The Trapeze Artist Page 15

  ‘I don’t want to move to London,’ he will say sharply.

  Paul will be startled and will look at him closely.

  ‘You’re really OK, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Paul will exhale, making a sound that is half a sigh and half a raspberry. Then he will lean towards him and envelop him in another bear hug, shaking him from side to side as he squeezes, then letting go and air-kissing him on both cheeks.

  ‘You let me know if you need anything? And don’t turn all Norma Desmond or anything, holed up here on your lonesome, OK?’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘Bye-ee then.’

  ‘Bye.’

  He will watch Paul amble down the road to his car. As he does Mrs Lenard from the bottom of the road will come out of her house with a shopping basket and squint over the hedge at them. Paul will give her a big wave as he gets into his car. Confused and obviously trying to work out if she knows him, she will half wave back. Then, just before Paul’s hand disappears inside, it will turn upside down and give her the finger. Mrs Lenard’s face will register outrage as Paul revs the engine and drives off up the road honking his horn.

  Audiences have begun to dwindle. In the previous two sites the crowds filled less than thirty per cent of the big top, and Big Pete has snarled at the company that if they do not start putting their backs into promoting the show, they can expect it to fold. Whether or not the threat is real seems to make little difference, as people make no more effort than before, and when Big Pete yells at the bleary-eyed and hung-over performers each morning to come with him into town and hand out flyers, they excuse themselves on the grounds that they have to practise, leaving Big Pete to drive in and do it himself. The performers rarely do much practise though, and it is obvious none of them don’t have the time. They just do not want to do it, and the aerialist is no exception.

  ‘Let him promote his own fucking circus,’ Vlad yawns. ‘What am I supposed to be? A street entertainer?’

  Sometimes Big Pete takes him along in lieu of anyone else, and waits in the truck smoking furiously while he jumps out and Blu-tacks posters onto the doors of shops and the porches of village halls and onto bus shelters. If he takes longer than a minute Big Pete loses patience, and yells at him to get his arse back in the truck, so that the serene village street is suddenly filled with ugly noise and people poking their heads out of their windows to see what the commotion is about.

  ‘Not one of those lazy bastards gives a shit,’ Big Pete hisses under his breath as they drive back to the circus. ‘No loyalty. You put your back in, you work day in day out all year, and this is what you get.’

  Big Pete often complains to him, criticising the company. The ringmaster assumes that because he does not answer back his silence denotes agreement, and although he dislikes Big Pete, he cannot help feeling slightly sorry for him now too, with his puffed-up temper tantrums and sudden attempted transitions into being everyone’s best friend.

  It is obvious to people that the ringmaster’s marriage is on the rocks. Marie never comes out of the trailer except at show times, in order to run her expert eye over the costumes and touch up make-up. The second it is time for the curtain call she hurries off and is not seen again until the following day’s matinée. He has heard from various sources, including Vlad, Griselda and the roustabouts, that she has not stopped arguing with Big Pete since the season began. Rumour has it she is threatening to leave and he has responded by shouting at the top of his lungs that nothing would please him more.

  ‘Fair play to Big Pete, he has tried to do something different with this,’ says Franka one afternoon, gesturing to the surrounding trailers and the half-erected big top, which sits before them like a giant navy mushroom cloud. She and Griselda are showing him their routine for stretching, a series of static positions that incorporate yoga, Pilates and Alexander technique, showcasing their impressive flexibility. ‘Trouble is it doesn’t work. People – especially the kids – they don’t want to see contemporary performers like us, they want to see people do tricks – ta da! – the end.’

  ‘Big Pete wants to be an artist,’ asserts Griselda. ‘He thinks he’s being classy and pushing the boundaries. But he’s losing money. We’re not trad enough. These little towns, they’re not interested in art. They want funny clowns and girls with big tits being sawed in half. Not aerial dance on the tissu and corde lisse . . . now push your back leg out – like so.’

