internationally as a marvel of modern construction. I don’t like it. I don’t like the closeness, or the thought of so much water pressing down upon me from above. I don’t like the stale air. The smell of sweat and of lavender oil applied so liberally by well-to-do women that it fills the cramped cars like a miasma. I don’t like the feeling of being alternately blown and sucked along a sealed tube by enormous, whirring fans at either end. What if the car didn’t stop and ran into the fan? What if the fans were to stop while we were still in the tunnel? What if the tube were to spring a leak, releasing the pressure that gave us motion, letting in the harbour to drown, or crush, us under its weight?

No, I do not like the Tube at all. But I caught it home that afternoon and paid a farthing for the pleasure.

When I returned home late my wife was, understandably, in a state of great agitation. I’d not thought of an excuse for my lateness and stammered something about crowded streets and long lines at the ferry. She huffed and puffed and I could tell she didn’t believe a word of it. I knew she suspected me of having met the boys for a drink at the
Fortune of War
. It was a plausible notion that I saw no reward in dispelling.

My wife’s guests were already chatting in the drawing room and I made myself scarce, retiring to my study to avoid the prolonged tongue-lashing I was most certainly due. Things would quiet down eventually, I knew, but I would also need a reason for being out the following night, for I fully intended on seeing Kally again and extending my admiration of her skills.

I could think of nothing else. My head was constantly distracted by the memory of her voice, her face, the beauty of her music. I could say an emergency Lodge meeting had been called . . . and yet, my wife need only speak to one of the other wives at the Teashop on Lavender Street for my ruse to be revealed. If it rained—which was unlikely—I could say the ferries were cancelled, but the rain would have to be especially heavy, harbour swells especially high . . . why then wouldn’t I just catch the Tube as I had tonight?

In the end I decided to claim the need to work back late, it not being inconceivable given the projects I frequently worked on. My wife would not be happy—she seldom was when I came home late—but at least it was an excuse that might ring true.

I left for work early the next morning, sneaking around the house like a thief as I made my breakfast and packed a lunch. I scrawled a hasty note informing of my intention to work late and signed it with my undying love. At that moment I hesitated—pricked at heart by my deceit, my guilt—and nearly threw the note in the furnace, fully intending to make my way home on time that night. But I didn’t. I left the note on the kitchen bench and stepped out into the cool, pre-dawn air, silently closing the door behind me.

Work was an extended exercise in tedium. The blueprints I was reviewing for a patent application were complex and it was difficult for me to assess the device’s overall safety. I understood the concept, which was a simple one: a variation on the common steam engine, but without need of a constant supply of combustible material such as coal. Instead, a pellet of refined Uranium dioxide would sit at the centre, heating a boiler of heavy-water to steam with its own radiant emanations. It was an ingenious design but the plans were vague on the amount of heat generated and I was unsure of the boiler’s ability to handle the pressures produced.

I glanced at my wall clock frequently, making only occasional notes, tapping my pencil on the desk to mark off the seconds. The Radioactive Sciences were relatively new, and I knew little, certainly not enough to make a valid call on the device. I knew of the fortuitous (but doomed) meeting of Maria Sklodowska and Nicola Tesla in Paris in 1892. That two years of research under Becquerel had led them to an entirely new branch of science, and that the announcement of their findings at the
Exposition Internationale et Coloniale
in 1894 had sent scientists the world over scampering to understand this new source of wonder. The bitter feud that eventually tore the Tesla-Sklodowska research team apart was well publicised, appearing front-page of all the major newspapers. Behind all the name-calling and back-stabbing, Sklodowska and Becquerel urged caution and a drive towards scientific investigation of Radium’s peculiar properties, whilst Tesla looked only for ways to exploit its energy in any way possible. For a time, scientists were as popular and gossiped about as Oscar Wilde and Queen Victoria, but it was Tesla’s showmanship that ruled the media circus. In the end, Sklodowska’s concerns were practically ignored and the future commercialisation of Radium was assured.

But this trivia was of no use to me. I was sure someone in the office would know more on the details and less on the gossip, or at least have a resource I could consult. By the time I’d decided to seek assistance it was after five o’clock and so I packed my work away and headed off to the circus.

Moore Park has always been a refuge for leisurely activity. The Zoological Gardens are well stocked with exotic—although often sickly—fauna, including a pair of elephants donated by the King of Siam. There is always a game of some description in progress on the long, dry fields of the park: rugby, cricket, Australian Football, and once I even witnessed a game of baseball played by a team of travelling Americans. But on that day the park was different.

It was as if, overnight, a strange and colourful city had sprung up across the field. Bright striped canopies rose up like giant mushroom caps and people moved among them like ants. At the very centre, higher and larger than all the other tents, was the Big Top.

