Circus of the Grand Design (18 page)

"The flora of this area are of particular interest to me," a woman's voice said. Lewis opened his eyes. Dr. Claudia Bricem, his college botany professor, peered down at him. "Two dozen separate species of orchid can be found in this valley alone," she said. Dr. Bricem helped him climb from the hole, and they descended to a grassy plain. Then she was gone.

He found the garden as he remembered it: the limestone path leading to the chicken-wire fence, the rosemary trees, and the rich smell of freshly turned soil. The woman who tended the garden offered him pea pods; he opened one and dropped the peas into his mouth one by one, tasting their crunchy sweetness. The woman smiled at him with Cybele's smile, and a heavy man with gray hair sang a song about cowboys. The man playing pedal steel guitar with him looked like Floyd Perry.

~

"Strong flavors, strong impressions—these are what extend the boundaries of perception," Perry said after Lewis had commented on the bitter but satisfying taste of the ale. "Smoking a cigar while sipping a glass of excellent Scotch..." Perry's voice faded and his face grew dreamy. Then he banged his fist on the table and continued, louder, twisting the syllables into a verbal sneer. "Compare
that
to having a filtered, menthol cigarette with a so called 'wine cooler.' I know, because I've tried it, and the sensations are too bland to elicit any meaningful responses. People who like those kinds of things aren't worth the words on a page."

The door from the gymnasium side opened, but Lewis didn't bother turning to see who it was.

"I ain't saying you've gotta smoke, better not to smoke at all than to smoke something bland. People saddle their senses with too many filters."

"But what about this train, the recirculated atmosphere?" Lewis asked. "Wouldn't it be better to live someplace with clean, wild air?"

"Sometimes it's hard to make the turn, and what's left behind can't be reclaimed. Especially in our case, when the slightest rearrangement—"

"So, how're you guys doing?" Gold asked.

Lewis wanted to scream. Perry had been about to say something important. It was certain he wouldn't reveal anything around Gold. Neither he nor Perry acknowledged Gold, but Gold kept talking, something about Brisbane's training.

"...interwoven objects. Today was balls and pins. My only regret is that I haven't found a more suitable receptacle in which to pour my wisdom."

Perry rose, claiming he needed to exercise his horse. Gold took Perry's seat and began describing a particular juggling trick he planned to unveil at their next show. He said he had named it for Leonora. Instead of listening, Lewis thought about ways to continue his research into the geometrical aspects of the circus. He envisioned a system of counterbalance wherein each member of the circus registered on a scale displaying their genetic background and reactions to the questions he chose. Maybe the circus could be divided into concentric circles, each a different color, representing different like elements, none of which have a true beginning or end. He admired the pattern on Gold's shirt, a woven grid of red, yellow, and blue. It made him think of fishing nets, or the plan of a compact and ordered city. Would all the buildings be identical if the streets were of uniform dimension? There had to be more variety for people to exist. Individuality would percolate to the surface.

Now Gold was talking about Leonora. "She finally cares about me. Still, she's not quite ready for conjugation. She says she wants to give the relationship time to gel, a process that can sometimes take several months."

Would Cybele continue to excite him so much if they were around each other all the time?

They had sat without speaking, he on the bed watching her, she at his desk, staring at the impenetrable windows. He wanted to say something, but after so long in silence no speech would be monumental enough to warrant giving voice to it. Eventually, he had slept. When he awakened, she had turned the chair to face his bed. She frightened him. He didn't understand what she wanted. Yes, he had desired her, longed for her company, but now...now he wanted someone normal, like Martha.

How could he have left Martha like that? She wasn't so bad. A bit cold, sure, but she meant well. They'd had good times at first, but now, look at this, he had left her for another woman. How could he have done that? No, no, that's not how it happened. He had left her, left Are No's burned-up wreck of a house, but not for another woman. He had run off to join Dillon's circus. Cybele came later.

"Could use a private room though," Gold said. "That would hasten a more fulfilling relationship. Maybe I could get Brisbane to move in with Barca, or Dawn could move in with someone."