  He tries to copy her and a pain like he has never known before shoots down his thigh. He rolls off the mat and onto the grass with a yelp and Griselda and Franka smile knowingly at one another. Over at the showers the contortionist waves to them and they wave back. He feels included in the wave and waves too, and nobody looks at him as if he is crazy. People have accepted him as a piece of the ongoing madness around them in his own right – and he allows himself to imagine that to them he is the guy who ran away with the circus, no longer just some plaything picked up by the slutty lead act, who everyone laughs at because they are waiting for him to get fed up and leave.

  It has been two months now since he left his home town, got in his car and chased after the aerialist. When Vlad is asleep he sometimes gets up and goes to the little window and peers out at the big top and the surrounding circle of caravans and trailers, and allows himself to indulge in the thrill of merely being here, of belonging. He sometimes even thinks he could be happy to call this sort of world his home.

  The day after Paul’s visit, he went and met him in town and together they walked to Edward’s house. He was wary about taking Paul there, but he did not know what else to do with him.

  On the way over Paul would not shut up. He chattered on excitedly about what a lame place the town was for teenagers, how it had nothing to offer them, and how it was no wonder they all took to drinking and graffiti. He went on about how much he hated the other boys at school and his two older brothers who bullied him. He described how he couldn’t wait until he was at university because that was when life would really begin. On and on Paul went, until finally he looked over his shoulder at him and said, ‘You know, you might get less out of breath if you didn’t talk so bloody much.’

  Paul looked aghast for a second, then red and angry. He seemed to be about to say something, but then, as if remembering he was on probation, he sucked his lower lip into his mouth, dropped his head, and didn’t say another word for the rest of the way.

  When Edward answered the door he looked horrified for a split second at the sight of Paul, but he quickly hid it with a smile.

  ‘So, we have a virgin to sacrifice – excellent!’

  Edward stepped back and threw out his arm in an exaggerated welcome. Paul giggled, unable to hide his pleasure, and he resisted an urge to make another cutting remark. It was painfully obvious that Paul was besotted with Edward, and he didn’t know why he hadn’t seen it before.

  ‘Let’s show him our private boudoir, shall we?’ said Edward.

  Paul could scarcely contain his excitement, and as they went up the stairs he started chattering again about his own house, and how vastly inferior it was to Edward’s in every way. Edward glanced back at him and gave him a quizzical look. He shrugged in response.

  ‘Exactly what I want – men!’ cooed an excited voice from behind them, just as they were embarking on the stairs to the second floor. ‘How would you big strapping boys like to give me a hand?’

  Edward’s mother stood at the door to her studio, smiling pleasantly. She was wearing an azure kimono with a motley collection of silk scarves wound round her neck. He had caught only intermittent glimpses of her since Edward’s father had left for France, as she flitted in and out of her studio on the first floor in paint-splattered smocks and kaftans, and it was the first time in a long while she had actually addressed a whole sentence to them. Edward spoke of her scathingly, saying she was pouring her fury at his father into her pictures and drinking herself to death at the same time. But Edward had stopped calling her the w
omb, he noticed, and he thought that secretly Edward must feel sorry for her, because in the end she had been abandoned just like him.

  ‘We’re busy,’ Edward said curtly.

  ‘Well, I’m sure you’re not too busy to give me five minutes. I need you to help me move my work into the downstairs hall. I’ve some exciting news – I’m holding an exhibition!’

  He knew about the exhibition already. Edward had told him, and said it was only because she was an old friend of the gallery owner, who was humouring her, as everybody knew her work was crap.

  She led them across the landing and into her studio. Edward rolled his eyes and he did likewise, but secretly he was fascinated, for he had never been inside – though Edward assured him it was nothing amazing. He was disappointed to find Edward was right: it was a bright spacious room with white walls, and apart from some shelves and a table piled with art materials, there was hardly anything in it.

  ‘If you boys wouldn’t mind,’ said Edward’s mum, pointing at a pile of canvases covered with brown paper and stacked behind the door. ‘One at a time, please.’

