The Trapeze Artist Page 2

  The boy surveyed Katy for about two seconds, smiled pityingly and turned away. Katy made a few more remarks to the boys she sat with, deliberately audible to everyone else, culminating in the word ‘poof’. At this point the new boy looked back again, puckered up his lips and blew Katy a kiss. There was a shocked intake of breath at the back, but Katy did not have the chance to react further as just then the teacher arrived.

  ‘Ah,’ said the teacher, ‘you must be Edward.’

  As the new boy turned back to face the teacher, for a fraction of a second their eyes met, and he had the distinct impression that despite his cool nonchalance he had been noted by the boy, a fact that made him strangely pleased, though he couldn’t figure out why. He watched him for the rest of the day, trying to catch his eye again, but Edward didn’t turn in his direction even once, and took off in a hurry at break time, and was mysteriously absent for the rest of the day.

  ‘This is my grotto,’ says the aerialist, switching on the light with a flourish. ‘You like it?’

  He peers into the caravan. Vlad’s living space is tiny and so crammed full of items and clothes it is close to overflowing. Indigo, sepia and ruby fabric spills out from all directions; bronze buckles and crystal buttons gleaming in folds like the eyes of submerged reptiles. Across the little window above the counter hangs a curtain made out of strands of winking jet and a hundred diamonds of light float ethereally on the walls, the reflections of a sparkling silver mirrorball that hangs beside the light. The room resembles a cross between a thrift store and a gay disco, and it takes him a few seconds to believe that it really is in fact someone’s home, with a stove in one corner, a baby fridge and cupboard in another, and a bunk containing a mattress all but buried under the hoard of gaudy riches.

  ‘It’s a little messy,’ admits the aerialist, registering his expression. ‘It’s hard to be neat all the time when you’re on the road. Things . . .’ he gestures resignedly at the mess, ‘have a habit of exploding!’

  He realises the aerialist is waiting for him to enter and so he does, stooping under the low ceiling and standing awkwardly next to the buried bed, unsure what to do with himself. The aerialist enters after him and pulls the door shut, leaning against it and grinning at him. Instantly he feels a wave of doubt. The grin of the aerialist is sly and knowing, as if now that they are shut away from the world a veil of pretence has been lifted. They are no more than half a foot away from each other in this microscopic compartment, yet he thinks that for all they know about one another they may as well be standing observing each other from opposite precipices with a gaping chasm between them. Sweat prickles on his skin and nerves force him to sit down on the bed, even though it means sitting on what he presumes is a costume, crushing the rim of a black bowler hat with a pink silk band around its base.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ says the aerialist, stepping forward and dropping to his knees beside him. The aerialist reaches up and places his hand over his forehead, an oddly parental action that touches him even as it frightens him. The hand of the aerialist is cool and rough, and when he removes it he notices the palm is covered with calluses.

  ‘Sorry,’ he says, ‘I just came over all dizzy.’

  ‘Ah,’ says the aerialist knowingly, ‘you need a drink, baby.’

  The word ‘baby’ sounds funny when pronounced in a Transylvanian accent, and he stifles a giggle as the aerialist turns and clatters around at the counter behind, turning it into a cough instead.

  ‘So what is your name?’ says the aerialist, handing him a shot glass of clear-coloured liquid.

  He tells the aerialist, who repeats it to himself in a whisper; as though it is a sacred word he wishes never to forget.