Thinking of Cybele reminded him of Desmonica's pregnancy. "Who do you think is going to take over on the horse?" he asked. "Those women with the acrobats?"

"Mere trollops," Gold said.

Gold had a way of twitching his head, which Lewis thought of as "the haughty shake," to be used when showing his superiority: his eyes would roll upward and his bangs would shimmy.

"I doubt that any of them have the coordination for anything besides sexual acrobatics." As if to accentuate, Gold performed a double haughty shake, then smacked his lips, extra proud. "We obviously need someone with drama and charisma, someone who can thrill an audience, who can..."

Who would that be, if none of the new women fit Gold's description? Dillon would have to recruit from the outside, or transfer someone. Dawn perhaps. He liked her, liked the way she looked, so much more a real person than Cybele. Too bad about her sexual preferences—he had thought they might...but how could he even consider another woman, when Cybele...Gold was still talking—did he never stop? Something about playing netball, whatever that was. Lewis ignored him. He wondered what would happen if he continued to sit, lost in his own thoughts while Gold talked on. Would Gold notice that Lewis wasn't listening? Would he eventually leave?

Lewis looked up again and was elated to discover that Gold
had
left. Then Dillon walked in.

"Good," Dillon said, with a tone suggesting impatience.

"Did you need to see me?" The dining car felt warmer. Was Cinteotl baking something?

"Come, there are several items needing discussion." He turned around and Lewis followed him into the gym. They reached Dillon's door and went inside. "I suppose you know of the situation concerning Desmonica Rienzi?" Dillon asked. He sat behind his desk.

"Her pregnancy?" Lewis couldn't believe Dillon really
was
going to consult with him about who would ride the horse. He sat opposite Dillon, leaning forward expectantly.

"Lives are always in flux, ours more so. The unexpected is the best friend a performer has. The ability to improvise on any situation is imperative."

Dillon tugged on the drawer where he had placed that gigantic hardbound book on one of Lewis's other visits,
Monoli
-something-
scape
. Leaving the drawer partway open, he looked at Lewis as if expecting a response.

Lewis remained seated, refusing to move or say anything until Dillon offered something besides a riddle. Dillon spoke.

"You will be the new rider of the mechanical horse."

Lewis browsed fragments and tatters of discarded costumes, looking for...inspiration?...purpose? He wasn't a performer—why had Dillon picked him? Not a secret the horse intrigued him, but...In college, he and a roommate had taken a drama class, more to meet girls than from any desire to perform. Not likely there was anything he could pull out from that—too much time had passed. And the circus, the horse!, this was real, not some made-up scenario from a class. He stopped in front of the armor-covered mannequin. When Lewis was a child, his grandfather had read to him the tales of King Miltos. He had loved the magic and mystery, the swordfights.

He let out a fat groan of exasperation.

This situation came from Cybele's influence. He hadn't asked for her company, her intrusion into his privacy. She would find he wasn't someone who could be manipulated. She was probably sitting in his room, waiting to flaunt her mastery of him. Well, he was in
no
hurry to see her.

What act could he make from the armor? He lined a shoe up with one of the boots. Appeared to be his size. Might as well try them on. But to remove the boots from the mannequin required taking everything else off first, helmet, sword, chain mail, and tipping it over...He didn't like being in this claustrophobic storage car filled with ghosts of old costumes and long-dead performances. He would have to carry it all back to his (Cybele-free, he hoped) room to try on.

One of the lockers held an empty duffel bag. That would make the stuff easier to handle, and would keep it hidden—he didn't want to be forced to explain the armor to everyone he passed.

~

Barca sat at a dining car booth with Dawn and Leonora, maneuvering three plastic elephants across the tabletop. Lewis paused for a moment near the door, resting the armor-filled duffle on the floor. His shoulder hurt from carrying the bulky load, but he was afraid if he stopped to rest they would ask him what was in the bag. As if it was their business! No one ever asked if he minded being intruded on, not Cybele, or Gold, or Dillon; everyone assumed he was there to be maneuvered around like a toy. Did they think
that
was what a publicist was for? He lifted the bag to his shoulder and continued.