  Edward sighed and nodded at him. They took a corner each of one of the paintings, which was heavy and smelt faintly of rising damp. He was curious to know what the picture looked like, but Edward didn’t seem remotely interested.

  ‘And who’s this handsome young squire?’

  His mother was looking at Paul, having only just noticed him. Paul blushed furiously.

  ‘His name’s Freddy Krueger,’ replied Edward.

  ‘Well, Freddy,’ said his mum without a trace of irony, ‘it’s very nice to meet you.’

  Paul giggled and took her hand and shook it. Edward gave him a knowing glance and they lifted the canvas and started out of the studio, leaving Paul and his mother struggling with the next one. On the stairs Edward said, ‘So what’s the story?’

  ‘He begged me on his hands and knees. I felt sorry for him.’

  ‘You old softie, you.’

  ‘I know.’

  There were thirteen pictures and it took half an hour to get them all the way down to the hall. Edward’s mother thanked them vaguely as if they had merely held open a door for her, her mind already focusing on where the taxi might be that was coming to take her to the gallery. But as they were leaving she stopped him by touching his shoulder. He turned, surprised.

  ‘Why don’t you bring your mum along?’ she said, handing him a card that featured a painting of a naked girl with a terrified expression on her face, her name handwritten in elegant curly letters in a blank space above. ‘I’ve never met her and Edward tells me she’s in a similar situation. Tell her we’ll get drunk, track down the bastards and make ’em pay!’

  She laughed as if this concept was quite hilarious, but there was an edge to it that seemed to imply it was not far from what she would like to do in reality. It had not occurred to him to compare his own mum’s situation to that of hers. He doubted his mum would want to make the comparison herself.

  ‘But seriously, do tell her to come. I’d love to meet her.’

  He smelt alcohol on her breath and thought to himself there was little chance of his mum ever attending an exhibition by this mad woman with her dramatic face and wild gestures and crazy dress sense. But he took the card and politely put it in his pocket.

  One night Marie does not turn up for the show. Her absence could not be more conspicuous, though nobody dares to mention it. Big Pete paces back and forth in the performers’ area, barking at anyone who gets too close to him, his eyes flaming as if challenging people to point out she is missing. ‘Make sure you fucking smile!’ he snarls at Franka and Griselda, quietly warming up in the corner. ‘This show ain’t just about pretty beaver, it’s about teeth! And you’ – he turns to Pierce and Imogen – ‘no embarrassing gaffs like last night. If I wanted to see amateurs I’d go watch kids fucking around in the playground!’

  He wants to make himself scarce, but Vlad requires him to be a human buttress for him to stretch off, so he keeps his head bowed in the hope that Big Pete will not notice him. It is almost time to begin and there is someone else besides Marie who is missing – there has been no sign of the clown all day. As twenty minutes to the show turns into fifteen the ringmaster’s face begins to redden excitedly as it occurs to him he may have a real reason to get angry.

  ‘Where is that motherfucker?’ he bellows, obviously past caring if members of the audience might hear him over the music. ‘If he’s not here in the next ten seconds I’m gonna skin his miserable scrawny hide!’

  The ringmaster glares proudly around at the company, but despite the oath the clown does not magically appear. Big Pete snorts and charges from side to side like an enraged bull trapped in a pen, and the performers back away to the sides of the space.

  ‘You –’ Big Pete snarls finally, extending a finger in his direction, ‘go and fetch that cuntface!’

  Without need of further instruction he scurries from the performers’ area and out of the big top.

  It does not take him long to locate the clown. He is in his caravan, slumped over the table snoring. Asleep, the clown’s expression looks curiously innocent and free of the cynicism that usually keeps his face lined and cruel. It is almost like looking at a different person altogether. He thinks he can even see the little boy the clown must once have been, a mischievous and naughty child perhaps, but not yet twisted and cold like his adult persona. It is almost touching, this new version, and he thinks it is a shame to wake him. But there is no time and so he puts his hand on the clown’s shoulder and tugs hard.

