Sherlock Holmes and the Dance of the Tiger (9 page)

Giggle.
 
“We’re not in Rome, silly!
 
We’re in
Paris
!”
 
Mirabella wanted to pinch herself.

“What are the paintings all around the circumference of the building?”
 
Mirabella asked, glancing up some twenty feet.
 
“Horses?”

“It must be obvious that it is the history of horsemanship depicted in pictorial form,” Sherlock replied.
 
“As if it needed to be done.
 
Artists appear to have a great deal of time on their hands.”

“Have a care, Holmes!
 
We’re at the circus!
 
Fun, excitement, entertainment!” exclaimed John Watson, echoing her thoughts, the grin returning to his face.
 
“Can’t we enjoy ourselves for a day?”

Sigh
.
 
She returned her gaze to Dr. Watson, who looked to be closer to twenty-five than thirty.
 
His boyish looks had never shown to better advantage, Mirabella thought as she smiled up at him, studying his blonde-streaked brown hair which was always neatly and stylishly cut.
 
Unlike Sherlock Holmes, who ordinarily never got a haircut until it interfered with his work—and sometimes not then if he was too absorbed.
 
There was nothing in Sherlock’s mind except his work:
 
everything he did was to that purpose alone.

“Why are you gasping for breath, Miss Belle?” demanded Sherlock, observing her.

“I’m just so very happy, Mr. Holmes.
 
How could I not be?”
 

“Now see here, Holmes,” Watson continued, “Do lighten up.
 
There is every manner of entertainment before us!”

“It is quite astonishing!” Mirabella agreed, taking in all the posters even as she took Watson’s arm. “Jugglers, clowns, elephants, tigers—even tight-rope walkers!
 
There are midgets, giants—and mermaids!
 
They even shoot a lady out of a cannon!”

“Yes, it certainly speaks to the sad condition of the human race that in these times the circus vies for popularity with the music-hall and the cabaret as the most popular entertainment of the day,” Sherlock commented.

“I wouldn’t for the life of me approach life with the cold analysis you apply to everything, Holmes,” mused Watson.
 
“Where is your emotion, old chap?”

“Literature, opera, and theatre impart every manner of emotion,” countered Sherlock.
 
“We have the immortal Shakespeare—and you imagine that I am in need of the bearded lady?”

“You are not without your vices in the popular realm, Holmes,” Watson suggested, smoothing his tweed jacket.

“I do like a good boxing match—but it is critical to the conditioning of the body—and mind,” Sherlock replied, pushing his long, dark curls out of his eyes.
 
Sherlock had attended to his toilette for the purposes of the mysterious assignment, and was looking rather dapper himself in an embossed blue velvet vest, silk ascot tie in navy blue, and white cotton shirt.

No doubt someone at the hotel had ironed his pants for him.
 
Mirabella wondered why she had not been shown to her lodgings yet.
 
Her things had been put somewhere, that was a fact in evidence since they were missing.
 
She was not particular, she did not need a fancy hotel:
 
a ladies’ boarding house with a private room would suit her fine.

“Must every form of entertainment be a venue to self-improvement, Mr. Holmes?” asked Mirabella.
 
“Can you never experience the magic of the moment?”

“I assure you, Miss Belle, that I am neither entertained nor improved by this moment.”

Mirabella giggled in spite of herself.
 
Sherlock Holmes might be the world’s most trying man, but his brain never stopped, and though he might find most experiences dull—there was never a dull moment with
him
.
 

The only thing wanting was some sense of being in a relationship
with
him rather than being an outsider watching a spectacle:
 
some sense of being connected to him.
 
She saw that connection between Sherlock and John Watson, but she herself was like a wheel on a bicycle, to be replaced when it’s usefulness had expired.
 
It was clear that her admiration for and enjoyment of the Great Detective was one-sided, and it did reduce her pleasure in her situation somewhat.
 

She pursed her lips, determined to savor and appreciate her special situation for however long it might last—all the sights she never expected to see, the people she never expected to know, and the things she never expected to learn.

“You mustn’t take Holmes too seriously, Miss Mirabella,” pleaded Watson, taking her hand.
 
“I can’t believe we are arguing about the circus!
 
In
Paris
!
 
Let us be gay and forget the old duffer!”

She stared hard at Sherlock.
 
“When do we attend the circus, Sherlock?”

“We shall attend at eight o’clock this evening.
 
And by
we
, I mean Watson and I,” stated Sherlock, straightening his silk ascot.
 
“You, my dear girl, will be performing.”

“Perform in the circus?
 
Are you quite mad, Mr. Holmes?” Mirabella exclaimed, dropping John’s hand, feeling that she might hyperventilate on the spot.
 
Fortunately the good doctor took her by the elbow and steadied her.

Wait, I know the answer, you are!

“I am not a circus performer!”

“Did you think I brought you here for pleasure, Miss Belle?” asked Sherlock, glancing at her disinterestedly.
 
“I told you very clearly that this is a working excursion.”

“But if you had told me you expected me to perform in the circus, I never would have come!”

“That is precisely why I didn’t tell you.”
 
Sherlock twirled his ebony cane.
 
“I hope that you are not allergic to animals or that would make you entirely un-useful to me, Miss Hudson.”

“How horridly selfish of me if my inability to breathe should inconvenience you, Mr. Holmes!”

“Indeed it would,” he replied upon reflection.

“Oh, you . . .
you
. . .
 
I could . . . !”

“Ha! ha! ha!”
 
John Watson began laughing with his characteristic delight and optimistic outlook.

Sherlock turned and raised an eyebrow.
 