  ‘I’m pleased to meet you. And I am Vlad, as perhaps you may remember – “The Amazing Vampire Vlad!” ’

  The aerialist announces his circus title grandly, puffing out his chest and sweeping one hand through the air in a dramatic circle. He nods quickly. Vlad picks up another glass and touches it lightly to his, producing a faint chime, then throws his head back and drains the contents. Copying Vlad, he does likewise. An instant rush of burning sweetness blasts down his throat. Then he is giggling uncontrollably, for suddenly the situation strikes him as impossibly comical. Here he is in a tiny caravan after having been picked up by a beautiful young man, a circus performer no less, someone who cannot possibly know he lives with his mother and has never lived elsewhere, that he has not gone to bed with anyone for over twenty years, and that earlier on this very night he was on the verge of making the most important decision of his life. He clutches his arms to his stomach as the air empties out of him, unable to stem the giggling until finally it turns to coughing, this time for real, forcing him to bury his face between his knees until the fit has passed. The aerialist is laughing too, but he can tell it is mostly out of confusion. When he raises his head again Vlad is looking at him quizzically, one black eyebrow arching towards the low ceiling, waiting for him to explain the joke.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says lamely. ‘It’s just that it’s been a while.’

  ‘A while?’

  ‘Since I . . . had a drink.’

  For a second he thinks he may have somehow repulsed Vlad with this admission, because the aerialist turns away, but then he turns back, holding the bottle, and pours another measure into his glass.

  ‘In that case, you must make sure to get drunk!’

  Eventually he will wake up. The sunlight will have formed a pool about his body, and from outside will come the sounds of birds and the occasional car passing at the bottom of the street. He will sit up and immediately gasp, for his whole body will ache as though his insides have been beaten black and blue. But he will welcome this pain, because it will distract him from his emptiness, filling the void with something real and powerful, even though it makes his temples pulsate and his eyes mist over when he moves.

  He will try to stand, and a wave of giddiness will pass through him. He will steady himself by reaching out and taking hold of the bedpost, and then will stagger through the door and out onto the landing. As well as the crippling in his muscles he will feel a knotted sensation in his stomach, and he will realise that it has been almost two days since he last ate.

  He will limp to the bathroom, put the plug in the bath and turn on the taps. Then he will lower himself down onto the toilet seat, panting from the effort, and stare at the steam as it rises off the water. He will turn his head and look back out through the open door at the landing, and he will realise there is no need to close it or any door ever again, for the house is his and his alone.

  And as he will have this thought another thought will occur to him, an idea he will mull over as he strips and lowers himself into the scalding water. That if the house is really his, this means he can do as he likes with it.

  He is drunk by the time Vlad leans over and kisses him, not only on alcohol but on the romance of the situation. Life has not prepared him for romance: he has no understanding of how to act or what he should say – does not understand that the romance is sustained precisely because of such uncertainties.

  Vlad’s kiss deepens. It becomes urgent and forceful. He falls back against the bed and the aerialist falls with him, his hands burrowing into the mattress around his waist. He worries that he is crushing Vlad’s costumes and tries to move, but Vlad is all over him, pushing him down, hot lips against his mouth and strong limbs wrapped hungrily around his body. It is as if he is being devoured. He feels desire filling him, feels himself getting hard, and is immediately ashamed and unsure. He pulls back.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ Vlad asks, breathless, his face just inches away. He does not remember the last time he was this close to somebody, and he is astonished by the detail in the features before him. He can see imperfections he had not previously noticed. How Vlad’s nose points slightly to the left, how his cheeks are pitted from tiny acne scars and the sides of his nose dotted with blackheads, how his skin is showing the beginning signs of the r
avages of age and sun, tiny buds of little crow’s feet bunching up at the corner of each eye, how his jaw is red in places from stubble rash, how his left ear is lower than his right and how his brutally shaved head disguises the fact that although Vlad cannot be more than thirty his hairline is fast receding. But these flaws do not matter, for within them is a greater beauty, the simple beauty of another human being, the touch of his skin, the taste of him, and the heat of his desire – all things he has denied himself for so many years it now makes him tremble to acknowledge how much he wants them.

  He reaches out, gently because he is not capable of strength, and strokes Vlad’s face. Vlad is amused by the tenderness of the gesture, so different from his own fierce mauling. The aerialist places his hands over the top of his fingers, smiling at him, and guides them to his lips, then takes them inside his mouth, running his tongue over them in little circles.

