The Trapeze Artist Page 17

  ‘Why don’t I bring you both a cup of tea?’

  But he will not hear her. She will not repeat herself and will discreetly exit the room. His senses will be numbed by the sight of the figure in the chair by the window. He will know it is his mother, yet at the same time it will be impossible to reconcile the slack-jawed face and the half-closed eyes with the image he has carried about with him all this time. It will be as though he is looking at a cruel parody of the woman he has known all his life – a drained and ravaged mutant version. He will understand it is the result of the two strokes he was not around for.

  He lies balled up in layers on the little bed in Vlad’s caravan listening to the wheezing of his own breath in the chilly air and the rhythmic chugging of the nearby generator for the big top, which it was their turn to set up camp beside.

  At about three o’clock the aerialist returns, opening the door and creeping in with a slapstick display of someone trying to be quiet. Vlad crashes straight into the little table, hisses a Romanian curse and turns, only to catch his forehead sharply on the overhanging shelf. Groaning, all attempt at quietness forgotten, Vlad switches on the light. Instantly the aerialist finds himself looking into his eyes, for he has been watching him all this time from his cocoon of clothing and blankets. The aerialist lets out a small shriek of fright.

  ‘Fuck!’

  He doesn’t say anything. Vlad drops his head and mutters something else to himself in Romanian then turns to the little gas heater.

  ‘Freezing in here!’

  He watches him switch it on and then mutter to himself as it struggles feebly to light, over and over, repeatedly flicking the switch to make the heater grumble into a vague promise of life before it chokes out once again.

  ‘Why are you staring at me like that?!’ the aerialist demands finally, abandoning the task and turning back to face him with blazing eyes. ‘What the hell is the matter with you?’

  ‘I saw you.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I saw you with that man.’

  ‘Saw what?’

  ‘You!’

  The aerialist’s eyes narrow and he has a sudden premonition of how this will play out. He will accuse Vlad and Vlad will try to deny it, and they will shout and swear at one another and maybe even break something – for when the aerialist is in a temper, or drunk, things always seem to get broken – and then Vlad will finally admit it and glare at him and tell him that if he doesn’t like it he can get out. And he will have to, because he doesn’t like it, and there will be no other option.

  ‘It sounds like you want to accuse me of something,’ says Vlad threateningly, his voice deadly cold. He stares at the aerialist for a few seconds, then drops his gaze.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ he says. ‘I lost sight of you and felt lonely. I’m just tired. I’m sorry.’

  Even as he says the words he feels the tension leave, and marvels at how easily a problem can be dealt with simply by ignoring it. The crease down Vlad’s forehead gradually fades and he smiles soppily instead.

  ‘Poor baby,’ he croons, plopping down onto the bed beside him. The aerialist starts to unravel the blankets until he has found his skin. His fingers are icy but he does not complain. He lies still and rigid while the aerialist peels away the last layer so that he is naked and shivering before him on the bed, then yanks off his own clothes and throws them over his shoulder to join the mound behind him. Vlad lies down on top of him, kissing him sloppily, tasting of beer, chips and ash. The aerialist’s fingers knead away at his buttocks, pushing and pulling, until his hands finally navigate his groin and touch his penis. There they pause, disappointed.

  ‘Oh, baby,’ moans Vlad in his ear.

  The aerialist gives him a few pumps but nothing rises. Vlad wraps his fist around the shaft of his penis and gives it a last vigorous yank that makes him wince. Frustrated, Vlad collapses over him. A couple of minutes later he is snoring softly.

  The gallery was off an alley behind the main road. The outside was painted white and it looked like a designer boutique, but inside it was cramped and teaming with adults in suits and ties and expensive summer dresses. He stood near the door with his mum, who looked around nervously with a frozen smile on her lips, clearly wishing she had not agreed to come.

  ‘Well,’ she said in a voice too bright, ‘this is something.’

