Part 5 (1/2)
”No, it is not a good menagerie, I know. It is just a side show for the children.”
I said: ”What good English you speak.”
”My mother was English. I still get plenty of practice, because a circus is a very mixed place, really international. We have just now all sorts: the clowns are French, and the high-wire act is Hungarian, and the trampoline artistes are j.a.panese, and there is a comic act with a donkey which is English, and an American juggler-besides the Germans and Austrians.”
”United Nations,” said Tim.
”Indeed.” She dimpled at him. ”And on the whole really united. We have to be.”
”Have you an act yourself?” I asked.
”Yes. I help my father with the liberty horses . . . and there is a sort of rodeo act near the beginning. But my own act is a riding one. I have a Lipizzan stallion-”
”You have a what?” Timothy's interruption was robbed of rudeness by his obviously excited interest.
”A Lipizzan stallion. This is a breed of horse-”
”Yes, I know about them. I'm hoping to get to Piber to see the stud, and later on to see a performance in Vienna. But do you mean you have a trained stallion? I didn't think they ever sold them.”
”He is trained, yes, but not at the School. My grandfather bought him as a four-year-old, and my uncle trained him . . . and me also.”
”In high school work?”
She nodded.
”And you have a riding act of your own? You're a-a what is it?-an ecuyere?”
She had soared, I could see, in Timothy's estimation, from being ”the subject” or ”Lewis's blonde” to star billing in her own right. I realized that my own estimate of her had been right: a young woman who was capable of the concentrated skill and strength needed to put a high school stallion through his paces was about as fragile as pressed steel. ”Gos.h.!.+” said Timothy, glowing with admiration.
She smiled. ”Oh, not what you will see in Vienna, I a.s.sure you! None of the 'airs above the ground'
except the levade, and sometimes the croupade . . .” She turned to me. ”This is a leap right off the ground where the horse keeps his legs curled up-is that the word?”
”Tucked under him,” supplied Tim.
”His legs tucked under him, and lands again on the same spot. We tried to teach him the capriole, where he leaps in a croupade and then kicks the back legs straight out, but this is very difficult, and he cannot do it, so now I leave it alone. It is my fault, not his.”
In view of the admiration in Timothy's eyes I half expected him to contradict this, but he didn't. He was, like her, dedicated enough to know that it is never the horse's fault.
She added: ”But in the other exercises he is wonderful. He is one of the Maestoso line, Maestoso Leda, and he is so musical . . . but there is no need for me to tell you. You will see him for yourselves tonight, and if he is good tonight I will try the croupade, especially for you.”
We murmured our thanks. Tim's eyes were s.h.i.+ning. I was going to have my work cut out to keep Annalisa as Suspect Number One in my Case of the Vanis.h.i.+ng Husband.
He was saying: ”I can hardly wait. Was he with the other horses? I didn't see him.”
”You were at the wrong end of the stable.” She dimpled at him again, charmingly. ”You should have trespa.s.sed first at the other end. Yes, he is there. Would you like to come round tonight after the show and see the horses? There will be time before we pull down.”
”You bet I would!” Then recollecting himself, with a glance at me, ”Vanessa?”
”I'd like to very much,” I said. ”How many have you?”
”Altogether twenty-seven, and then the ponies. The liberty horses are very good ones, you'll like them, Timothy, they are palominos, and we have twelve, very well matched. There will be only ten of them fit to work tonight, but it is still very beautiful to watch.”
” 'Fit to work'?” I asked, wondering if she intended what the phrase implied, or if her English had its blind moments. ”Is there something wrong with the others?”
”Not really, but they're so valuable that one must be extra careful. There was an accident last week, and some of the horses were hurt. One of the wagons caught fire in the night, quite near the stable lines, and some of the horses injured themselves, with fear, you understand.” She added quietly: ”But it was more serious than a few horses hurt. There were two men in the wagon, and they were killed, burnt to death.”