  He moans and closes his eyes, giving himself over to what he is feeling, allowing himself to be carried away by his own desire and forgetting his shame and inhibitions. He feels the aerialist pulling at his clothes, feels that he is helping in this process, and that he is loosening the clothes of the aerialist too, his fingers undoing buttons and removing restrictive layers, throwing garments randomly on the jungle of clothing that lies about them. He hears another moan as Vlad touches his penis and then realises it comes from his own lips. He reaches down to touch Vlad in the same place and suddenly everything changes.

  As if brought out of a pleasant dream by a cold slap, he comes to his senses to find himself sitting opposite Vlad who is now standing with his trousers around his ankles, staring hard at him, as if ready to take up a violent challenge. He doesn’t know how to meet this stare so he looks instead at Vlad’s penis, soft and only very slightly swollen, risen just a couple of inches and pointed at an angle towards the floor. His hand is still on it, his fingers still wrapped round the base, entwined with hundreds of curly dark hairs.

  ‘It doesn’t happen for me,’ says Vlad tersely.

  Now he looks up at him, forced to by the words, uncertain at first of what he is saying.

  ‘Oh,’ he says then, suddenly embarrassed.

  He feels his own erection subside and suddenly the magic is gone, replaced by a miserable conclusion. He knows that it must be over now, and feels too that in some way this is because of his own failure. He swallows despondently.

  ‘Sorry,’ he mumbles.

  He turns away, looking for his clothes. As he does he feels the pressure of the aerialist’s hand on his cheek, turning him back to face him.

  ‘It’s a sad story,’ Vlad says softly, kissing his ear and touching the head of his penis. It instantly rears up again. ‘But we can still try to have fun, if you want . . .?’

  He nods, desperate, ready to beg the aerialist if necessary. But he does not need to do this, for Vlad is grinning and leaning over him once more, and in any case, his words would be cut off by their mouths meeting.

  It quickly became obvious that Edward should have been put into the top set. He was clever and always knew the answer when the teacher asked him a question. But Edward didn’t seem interested in his own cleverness: he never raised his hand in class, and when he was called on to answer the teacher he always did so in a lazy voice that bordered on outright insolence. For this reason teachers rarely ever picked on him.

  As well as being smart Edward was mysterious and self-assured. Rumour had it that his father was a famous author and his mother an actress, and that he had been expelled from his previous school for setting fire to it, but where these rumours came from no one seemed to know. Edward was easily the most fascinating person he’d ever seen. He couldn’t stop watching him – and neither could anyone else. It seemed to him there was a lull in the atmosphere when Edward wandered into the room or passed by in the corridor, that people’s attention was momentarily caught and fixed as if a spotlight were beaming down to follow his every step. After the mocking kiss Edward had blown Katy on his first day she hadn’t come back at him, perhaps wary that he might turn the situation around and make everyone laugh at her instead. Certainly he seemed capable of it. There was real glamour to his languid walk and world-weary air, and this glamour seemed to cow the troublemakers of the class into leaving him alone, an exceptionally rare occurrence for a new kid, especially a boy.

  Everyone who wasn’t a troublemaker wanted to be friends with Edward, and had he desired he could easily have become very popular in a short space of time. Only Edward didn’t seem to desire this. He didn’t try to be friends with anybody. He gave blunt yes–no answers to questions, replied to greetings with careless shrugs, never laughed at jokes and stared blankly at the various girls who smiled meaningfully in his direction. Another rumour spread of his having psychotic episodes – sudden fits of violence that required powerful medication to keep them under control. But in the end this only added to Edward’s glamour. Still he remained impenetrable and uninterested in anyone, and eventually people stopped trying to impress him and began to act as though they had never wanted to in the first place.

