Part 21 (1/2)

'Comm-er-cial.' Tristan crawled out into the light, squinting. His skin was so white. white.

'Commercial? OK, but is it fun?' the Wheel asked.

Tristan's face tugged and twisted. He turned his big white eyes on Roxanna. He quietly put his hand across his heart. Yes, he wanted to go, of course he did.

'I don't doubt that it's reactionary,' Sparrow said, chewing on the syllables of this last word as if they might be made of very sticky sugar gum. 'What I want to know is: will it cheer me up?'

The boy nodded vigorously.

'Yes?' Sparrow stood. 'But I don't think I'm dressed correctly.' He brushed the cigarette ash from his baggy Army Disposals trousers and straightened the collar of his checked work s.h.i.+rt. 'Should I dress up?'

'No,' Roxanna said, 'it's come-as-you-are.'

But she she dressed up, as well as she was able. She tried to do it quickly, but by the time it was done the storm had come and gone and the streets were wet and had that sweet jasmine sewer smell, and when they stepped out into Gazette Street you could hear that low gurgle of water in the drains beneath your feet. She wore her same black skirt she had nothing else but she borrowed a white s.h.i.+rt of Wally's and put on a geld-band which emphasized her slim waist and her broad hips. She wore her red high-heels and put a little chain around her ankle and a small stick-on beauty spot on her cheek. She did, in short, everything to make her resemblance to the legendary Irma as marked as possible, and she saw how Wally, who had been reserved and silent since their return from the hospital, looked at her, and when they walked around the river to the Sirkus Dome he began to warm up again and told her things she already knew about the rising river, and pointed out the Chinese on the far bank stretching out their big nets on the high poles. dressed up, as well as she was able. She tried to do it quickly, but by the time it was done the storm had come and gone and the streets were wet and had that sweet jasmine sewer smell, and when they stepped out into Gazette Street you could hear that low gurgle of water in the drains beneath your feet. She wore her same black skirt she had nothing else but she borrowed a white s.h.i.+rt of Wally's and put on a geld-band which emphasized her slim waist and her broad hips. She wore her red high-heels and put a little chain around her ankle and a small stick-on beauty spot on her cheek. She did, in short, everything to make her resemblance to the legendary Irma as marked as possible, and she saw how Wally, who had been reserved and silent since their return from the hospital, looked at her, and when they walked around the river to the Sirkus Dome he began to warm up again and told her things she already knew about the rising river, and pointed out the Chinese on the far bank stretching out their big nets on the high poles.

At the entrance to the Sirkus, she took great pleasure in going to buy the seats, by herself, in opening her purse and laying out the big purple notes in front of the ca.s.ser.

Roxanna loved the Sirkus. The air was s.e.xy and dangerous, smelled like freedom fried food, gunpowder, ketchup, and the distinctive honeyed perfume of the wet season which emanated from the little bell-shaped flowers of the Enteralis Robusta. Enteralis Robusta. Of course she was not the only woman wearing a gold belt or an ankle chain. There were dozens of them, but most of them did not look at all like Irma. Of course she was not the only woman wearing a gold belt or an ankle chain. There were dozens of them, but most of them did not look at all like Irma.

When she came back with the tickets she found the boy was in pain. Wally was pressing and pulling at his bandaged knees, trying to locate the injury.

'Does that hurt? Where does it hurt?' He was trying to look at the boy's hands, but Tristan would not unclench them. They were shut as tight as briques bleus and the man had to use his strength to open them.

'What is is it?' he asked, staring belligerently at the open unmarked palms. it?' he asked, staring belligerently at the open unmarked palms.

For anwer, Tristan threw himself upon the gra.s.s and hid his face.

'OK,' Wally said. 'I'm going to buy you a perroquet.'

Tristan didn't move. Wally turned and walked away.

When Roxanna saw how he lay there, all rolled up and hidden, she knew exactly where it hurt. She knelt on the gra.s.s beside him. She laid her hand on his poor twisted leg. He jerked back. She knew how he was the merest brush of a stranger's eyes would hurt him.

'You know it's nice and dark inside that Sirkus.'

'I ... WANT ... MY ... MAMAN.'

'I know what you need,' she said. 'And I'm going to get it.' She turned to the Human Wheel, who was squatting beside her, rolling one more lumpy cigarette.

'Cover him,' she said. 'Don't let no one stare at him.' She headed straight to the souvenir stall. But Tristan did not even see the embarra.s.sed Sparrow. He saw only her and came after her on his hands and knees, wailing.

'Stay,' she said. 'Stay with Sparrow.'

'You,' he said. 'You.' He came on across the bitumen, hard on her, scurrying between polished shoes, jumpy legs, retreating strollers, followed her into a souvenir stand tea towels, ashtrays, caps, papier-mache masks of Bruder Duck, Phantome Drool, Oncle Dog. He grabbed her ankles. She kicked at him she could not help it she hated people messing with her ankles. He was strong as a scrub rat. He scaled her leg, her trunk, clung to her neck. He smelt of snot and disinfectant. She got the item she wanted and went to stand in line at the cash register as if the bellowing child around her neck was nothing to do with her.