  She was wearing a dark red dress with a navy collar, possibly the flashiest item of clothing she possessed. When she had come down the stairs in it, muttering worriedly that they were going to be late, he had told her she looked pretty and she had let out a giggle – a sound he had never heard her make before. In the car she had talked about how nice it was of Edward’s mother to ask them, trying to convince herself that it was going to be a fun thing to do. But as soon as they were inside and she had seen the first picture, depicting a naked middle-aged woman forlornly fingering an apple that could have been a self-portrait of Edward’s mother herself, she had stiffened. Now she wanted to go, and was looking for the artist so she could pay her compliments before leaving.

  Meanwhile he was looking for Edward. He told himself that this was not the case – that he did not care whether or not Edward was here, but it was a flimsy effort at self-deceit, and he was carefully scanning each corner of the room.

  ‘She’s very popular, isn’t she?’ said his mum. ‘Wherever can she be?’

  Just as it seemed that neither Edward nor his mother were actually in attendance, the artist herself emerged from a group of well-wishers right at the centre of the space and bounded over to his mum, shrieking as she approached, ‘You made it! Thank you so much for coming!’

  It was obvious that she was drunk, a condition that evidently terrified his mum. But she smiled politely and allowed Edward’s mother to put her arms around her and draw her close for a kiss on both cheeks.

  ‘I don’t know much about art, I’m afraid, but I’m sure it’s very good.’

  ‘Don’t you look ravishing?’ demanded Edward’s mother, ignoring this stab at praise and looking her up and down with flamboyant admiration. She herself was wearing what looked like a translucent golden burka, combined with lots of silver bracelets on one arm. He turned away as his mum attempted again to say something nice but apologetic, and found himself looking straight into Edward’s eyes from across the room.

  It seemed to him as if some sort of electrical current shot between them, his entire body becoming fused with sparks and tremors. But no sooner had their gazes locked than another figure with a mousy crop and glasses passed between them, and he realised it was Paul. He shot his nose into the air and looked away. On the table near by was an abandoned beaker of white wine, and he reached for it and quickly gulped it down.

  When he turned round again Edward was nowhere to be seen. But Paul was still there. He was here with his mum too, he realised, and Paul’s mum and his mum had just seen each other and were exchanging greetings, palpable relief showing in both their faces at having located someone they regarded as sane and ordinary.

  Something grabbed his ankle from under the table, making him jump.

  ‘Psst,’ hissed Edward from a crack between strips of white paper tablecloth. ‘Come on!’

  He hesitated. Then, as if he’d just noticed his shoelace was undone, he put the empty beaker down on the table and bent forward, then did a dramatic side roll under the table, where he bashed into Edward, his elbow connecting with Edward’s head.

  ‘Ow!’

  ‘Sorry.’

  He couldn’t help grinning, and a second later Edward grinned back.

  ‘Are you still cross?’ said Edward, when they’d adjusted their positions so that they were sitting face to face.

  He sniffed.

  ‘How was the film?’

  ‘A masterpiece.’

  ‘Did Paul like it?’

  Edward groaned.

  ‘Oh God, he’s driving me mad! He’s like a fly you want to swat, but can’t because it’d be inhumane.�
� Edward raised his voice and did an imitation of Paul: ‘Oh yes, Edward, I do agree, oh yes, I am gay and I would like that too very much!’

  Edward’s impression was nothing like how Paul sounded, but he sniggered anyway. Edward sniggered too, then reached out and interlaced his fingers around his neck. At Edward’s touch he felt his skin prickle with excitement, and he thrust his face closer to Edward’s and closed his eyes. Their lips touched. A second later Edward’s lips parted and his tongue darted into his mouth. He met it with his own tongue, sucking gently on it, and heard Edward let out a deep moan of pleasure.

  Then someone yanked the tablecloth up.

  ‘They’re here!’ Paul called in a loud accusing voice.

  From behind Paul, his mum and Paul’s mum were standing with a few of the other guests, staring at them aghast. The people around them seemed for the most part amused, and Edward’s mother had her hands on her hips and a silly smile plastered over her face. But Paul’s face was set in a deep frown, and he was glaring down at them, pale and shaking with anger.