  Within a few days he had begun to fantasise about Edward, though Edward was a far cry from the images he had recently started to masturbate to. His fantasies about Edward were not based on sex, though they often resulted in slowly stroking himself off. Instead they consisted of a series of tense and dangerous situations into which he and Edward found themselves thrown, forced to fight for their lives against rabid zombies or crazed hit men and discovering attraction and then love while in the heat of protecting one another. Sometimes the fantasies were centred around a simple everyday situation, one which he knew would never really happen, such as him stealing out on a hot summer night and wandering across the common to look at the stars and running into Edward doing the same: they would sit down together to point out constellations. Edward would tell him all about how he had burnt down his previous school and how tyrannical his famous parents really were, and he would share the tragic details of his own family – details he tailored specifically for the fantasy, in which his father became an abusive drunk and his mother sick and dying. Then, stunned by the secrets they had shared and neither one of them quite knowing what he was doing, they would find themselves drawing closer, and a moment later their lips would touch in a single passionate kiss. Although he was embarrassed by the soppiness of his fantasies he could not stop them coming. It was the most enjoyable hobby he’d ever had.

  Each morning he swore to himself that he would speak to Edward, a simple hello, something to pave the way towards a future friendship and maybe more. But each time the opportunity presented itself his heart began to panic and his skin to sweat, and he found he did not dare, for he felt that were he to experience that same shrug of indifference which Edward gave to everyone else it would puncture his fantasies forever. Eventually he resolved to love Edward from afar, dreaming of a mythical day in the future when they would get to know each other.

  As it turned out, that day was closer than he’d imagined. One morning roughly halfway through the term Edward paused in the doorway to the classroom, and then instead of going over to the desk where he usually sat, walked up to his, set down his bag and said in his direct yet faintly bored style, ‘May I?’

  He was aware of the eyes of the class on him. He knew that they were jealous, and he was thrilled to be the focus of this jealousy. Yet he was careful not to show it. Instead he nodded casually, as if Edward’s sitting down was neither here nor there to him, and then for a second he waited with bated breath, terrified that Edward would change his mind, snap ‘Well, fuck you then’ and head over to his usual space. But instead Edward smiled, as if he knew perfectly well this was just a front, and swung himself into the seat.

  He wakes up alone to the sounds of shouting and hammering coming from outside. Shots of sunlight filter in through the tiny window above the counter. He is squeezed into the little bed, half buried under all the piles of clothing and junk. The room looks even smaller and even
more cluttered in the morning, almost as if he has woken up in the land of Lilliput. He inhales deeply, smelling coffee, and sees it comes from a whistling little pot over on the tiny stove.

  His bladder aches but he doesn’t move. Instead he breathes deeply and relaxes back into the mattress. He wants to savour this, the sensation of waking up in an unfamiliar bed after spending a night with his arms wrapped around the body of another man, and the strange and wonderful fluttering inside, something he has not felt since he was a teenager. He knows full well it cannot last, that eventually he will have to rise and resume life once more. He will have to leave the tiny room with its lovable clutter and re-enter the great gruelling world outside. He will have to stumble to his car and drive across town to his house where his mother is waiting, frantic with worry, ready with demands to know why he did not come home last night. But right now he is as close to happy as he can remember feeling and he wants to postpone life and its inevitable complications for as long as possible.

  But life will not be postponed. All at once there is a great thundering from outside, as if a huge tree has fallen, and a second later the door opens and Vlad squeezes in. He is dressed in torn jeans and a shabby black T-shirt with the words ‘Who the fuck is Harry Potter?’ emblazoned in red across the chest. Vlad does not look at him and makes a show of trying to be quiet, somewhat unnecessarily considering all the noise coming from outside. Kneeling by the bed, Vlad starts to burrow into the mass of clothing and costumes. Suddenly his face lights up and he looks over at the other side of the bed. ‘Aha!’ says the aerialist. He leans across him to reach for whatever item it is he’s been searching for and as he does his eyes flick down to his face and he sees he is awake. Vlad lets out a little scream and tumbles backwards, slamming into the wall on the other side and sending a shudder through the entire caravan. For a split second they stare at one another, then Vlad puts his hand on his heart.