Circus of the Grand Design (10 page)

One of the reasons he had not wanted to remain with Martha after they finished college was her parents. They had never liked him. She was from one of those declaration of independence families that never married anyone out of their class. They tolerated him, knowing it unlikely that he and Martha would ever marry. He always pictured her mother with her perfect coiffure, sitting back in a plush armchair after a day's arduous socializing, listening to Muzak. Her parents were probably happy now that he had left their daughter, though they wouldn't be pleased with the scandal, the shame of his arson and flight.

And Martha, she would now have to admit to her parents that their view of Lewis had been vindicated. Poor dear, so wrong about the bad rubbish boy. Her rigidity and anger came from her parents. Maybe if she had broken with them, like Lewis had with his...

The people of the circus probably thought of each other as family. He didn't think he would ever be able to share in that.

Dillon sat at his desk with his face bent over a foot-thick, hardbound book. He thumped it shut and looked up at Lewis. "There you are. Weaving yourself into the fabric, I trust?"

"Sure. I just wanted to ask you about some things." Lewis turned his head to see the title of the book, but Dillon's hand blocked most of it. All he could make out was
Monoli
...and...
scape
. Dillon opened a drawer, and with some effort lowered the immense book into it.

Lewis took the seat opposite him. "I've been exploring the train." He watched Dillon for a reaction. None came. "I found a storage room, and a lounge, and the animals, but then things get a little hazy."

Dillon's eyes glowed their familiar blue. They made Lewis edgy; he looked down as he spoke. "I found this empty passenger car and walked through it; eventually it seemed to get smaller and smaller until I was on hands and knees."

"Vehicles perform better if they are designed aerodynamically. A pointed object moves more smoothly than a blunt object. Inherent in structure, but resonating—"

Impatient, Lewis interrupted. "I understand aerodynamics, I just didn't realize I was walking through a nose cone."

Dillon opened another drawer and pulled out a pad of paper. He began writing on it. Taking notes on the conversation?

"So where does the driver sit?" Lewis was again having trouble saying everything he had planned. "I also wanted to make sure you got the press release. And...I somehow missed a performance. I was wondering if—"

"Splendid. Progress keeps an organization like ours moving swiftly forward, in arcs of ever-increasing complexity." Dillon spread his hands, palms up, and smiled. "We draw near a cycle of heavy involvement. The sun will rise soon on the false and the fair."

~

Lewis wanted isolation. The acrobats were in the dining car, but they would likely pay no attention to him.

"A plate of your best," he said, before Cinteotl could begin his culinary description. He sat and looked at his food, a bowl of gray mush with bits of meat. Yes, he should leave, flee this train of strange food and stranger people. He ate a spoonful of the mush, which had a strong, fermented taste.

Two of the acrobats began shouting. One stood and slapped the other. They flung themselves out of the booth and rolled on the floor, fighting, savagely gouging and pummeling as if they were the bitterest of foes. The nose of the acrobat with the long scar across his forehead began spurting an amazing amount of blood, and the two noncombatants separated them, shouting "no recrudescence."

The former antagonists repeated "no recrudescence" and embraced. Cinteotl brought them a towel for the scarred acrobat's nose and a bottle of clear liquor. The acrobats clinked their glasses and began singing.

Lewis left the remains of his mush and returned to his room. On the way, the hall lights dimmed, simulating dusk.

~

Faint music, the song Lewis had heard in the dining car, came from somewhere. The cello and the singer with the sad voice. The cloudy windows glowed more orange than usual, soothing but not soporific. Leaving the lights off, he sat at his desk and thought about the citrus woman. Maybe he would ask Cinteotl for oranges, to lure her back. Twice now he had seen her, and that was enough, apparently, to spark an obsession. Dark and deep, her eyes held the secrets of the world; her ageless face haunted the night. With each of her gliding steps toward him, that night, he had moved equally closer to her. Recalling her visit gave him a sudden erection.

Again, he thought of leaving. He would avoid the circus crew, get food in the mornings, or whatever felt like mornings in this train with no sunshine, stay in his room, bags packed and ready to leave next time the train stopped. He pulled his backpack out of the closet and began stuffing clothes into it. But he needed to see the citrus woman again before leaving. He could search for her while waiting.

Leaving clothes scattered, he took out the diagram he had made during his exploration and tore off a clean sheet of paper. He added the four residential cars, the dining car, and sketched an elephant, horse, and three capybarabears. The residential cars each had three rooms. Should he knock on doors to see who lived in them? He sat staring at the clouded windows, imagining stars passing beyond the gray-orange wall. Something nagged at him. He slapped the desk, trying to remember. He would have to ask Jenkins for a list.
Idiot
—Jenkins had already given him one, a sheet with everyone's names and rooms, when he brought the antique typewriter. Lewis dug through his satchel. There, crumpled at the bottom. Now he could label the residential cars.

Someone rapped on his door. Please, not Dawn again. He considered not answering. But what if it was the citrus woman? He hid the train diagram and list of personnel under his journal notebook and went to open the door. Leonora stood in the hall with a piece of paper in her right hand and a coffee cup in her left. She looked up at him, not frowning but not smiling either.

"Yes?" He kept himself in the door. He didn't want her to see that he was packing. And he wasn't going to interview her.