He wasn't the publicist anymore.

Dawn looked up. "Congratulations Lewis," she said.

How did she know? She smiled at him, and he noted the graceful curve of her arms and shoulders where they emerged from her dark blue tank top. She looked down again at the plastic elephants and started relating something to her companions. As she talked she stretched her arms up over her head. He couldn't stop staring at her underarms, feathery hair, the stretching of her deltoid muscles, the way they joined the biceps at the shoulder, the hollow underneath, especially the hollow, the armpit. It was like an extension of the breast, no, more the inverse of a breast. Dawn clasped her hands and lowered them to the back of her head. There they were, taunting him, twin pockets of seduction.

Conscious of a growing erection pushing against the inside of his jeans, he kept walking, assuming no one would notice. Once in the first residential car he adjusted himself and continued.

Armpits—no, don't call them that, sounded too much like a hygienic eyesore—underarms rather, had never fascinated him. Why now? He thought back to previous girlfriends. What about Martha? He couldn't even picture her underarms. Of course she had them, everyone did. Maybe it had to do with the fitness. Martha had been flabby. Not fat, but not toned like Dawn or these other circus women.

There were probably cultures somewhere that considered underarms erotic. Dawn's called to him. He would kiss her arms, her breasts, working his way around the underarms until the time came to plunge into the moist hollow itself, press his lips directly into the skin and hair, taste her salty flavor.

Now, aroused, he
wanted
Cybele to be in his room, wanted to explore
her
underarms, wanted...He opened his door. She had gone, leaving only a residual scent of citrus.

The chain mail and helmet clanked when he dumped the duffel bag onto his bed. He stared at the bag. What right did Cybele have, forcing this on him? He couldn't perform. He was happy in the background, conducting his mathematical research and watching the circus. Now this. How would Dillon put it—thrust from the vault into public exhibition?

But he
was
tired of being an outsider.

Was Dawn lesbian or bisexual? She had noticed him now that he was a performer. Gold wasn't the only one who would have women follow his performances. He unzipped the bag and unpacked the costume.

Knee-high boots, thick, long-sleeved cotton shirt to go under the chain mail, and a short skirt of leather all fit as though tailored to him. He buckled on the sword belt, slipped the helmet over his head, and turned to the mirror. The helmet had a short brim and hung down over the back of his neck; its top pointed forward. Was that really him? Maybe the outfit would go better with a beard. The metal gleamed in the overhead light. He felt strong. He
looked
strong. He unsheathed the sword and waved it around, vanquishing imaginary foes.

He would talk to Perry about practicing on Gautier—Dillon hadn't mentioned whether the mechanical horse was available for rehearsing. It would have to be, right? How else could he prepare? Planning an act was the next step, something more exciting than riding around waving his sword. He sagged onto his bed, pushing the helmet off and dropping the sword.

Was he trying to fool himself? This was ludicrous. He couldn't perform. But the sense of freedom when he joined the end of the promenade...that lured him. Nonsense, he couldn't plan an act...but Perry. Perry would be good at that kind of thing, and he would be flattered to be asked. Lewis needed to flatter Perry. Perry knew things. Lewis wanted to know things too, and he would never learn anything from Dillon.

The rosemary on his desk caught his attention—it was in a white ceramic pot about the size of a coffee mug. Cybele must have potted it for him. He had never seen a plant root so fast, though it couldn't have rooted. The part he had pulled off the bush hadn't been green enough.

Someone knocked on his door. He ignored it, but the person knocked harder. Must be Dawn. He wanted to see her, especially while she wore that tank top, but he needed to be alone. The door shook from the knocks. It could only be one person; he got up to answer. Bodyssia loomed in the doorway and his heart started beating faster. She must be ready to kill him, knocking like that. He started to tell her he was sorry.

"Wow, it's Good Prince Lamb."

The costume, he had forgotten he was wearing the costume. He smiled up at her, relieved she wasn't pounding his head into the floor.

Then she did something he wouldn't have thought possible. She curtsied. "Would you be willing to escort a damsel to dinner?"