  The clown jerks upright and raises his arm as if to ward off an attack, his eyes wide and saucer-like. When the clown sees who it is his eyes narrow to their usual slants and he emits a snake-like hiss.

  ‘Get out of my space, shithead!’

  ‘Show’s starting in ten minutes,’ he says. ‘Big Pete’s pretty mad.’

  The clown glares at him for a few more seconds, poised to retort. Then his words sink in and the clown’s face morphs. He lets out a long groan and puts his hands on his head.

  ‘I’m fucked!’

  ‘Where’s your make-up?’

  The clown doesn’t reply, but he spies the make-up case on the table by the clown’s elbow, a bottle of Scotch resting precariously on its rim. He seizes the case and puts the bottle down at the far end of the table, out of the clown’s reach.

  ‘Hold still.’

  ‘What?’ The clown looks confused. Then it dawns on him what he is going to do. ‘Gonna paint my face, are you? That’s a good one!’

  But the clown does not resist as he slaps a layer of the greasy white foundation over his features. It goes on surprisingly easily, like slime. He picks up a small cube of sponge, dips it into the black and wedges it over the clown’s left eye.

  ‘Aw, you fuck!’ screams the clown. His tone falls to a soft, insidious pitch. ‘Let me ask you something I’ve been wondering about, OK? What are you even doing here? Even a moron like you’s gotta be able to see this is the shittest circus ever. Everyone else I can understand. We all joined this shit detail cos we couldn’t get better. But you – you’re not even getting fucking paid!’

  The clown laughs to himself, a guttural grunting noise. He swallows. He feels like he should get angry, but he isn’t angry especially. There is something too pathetic about the clown, and besides, anger seems to be what the clown is hoping for and he doesn’t feel like indulging him. Instead he rubs the sponge across the other eye.

  ‘You know,’ continues the clown conversationally, ‘you must be some special kind of needy bastard to follow that unicycle and shack up with him. A world-class loser.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he replies. ‘I guess so.’

  ‘Ha!’ snarls the clown, looking like he might have more to say. But his mouth is stopped by the sponge dousing his lips in black. He sits back. The effect is not at all bad, he thinks. It is nothing like as good as Marie’s flawless artistry, but the white face, the big black eye
s and the line of dark mouth are all in place, and he has got the eyebrows exactly right – big curling question marks over each eye, as well as the sad laughter lines that are painted in on either cheek.

  ‘You better go,’ he says.

  The clown rises as if to leave, then pauses. For a second he thinks he is trying to cough out some sort of a thank-you, but then he realises he is searching for something. The clown dives back to the table and seizes the bottle of Scotch. As they hurry across to the big top he unscrews the cap and takes a sizeable gulp. The clown shoves the bottle at him just before entering the big top, and he waits outside, hearing Big Pete release a burst of swear words from within, only to be drowned by the sound of the gong that signifies the start of the show.

  He will follow the man through the pound and down a path lined with the bodies of crumpled cars, the track strewn with entrails of engines and rusty amputated wheels. The man will turn back to give him a withered old smile as they walk, as if drawing pleasure from their eerie surroundings.

  ‘All sorts of models here,’ the man will say. ‘Cos all sorts abandon their cars. Got it all planned out.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ he will reply, feigning interest.

  The man will pause and extend a hand to the towers of trashed automobiles and sweep it grandly outwards, in the manner of a tour guide presenting a remarkable vista.

  ‘Suicide alley, I call this bit.’

  He will start at the name.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Call it that cos those are all the ones what their owners killed ’emselves in. Most of these ’uns had ’em still inside when they was found. ’Cept for a couple of ’em, where the drivers went through the windscreens.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  He will say the word because it is clearly what the man wants to hear, and the man will look pleased. He will not let on how close to the bone the remark falls – at how correct the man is to have situated his car in this part of the pound.