He tightened his thick belt. His belly hung over the top, and he hitched the shirt up so it almost hid the extra pounds. And as he stared at himself in the long mirror, he asked himself where it had all gone wrong... he couldn't blame it all on the mauling. He was falling apart long before that.
He looked at the wall of photographs, saw his papa and his brothers, and remembered holding tightly to his dying father's hand. "You keep it going, you marry, you have sons, don't let the Grimaldi name die. Have many sons!.. for your brothers, Luis, God rest their souls."
He thought about little Tina. It had been a foolish dream, and yet he had been thrilled to think at last he would have a son, an heir. He had even wondered what it would feel like to hold his son, he never considered it could be a girclass="underline" It was a son he had always wanted. Yet he had married Ruda...
Luis opened a drawer and took out an old folder of small snapshots. He sifted through them, not even sure what he was searching for.
He inched open Ruda's closet, wondering where she had stashed all his albums.
He looked up: There was a row of cupboards on top of the closet. In the first she kept her show hats; in the second he saw an old winter coat and a plastic rain cape. He couldn't open the third, so he stepped up on a stool and pulled hard. He almost lost his balance as the albums tumbled out. Paper clippings and loose photographs spilled everywhere; he swore as he bent to retrieve them.
He sat on her bed and began to flip through the books, chuckling and smiling as the memories flooded back. He had had a wonderful childhood. But Ruda never talked of her past; she had said without any emotion that some things are best left buried. She had talked about her life with Kellerman, even, up to a point, about the old magician, but then she would change the subject, as if her life before that was not worth mentioning, or perhaps too painful to bring up, because when he had insisted, she had rolled up her cuff, and had thrust the scar in his face.
"I have this to remind me. I am reminded every time I stand naked, every time my head aches, that's enough... Why talk about it? Why open up memories I have fought to forget?"
When she had been in one of her moods, when she had thrown one of her tantrums — because money was short or his drinking was out of hand — she would turn on him enraged, screaming that whatever pain he was in, she had known worse.
She would thrust her tattoo defiantly under his nose. "This is my proof, what is yours, Luis? What right have you got to complain about anything?"
She had taken over. Slowly he turned the pages, asking himself how he had allowed it to happen. The first time he had met her, he was the star, he had money — he had success.
He lay back on her hard pillow and closed his eyes, visualizing the Florida winter quarters, remembering how he had stood by the cages as the vet went from one animal to the next. He had been working in England, just before all the quarantine laws come into effect. His act had gone down well. He had traveled to Manchester, to Brighton, and then to Wembley for the big Chipperfield contract. In the early sixties he had been at his peak — what a time that had been — and then he had returned to America, at the invitation of a Barnum & Bailey scout.
With the winter season coming on he had arrived in Venice, Florida, ready to be an internationally acclaimed star.
Knowing he had the contract, Grimaldi spent freely, even bought two more tigers. Then the bombshelclass="underline" First to die was his lead cat, a massive Siberian tiger trained by his father. The big animal began sweating, his eyes ran, and his coat quickly began to look dull. The vets diagnosed a virulent, dangerous flu, most likely contracted in England.
The flu spread like a forest fire. They were going down one by one; the act was disappearing in front of his eyes. He worked every hour God gave him, but no matter what care and attention he lavished on his beloved animals, they died. No injection could save them, his only hope was to segregate the animals. Then the second calamity struck; the surviving animals were poisoned by hay laced with a pesticide intended to kill rodents in the barn from which it came. The fittest of his remaining cats now became dangerously ill, and Luis worked himself into a state of exhaustion. He watched his beasts sweat and cough, their breath rasping as they choked and grew listless, eyes and noses running. Their paws sweat, they refused their food. They died in his arms. A pyre was built, and he stood by watching as the prize and pride of his life burned in front of him. He felt as if it were his own life blazing.
Out of eighteen tigers only four were left, plus one fully grown lion and a small, sickly panther. The cost of replacing the animals was astronomical, and no insurance covered the epidemic.
Then, when he believed nothing else could go wrong, a hurricane swept through the state. His trailer was destroyed and two more cats perished. His cages were wrecked, his props and plinths crushed.
Luis Grimaldi could not sign the contract, his most coveted prize; he didn't have the resources to buy new animals. He was finished. He moved into a run-down trailer given to him by the circus folk of the winter quarters. That's where his drinking began. For weeks his old retainers fed and cleaned the remaining animals, without wages, but eventually they were driven by necessity to seek work elsewhere. Only Johnny Two Seats was left, so nicknamed because of his wide, fat ass. He cared for Grimaldi as best he could, and saw that at least he ate the odd meal.
Winter came and went, the circus performers moved on, and Grimaldi remained. He had nowhere else to go and, out of pity, the owners and managers let him stay on.
One day Ruda Kellerman had appeared, in a rusty old Jeep, with her obnoxious husband. They were traveling on to Chicago, where Kellerman was to join a troupe of acrobats. She wasn't half starved anymore, but well filled out — twice the size of her diminutive spouse.
Kellerman was there only a few hours before he got into a brawl, and was asked to leave. He yelled that it hadn't been his idea to come to the run-down shithole, but his wife's, because she wanted to see Grimaldi.
Ruda appeared at Grimaldi's shambles of a trailer. She banged on the window. Hung over, unshaven, and stinking to high heaven, he had flung open the door, shouting to whoever it was to leave him alone. She was shocked to see him in this state, the man who had been her idol for years.
She brought him food, brewed some coffee, told him how she made pocket money doing astrology charts and reading palms. She had laughed at how easy it was to make money.
Grimaldi wasn't listening; he sat in a stupor, drinking the thick black sweet coffee. She dug deep into her old trouser pockets, took out a wad of dollars and stuffed them into his hand. "Here, you were kind to me once, I've never forgotten that..."
Kellerman had banged on the door and yelled that they were on their way. She had shouted back for him to wait in the truck, and stood up staring at Grimaldi, concerned. "I got to go, you take care now, maybe I'll see you around."
She extended her hand, like a man, but he turned away, embarrassed at having taken her money, and yet unable to turn it down.
For the next four months Ruda and Kellerman had traveled around, stopping off at small-time circuses, never for long. Kellerman held on to his dream of working in one of the main venues in Vegas, but when they eventually arrived there they were so broke he had to sell all his so-called props. He had no act to sell, never mind one that would earn them any cash, and none of the high-class acts would even consider his type of performance. Ruda had to work as a waitress, at a roadside truckers' stop. She worked twelve-hour shifts to earn enough for them to live on.
The gambling bug took hold of Tommy: Slot machines attracted him like a drug, and he began to borrow more and more money. Then he made the mistake of getting in with loan sharks. He owed thousands, and gambled in a feverish panic to try and cover his losses. Three weeks after their arrival in Vegas, Ruda returned home, worn out after a late-night shift, to discover Kellerman had sold their mobile home at the trailer park — sold it, when they didn't even own it! But he had at least left word where he had bolted to and she tracked him down to a small, seedy rooming house. The only possessions he had been unable to sell were a few of her clothes. Ruda had told Grimaldi, albeit a long time after, how she had opened her cheap trunk, rummaged through her things, and then slammed down the lid. She had told him how angry she had been, demanding to know what Kellerman had done with her albums and notebooks. Kellerman, so Ruda had said, hadn't seemed to care, he had simply got out as fast as he could.