'I ... WANNA ... GO ... HOME.'

'Shut up,' she hissed.

'I ... HATE ... YOU.'

The queue melted before her. She struggled with her purse, the great fat roll of pigeon money. She gave over one more purple 10-dollar note.

Then he would not accept the Bruder Mouse mask she had purchased for him. She dragged him by his arm over to the gra.s.s triangle and tried to wrestle him. 'You gotta have this,' she said. 'It'll cover your face.'

But even this he did not hear, and it was Wally, finally, who came and held the shrieking boy still, while the three adults forced the papier-mache mask on to his face.

Tristan tried to rip it off. 'I ... HATE ... YOU,' he screamed.

Then Wally picked him up and, holding him under his arm, ran to the toilet block. There, he held the kicking, scratching beast up to the mirror.

'Just look. Listen, just look.'

Tristan twisted his head, pressed against Wally, denting the papier-mache into his face. But, finally, as he struggled to pull the thing off him, he somehow caught a glimpse of himself. Bruder Mouse. Bruder Mouse.

He moved his arm. It was the Mouse's arm. Snot dripped from his nose, but out of sight. His cheeks were awash with tears, but no one could see that.

'Happy?' Wally said bitterly, wiping at his own bloodied cheeks. 'I hope to Christ you're happy.'

*Efican name for the Voorstand Sirkus acrobatic character of Spookganger Drool. [TS] [TS]

44.

I did not stop shaking straight away, but it was warm inside the mask and my own sweet breath enveloped me. I was Bruder Mouse. All around me were other children dressed just the same.

I did not like children. I was jealous of them, frightened of them, dedicated to placing myself in a FAR SUPERIOR CATEGORY of life, but at the Sirkus I had this in common with them: they too preferred to stay inside their masks, to tolerate the tight elastic, the improperly placed eye-holes which impeded views of the great Sirkus sky above us. They, like me, had their heads forever in exaggerated motion.

It was twilight inside the Dome and the ceiling was a deep cobalt blue, alive with stars, not randomly arrayed like a children's fairy book, but in an exact facsimile of the Efican night sky. It was my first Sirkus. All my fears dissolved like cotton candy.

As Roxanna led us down the steps of the centre aisle, her geld-band sparkling in the gloom, I watched Sparrow peering and squinting up into the high seats and I was momentarily fearful that his stern moral view would make the Sirkus tawdry in my own eyes. I was not unaware of how it could be seen. It was my own mother who had called it 'a horror made of cardboard, plastic and appalling colours, a death-deallng construction of hardened chewing gum and degraded folklore, a loopy mix of Calvinism and cynical opportunism'.*

But just as I felt my maman's doctrine struggling to take control of my own perception, and as my initial rush of pleasure began to flutter, lose strength, to give way to guilt, Sparrow turned to me and winked. My maman's doctrine instantly dissolved. I lifted my mask a little, just enough to inhale deeply the distinctive aroma of the Sirkus a mixture of cordite and something like chemically perfumed face-wipes.

But then Roxanna gave our tickets to the usher and my fragile happiness was threatened once again. I had never been to the Sirkus, but I could not believe Roxanna had allowed herself to be given these seats. There was only one column* in our local Sirkus and the usher was leading us straight towards it. This column was, in itself, one of the wonders of the Sirkus, but it also provided its notorious imperfection: an obstructed view. in our local Sirkus and the usher was leading us straight towards it. This column was, in itself, one of the wonders of the Sirkus, but it also provided its notorious imperfection: an obstructed view.

Looming high above our heads, halfway up its gleaming shaft, was a mixing booth, a gla.s.s-walled, air-conditioned cube which Wally described to me each time he 'told' me a Sirkus. I knew it housed the hologram projectors, the computer consoles, the mixing board. The obstructing column also contained a small cylindrical elevator whereby the sparkmajoors ascended to their station.

So this was to be my first and maybe only visit to the Sirkus. I looked up forlornly at the VIP seats twelve of them suspended from the underside of the control booth like the basket on a dirigible. Everyone in Chemin Rouge knew exactly what they were like-the seats were red plush, the carpet was deep Efican wool pile. There was said to be a deluxe auto-bar which was operated by cash parole. This was something to dream about, but to those sentenced to sit behind it the column was something to be feared, and as dear Roxanna led us to a place hard against its base I felt my irritation mount to such a height that I wonder I did not actually convulse.

'Calm down,' Wally said, 'or there'll be no d.a.m.n Sirkus at all.'

I saw the usher push the code keys in the column itself and the elevator doors peeled silently back to reveal the golden walls inside the cylinder.

'Any complaints?' Wally whispered.