”How very dreadful. How did that happen?”
”We are still not very sure.” I thought she was going to stop there, but then she lifted her shoulders in a shrug and went on: ”But if you are staying in the village you will hear all about it, everybody in Oberhausen talks about nothing else for a week. This is why the circus has had to stay here so long, because the police came and made inquiries.” She made a little face. ”That is what they call it, 'making inquiries'-hour after hour they asked questions and raked about and only today they say, 'Tomorrow you may go. It is over.' ”
”I'm sorry. It must have been very distressing.”
”It was a bad time for my father.” The blue eyes lifted to mine. ”The wagon belonged to Franzl Wagner, his cousin . . . my uncle Franzl. I always called him that, though really he was my second cousin ... I suppose he always seemed old to me. He joined us when I was a little girl.”
I forgot all my preconceived feelings about her in a genuine rush of sympathy. ”My dear Fraulein ... my dear Annalisa, I'm sorry. I hadn't realized it was a relative . . . that's awful. You must have had a terrible time.”
She shrugged again, not uncaringly, but dismissively. ”It is over.”
”And the other man? There was another, you said?” .
”He was nothing to do with the circus. He must have met my uncle Franzl somewhere and gone back to his wagon for a drink-a talk, who knows? We did not know there was anyone else there with him. They pulled my uncle Franzl out....
He lived for a little, only a few minutes. But it was only when the wagon was nearly all burnt that they found the . . . the other one.”
”I see.” I was silent for a moment. Perhaps I ought not to press her, but though she had spoken somberly, the subject didn't appear to distress her unduly now. She must have repeated all this a hundred times during the past week. ”But they did find out who the second man was?”
She nodded. ”He was an Englishman. His name was Paul Denver, and he belonged to some British firm which has a branch in Vienna. ... I didn't understand what sort of work, but I think it was something to do with farming. My father had not heard of him, and we don't know how Uncle Franzl met him-we had only arrived that day in Oberhausen, you understand. We don't usually give a performance on a Sunday, so they think that Uncle Franzl went out that evening drinking somewhere, and met this man, and got talking to him, and then they came back together and . . . perhaps they talked late, and drank a little more . . . You can picture to yourself how it might be. . . .”
She paused, and I said: ”Yes.” I could picture it only too well. The wagon would burn like a torch. And beside it the stables, the plunging, panic-stricken horses, the screaming from the menagerie, the chaos of shouting.
”It was the lamp that fell,” she said. ”Afterwards they found the hook had broken that held it. It was the noise from the horses that gave the alarm. Then people began shouting that there was someone else in the wagon, but it was burning hard by that time; and then the other Englishman came running out of the dark and helped to pull him out. It turned out that he knew him; he had come to Oberhausen to meet him.”
It was Timothy who said: ”The other Englishman?”
”Yes. He works for the same firm, and he had just arrivedin Oberhausen, driving from Vienna, and he saw the fire and came to help.”
It was still Timothy who asked: ”And when did he leave?”
”Leave?” said Annalisa. ”He is still here. He-” Then she stopped and smiled, and with the smile the strained look lifted and the sparkle came back. She was looking beyond me, to where someone had come in from the street. ”Why, here he is,” she said.
A man had just turned in from the street under the dappled shade of the chestnut trees. He paused there, looking towards our table. I believe I was already half out of my chair, regardless of what Annalisa might think. I heard Timothy say something, some question. And then the newcomer moved forward from the patch of shadow into the sunlight, and I met, full on, his indifferent, unrecognizing eyes and slight look of surprise.
I think I said: ”No, no, it's not,” to Timothy as I sank back into my chair.
Across me Annalisa was calling out: ”Lee! Come and join us!”
Then the newcomer was standing over us and introductions were being made.
”Lee,” said Annalisa, ”this is Vanessa March. Vanessa, Mr. Elliot. . . . And this is Tim.”