“You, too, have an important undertaking to perform, my dear Watson.”

John Watson stopped laughing abruptly.
 
“But I thought you said we would be attending, my dear fellow . . .”

“And so we will.
 
But you have perhaps the most important part to play of this entire charade, old chap.”
 
Sherlock tapped his cane on the ground, adding emphasis.

“To suppose that the success of the mission rests on my shoulders fills me with a deep foreboding.”
 
Watson took out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead.

“Never fear, Watson, it is a role imminently suited to your talents and abilities.”

“And when did you plan to tell us this, Holmes?” John demanded, suddenly joining the ranks of the offended, his handkerchief held in mid-air.

“Let’s see, it is now two o’clock.
 
Miss Hudson will be performing at eight o’clock.
 
Is that sufficient notice?”

“You are far too accommodating, Mr. Holmes,” Mirabella uttered through barred teeth.

“Even I am entitled to a shortcoming, Miss Hudson.
 
I realize it boggles the mind.”
 
He sighed with regret.
 
“And I fear that a tendency towards duty and service is mine.”

“Either that or the constant need for excitement and stimulation,” muttered Watson.

“Realized through the persecution and torment of anyone who is foolish enough to associate with you,” added Mirabella.

The white plumed horses moved at a slow gallop in the circular ring below them, all strung together.

“I say, Holmes, look at that girl!” exclaimed Watson, as they sat in their box seat watching the bare-backed rider jump from horse to horse for the evening performance of
Cirque d’Hiver
.

“Am I to understand that you approve of the young lady, Watson?”
 

“You would understand correctly, Holmes,” John Watson stated in between the applause of the crowds.

“Curious.
 
You haven’t even met the girl.
 
How can you bestow your good opinion so freely, my dear Watson?”
 

Sherlock knew that Miss Belle would be performing in the next few acts and was watching the sidelines for her.
 
Only a hand was visible, clutching the red velvet curtain in such a manner that caused one to imagine the domed ceiling collapsing upon the central ring.
 
That would be Miss Belle
.

“Not freely given at all,” Watson argued.
 
“The gold spangles on her pink tights are quite exquisite.”

“Most unnecessary.
 
I do not perceive their function.”
 

“They draw attention to her assets,” Watson muttered, his eyes not moving from the performer.

“I only just forwarded that you can have no opinion of her assets as yet, my good man.” Holmes lifted his eyebrows at his friend.

“I have a reasonably good notion where they lie,” Watson murmured.

“As you have informed me.
 
Gold spangles on pink tights.”
 
Sherlock tapped his finger on the metal bleachers.
 
“Most ornamental.”

“That’s not the term I would use, Holmes.” Watson sighed with obvious impatience.

The rider had initially worn a beige-colored leotard which made her appear naked.
 
To those, such as Watson, who wished to envision such a thing.
 
Sherlock did not.
 
Quite a cheap—and uninteresting—trick, in his opinion.
 

The lady had then been strapped to a so-called wild horse which had reared and galloped about the stage to the apparent delight of all but himself.
 
When the audience had endured that performance to its predictable conclusion, she had quickly changed into a pink leotard with the aforementioned gold spangles and was even now hopping about on moving horses.
 

“What a beauty!
 
So lithe!
 
She looks to be dancing in the air.”

“Technically she is jumping, Watson, not dancing.”

“Look at her now!
 
She’s riding on two horses at once, one leg on each horse!”

“That’s what she does.
 
Did it need to be done?
 
And what purpose does it serve?”
 
Sherlock yawned, looking away momentarily to study the crowd, which proved equally uninteresting.
 
He and Watson were seated in the reserved box seats allowing them some privacy and the best views.

Astonishing that I can be bored in this cornucopia of stimulation
. Was there any locale which bombarded the nose more between the smells of the animals, the people, and the assault of salty and sugary foods?
 
Not to mention fatty meats and spicy condiments.
 
Perhaps a street fair in India could offer as much, but Sherlock didn’t think so.
 
Warm caramel, popcorn, apples, peanuts, lemonade, lager, hot dogs, cotton candy, assorted frying meat which one wished never to have identified, perfume, sweat, flowers, all mixed with the smell of dirt, hay, and animals.

“I do not understand how you can see this beautiful girl moving her body with such artistry and athleticism and not be . . .
inspired
. . . by it, Holmes.”

“And I do not see why you would care to waste your time watching it.”
 
And the lights.
 
There were lights everywhere, not to mention every color visible on the clothing of both the performers and the spectators, the brighter the better.
 
As if the smells and sights weren’t staggering enough, the sounds were deafening between the squealing children, the braying and roaring animals, the applause and shouts of the crowds.
 
For Sherlock Holmes, who felt stimulated in the most mundane of circumstances and who noticed things others did not, it was less than pleasurable.
 

And yet, he who both thirsted for stimulation and was repelled by it found the Circus underwhelming in its bombardment of the senses.
 
It was not the type of stimulation which provided any information or required anything of his intellect; it was mindless and purposeless.
 
It was meant to provide pleasure, but he could not find the amusement in it—he who desired, longed,
craved
the mindless thrill.
 
Even the drug promised enlightenment: the circus only reinforced his low opinion of the human race which he willingly and devotedly served.

The deafening shouts of the prize fights could not compare in volume, boxing matches which Sherlock entered, not for the money, but because the endangerment of his life erased his boredom.
 
Boxing was very different from this because, in a fight, along with the stimulation came the physical release.
 
Boxing was an exercise for both the mind and the body.

“That’s because you’re not normal, Holmes.
 
You’re a machine and not a man.
 
How can any man watch this exquisite creature and not be besotted?”