She held up the piece of paper. "Résumé. I don't have time for no interview for your whatchacallit."

Her harsh voice was so unlike the citrus woman's. He wondered how Gold could like this person. And her stiff hair. That couldn't be her real hair color. But her face, if she smiled and you imagined long, dark hair, soft like a cat's, she could be beautiful. Her body was probably as hard as Dawn's. Harder. At least Dawn was sweet. Leonora probably collected hunting knives. He had known a woman in college—they had gone out a couple of times—who liked knives. He didn't stay with her long enough to find out what she did with them.

"You takin' this thing or what?" Leonora shook the résumé at him.

"Okay, sure." He took the sheet. "If I need something else I'll let you know, okay?"

"Lemme use your can, this coffee goes right through." She pushed him out of her way. "Lookit all this crap. You heard of cleaning?"

"I was in the middle of reorganizing." He hoped that would satisfy her. He squatted by the backpack and folded a shirt. She came out of the bathroom and left without saying anything else.

~

"Leonora Lynn Fields," the first line of the resume said in Copperplate Gothic, an elegant but overused typeface. He wondered why she didn't use a stage name, something catchy like Desmonica Rienzi. "Education: Master of Kinesiology" from some school he hadn't heard of. "Dancer, Pegasus Company." He dropped the sheet on his desk and uncovered the diagram and list of personnel, then filled in the names of the appropriate cars.

Look at that—all rooms and people accounted for except the one next to his. He would try that door first.

The metal knob had a tarnished pewter sheen. It felt stiff and clicked repeatedly when it turned, like a combination lock. The door opened with a pop, and a puff of damp air blew out, a mulchy, spring-like scent. He peered into a darkness that the light from the hall couldn't penetrate and groped for a light switch; the inside wall felt rough, like a tree trunk. Something brushed his hand. Startled, he jerked back, but it was only a pull-string for the light. The light revealed a circular space, about ten feet in diameter with white walls, floor, and ceiling. The door curved on the inside to conform to the shape of the walls. The white walls had a shimmering quality, as though made from a translucent material. He stepped inside, shutting the door to keep anyone from noticing, and drew the room on his diagram.

When he looked up from his legal pad the walls and ceiling had disappeared. Ahead of him, he saw only misty white light. He turned all the way around; each direction was the same. He had no idea how to find the door. The air in the white space was warm and moist against his cheeks. He stepped into the white mist, walking at a measured pace. He would have to reach another wall eventually.

Hiking had always calmed him, taking a backpack and walking the trails for a few days, a week. He had never had the time to stage an extended trip—
that
was what he would do when he left the circus. How long since his last hike? Before Martha. A city girl, she hadn't liked the outdoors. She spent all her time arranging meetings with friends. He had fallen into the rhythm of her life, the events, the dinners with whomever was next on the schedule, and along the way gave up the outdoors. That had been part of what sent him to Are No's. But moving to the city hadn't been a mistake. Though it wasn't his kind of place, it held so much, art, grit, life. He might return there someday. It was large enough to hide in; he could easily avoid the kinds of places Martha would frequent. The main thing was being able to escape to the countryside when necessary. Difficult without a car, but trains led everywhere. Including, of course, Point Elizabeth.
That
was a direction he wouldn't be trying soon. He wondered what was happening there right now. Maybe they wouldn't even be looking for him. The man at the diner would say he had asked about the phone—that proved his innocence.

A curved doorway stood in the wall opposite him. He opened it and stepped into the hallway of the train car.

Lewis's shirt hung damp under his arms and down the sides. He leaned against the wall. All that limitless white space...his throat was a dry, scaly thing. So stupid of him, he knew better than to hike without food and water. Ahead of him, the crazy snake of the train stretched on toward forever, but his door was close, and inside, respite. He set off, swaying as he walked, but before he could reach his haven, the doors to the next car swished open to reveal Gold, carrying a briefcase.

On seeing Lewis, Gold let out a whoop. Ignore the fool, Lewis thought. Don't let him in. He nodded a greeting and tried to get to his door before Gold could reach him.

"Hey guy. Been looking for you I don't know how long."

Gold followed him into the room. Did no one respect his privacy? Lewis was too tired to care what Gold thought of his clothes on the floor or the open backpack. In the bathroom he filled a glass at the sink and drank it down. When he came back, Gold had plopped cross-legged in the middle of his bed. It was a position that had always annoyed Lewis, mainly because whenever he tried it himself his legs quickly became numb.

Gold had started talking about Leonora, describing a moment during a past performance in which she fell from Percival the elephant. "Some dog-ass threw a bottle..."

Lewis wondered what would be that fastest way to get Gold out of his room. He wanted to rest and eat, not listen to some lovesick prattle. He looked up at his etching:
Cybele Confronts the Magma
. Who was Cybele? Such a musical sound. That must be the citrus woman's name.

"You may not believe this, but Leonora is the first woman who hasn't fallen for me immediately." Gold stopped talking and seemed to expect a comment.

The first? Or just the first he's admitting to. Did women find his knobby nose and big ears attractive?

"I am of course mainly referring to the period after I became an accomplished performing artist with the confidence in art and self accompanying my success. Sometimes I feel like I've been chasing her forever and never catching up."