  He is on his break, watching from the top of a steep rise at the edge of the field as Big Pete, Midge and Benny take down the big top. It has already had the central rig removed, and sits on the grass like a giant collapsed lung.

  ‘Hey,’ says the clown.

  ‘Hey,’ he says, glancing down.

  He waits for the clown to pass on by, but instead Jethro climbs the rise and plops himself down beside him, following his gaze over to the big top.

  ‘Crap heap,’ Jethro offers, fumbling in his pocket for his cigarettes. He locates his packet and withdraws one, then offers the packet to him. He is about to say no but hesitates, then takes one. The clown lights his own cigarette then tosses him the lighter.

  ‘I gotta ask one thing,’ says the clown then with the air of someone who’s been waiting for a long time to speak his mind. ‘I get that a person can be bored of his life and I get that a person can be so desperate he’d want to join the circus – even if it means cleaning up other people’s shit and taking orders from some cunt with an anger-management problem. I get it, I do. But what I just don’t get is how a person can have any self-respect slaving away for that man slut. I mean, it’s just me, but don’t you reckon you’re better than that?’

  He sighs, letting out a stream of pale smoke. It has been years since he smoked, not since he was a teenager, and the sensation of nicotine rushing into his blood cells fills him with nausea and an unexpected aching sense of loneliness.

  ‘OK, OK,’ says the clown, raising his hands as if he had reacted violently to his comment. ‘None of my business, I know. And what right do I have to judge? No matter how fucked up you might be, I’m more fucked up. Got it, loud and clear.’

  There is a pause. The clown seems to have ceased expecting anything from him and looks surprised when he says, ‘It’s not like he owes me anything. He let me come with him. Not the other way around.’

  Jethro nods slowly, as if this was an excellent point worthy of careful consideration. The last poles of the big top that line the perimeter are coming down as Benny and Midge, under Big Pete’s angry gesticulating, free the guy ropes. Jethro feels inside his jacket again, this time producing a large silver hip flask which he unscrews. The clown gives him a helpless look, shrugging as if to say life isn’t worth the effort, and takes a swig.

  ‘He’s free to do what he likes,’ he says.

  Jethro smiles, smoky wisps emanating from between the gaps in his yellowy teeth. The clown holds out the hip flask and he takes it and has a gulp, the fiery alcohol surprisingly pleasurable as it sears its way down his throat.

  ‘I’m just saying you’re better, that’s all,’ says the clown. ‘Take it or leave it.’

  The body will not have shut itself down. If it were able to do this, it surely would. But it will have been preserved, taken care of, looked after where nature, cold and simple, would have demanded it be left to die.

  ‘Mum?’ he will say, experimentally. ‘Mum?’

  She will not respond, will not even look up at the sound of his voice. He will reach out for one of her claw-like hands and take it in his. It will be light as paper, the skin soft as cotton wool. He will swallow.

  ‘Mum?’ he will try again, more forcefully. ‘It’s me.’

  Still there will be no reaction, not even when he leans over until he is inches away from that face with its downturned open mouth, staring right into her milky half-closed eyes. She will be like the husk of a human being.

  He will think of the last time he spoke to her, on the phone outside a field in the middle of nowhere, of the fear and resentment in her voice and the magnitude of his betrayal will suddenly be such that he will struggle to breathe. The world will feel as if it is looming from all angles, an invisible force pressing in on him, and he will think it is a good thing he is sitting because otherwise he would probably faint. When he is finally able to draw in a gulp of oxygen he will see that his mother is shaking and for a few seconds he will gape in astonishment, for it will seem as if the sheer depth of his grief has somehow brought her back to him. Then he will realise it is because he is still holding her hand, and that it is only him transferring his own shudders to her fragile body.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he will whimper.

  The face before him will stare obliviously through him.