I moved down the midway, through dust and the eager cries of concessionaires, looking always for the bright-red carriage of the Calliope and its player. I could not see it anywhere and so made my way to the ticket wagon.

“Mr. McKenzie told me to come,” I said when I reached the front of the line. “I’m here to see the Calliope player.”

The young ticketing girl looked at me for a moment as if weighing my worth for some unknown task. Her eyes were filled with all the innocence of a street whore.

“Mr. McKenzie told you, did he?” she said and smiled. “Well then, shouldn’t keep Miss Kally waiting, should we, if Mr. McKenzie says so? Nice gent like you, I’m sure she’ll be happy to make your acquaintance. Won’t be ’til after the show though, I’m ’fraid. It’s just about to start and Miss Kally provides all the music. Star of the show, she is.”

I took the ticket she proffered and made my way to the Big Top. I was now a little unsure of whether I was truly expected.

The tent was already crowded with people who filled the stands, tiered six high, that circumscribed the inside wall. In the very centre were three white rings laid out upon the ground, the middle ring almost twice as large as the other two. Great poles stood at the intersection of the circles, holding up the roof, heavily guyed with wires and ropes stretched from canopy to floor. I found a seat as near to the front as I could and settled in, breathing not too deeply the hot and unwholesome atmosphere of dust and sweat, greasepaint and animal dung. The man beside me took up more than a fair share of his own seat and looked to rest himself on a share of mine as well. I shuffled and squirmed, hoping he would get the message that my seat was for my behind alone.

On the far side of the main ring, directly opposite where I sat, there was a raised platform upon which I could see the red wagon of the Calliope. The curtain in its side was closed but gas footlights on the platform shone up, illuminating the carriage and its fine wrought scroll-work like a jewel.

I barely noticed McKenzie as he stepped into the main ring. My eyes were otherwise focused on the curtain. I heard his introduction though as it rang out deep and loud among the people and canvas.

“Roll up! Roll up! Welcome, one and all, to McKenzie’s Universal Circus and Museum of the Bizarre! The greatest show you will ever see in this, or any other, world! Sights that will dazzle, sights that will amaze, sights that you will find nowhere else, ladies and gentlemen. Nowhere! They are all here for your delectation and delight. But! In order to endure the wonder of those sights we must first have sound! Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you the rapturous rhapsodies of our very own Musical Muse . . . Kally Maelzel!”

The curtain dropped to reveal her, dressed as she had been the previous day, seated at the Calliope’s keyboard. There was a great puff of steam from the pipes and the first note resounded through the tent like the rumble of thunder. Her fingers danced and a melody grew out of the bass, a brisk and merry tune that lifted the spirits in an instant. Kally’s voice joined the Calliope’s mad and festive waltz, singing not words but pure notes which like as not could break glass, but were as pleasing as a bluebird’s song. There was movement in the ring, a troupe of clowns, I think, but I paid little attention. I was taken again by the music of the Muse and knew no more until it was all over, the crowd moving out, stepping over and around me as I sat still and quiet in my seat.

When the tent was empty and I sat alone, McKenzie came out from behind some curtains and approached me.

“Enjoy our show, sir?” he asked and I think I managed a nod. “I spoke to Miss Kally and she was most grateful for your kind attention. I hope you enjoyed her playing enough to convey your admiration in person?”

He cocked an eyebrow at me and held out his hand to lead me from my seat.

“Why yes. Thank you, Mr. McKenzie,” I said, rising slowly, half in a dream, almost stepping on a discarded apple core. I allowed him to lead, watching my step amongst the carpet of detritus, until we stepped into the ring. Even then, he did not let go of my arm but led me across the great circle to the raised platform.

The footlights burned brightly still but the curtains of the carriage were closed once more. We stepped up onto the platform and made for the back.

“This way, sir,” McKenzie said, stopping at the door in the rear of the carriage, knocking loudly on its frame.

From inside I heard her speak, a sound as melodious as her song. “Come in, I’ve been expecting you, sir,” she said. “I have heard that my music pleases you.” And McKenzie opened the door.

The interior of the carriage was lit by the gentle flicker of a single gas-lamp resting on a small table in the corner. Kally sat at her keyboard as if she had not moved an inch in the long moments since the performance. She turned her head to face me as I stepped up and through the door.

And there I stopped.

Her eyes were an unearthly blue, an azure glow that did more than reflect the light of the gas-lamp. They seemed to shed their own soft light, piercing me with a glance. She blinked, a rapid and sharp down-up of her eyelids. Flick-flick, like the shutter of a camera.

“Please, have a seat,” she said, motioning with a nod to a small stool at her side. Her voice evinced a German or Austrian accent and I could barely match the movement of her lips with the words she spoke, as if my eyes and ears had become detached in time, one from the other.