  Then the door will open and he will sniff and sit back. A hand with a teacup and saucer will appear in his periphery and he will look up into the kindly face of the carer. In her other hand she will hold a plastic beaker with a funnel cap, and he will watch as she steers the beaker gently towards his mother’s mouth. She will insert her lips around the funnel, expertly tipping the beaker back so that a small amount of tea washes against the mouth, and as if from some deep-seated instinct his mother will suck in a mouthful, and a couple of seconds later swallow it down.

  ‘Good girl!’ the carer will congratulate her.

  It will sound to his ears like a sentencing.

  In the caravan Vlad is on the bed reading a woman’s weekly. Since he joined the aerialist it has been a continual source of amazement to him how he devours these thin cheery little publications aimed at housewives, chuckling to himself as he turns the pages, apparently fascinated by the articles on cooking, limescale prevention and home furnishing, and by interviews with C-list celebrities from the talk shows and soaps he loves to watch on his tiny portable TV.

  ‘Big top’s almost packed up,’ he says. ‘Ready to go?’

  Vlad does not look up from the magazine as he comes in, and spits out his comment as if he is talking to the page before him.

  ‘Been getting friendly with that arsehole, have you?’

  He pauses in the doorway, confused.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I saw you out the window so don’t try and deny it.’

  ‘Try and deny what?’

  ‘You and that arsehole – smoking!’

  It dawns on him who Vlad is talking about.

  ‘You mean Jethro?’

  ‘ “You mean Jethro,” ’ Vlad tries to mimic him, but it comes out just as thickly accented as usual. ‘Yes I mean him! Did you talk about me? What did you say about me? I wonder. Did you have a nice good long laugh about the stupid aerialist who can’t get it up?! Is that it?’

  Vlad’s face is dark as a thundercloud and his eyes are furious slits. He reminds him suddenly of a spoilt little boy who has not got what he wanted for Christmas and a laugh bursts out of his mouth before he can contain it.

  ‘You can’t be serious!’

  ‘Oh can’t I be?!’

  He throws the coat over the chair and sits down on the bed beside Vlad. The aerialist pouts and busies himself petulantly with the magazine.

  ‘He just wanted to say thank you to me for the other night. He was drunk and I went and fetched him, remember? That’s all it was.’

  Vlad turns back to face him, his eyes big and shining. The aerialist looks even more boyish with this expression
and he wonders if he can really be jealous of the clown. He cannot prevent his heart from doing a little skip of pleasure at the idea.

  ‘Don’t trust him. He is an evil cunt who fucks over everyone.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he soothes. ‘I only accepted the cigarette because he was there. We’re not friends.’

  The aerialist humphs. He reaches out and turns Vlad’s face slowly towards him. He looks into the aerialist’s eyes for a minute, astonished by their beauty – here in this moment. Then, as if possessed, he grabs hold of his head and presses it against his face as if trying to smother him, thrusting his mouth against Vlad’s lips with such force that a few seconds later the aerialist pulls back half laughing and half gasping.

  His mum was silent all the way home, and when they got in she said she was shattered and could he make himself his dinner from leftovers in the fridge. She paused at the stairs and looked back at him, and in her face he recognised that old fear he had not seen for a very long time – as if she was thinking, who is this alien being, where is my real son and what has it done with him? She gave him a slight smile that was glassy and unable to disguise her troubled feelings, and then turned and went upstairs.

  He was surprised to find that the look did not upset him as it used to. When his dad was still living with them, even though he had been away on business trips a lot of the time, such a look of fear and concern would have felt like an assault, a reproachful reminder of his failings. Now it was hard to believe he could ever have been bothered by it. The look was pathetic, a failing on the part of his mum, that was all, for the dreary little polite box she wanted to impose on the world.

  He plonked himself down on the sofa and switched on the TV, taking care to keep the sound down since she developed a headache at anything above a whisper no matter which room she was in. All he could find to watch was a cartoon of Tom and Jerry, an endless cycle in which the cat connived and plotted to get the mouse that always outwitted and evaded him. It occurred to him that Edward would probably call the cartoon existential and he considered calling him to find out if he was right. Almost as if it had second-guessed his thoughts the phone began to ring.