“You’re saying,” said Milena as s/he applied talc in the dressing room, “that he’s not really dead.”
“He’s a magician,” said Aziz, doing his stretching exercises. “That’s what he does. It’s all a trick. It’s the art of illusion.”
“I’ve been on the circuit all my life,” the lobster girl said, applying oil to her claws. “And I’ve dated my share of magic men. But I’ve never seen anything like this. It’s obscene, is what it is.”
Bruno had been sitting on a stool, trying to memorize a spiel that Milena had written for him.
“If it is an illusion,” he said, “it’s the best damned illusion I’ve ever seen. And I’ve shared bills and played cards with the best magicians in Bohemia.”
“Even if it is an illusion,” said Kitty, standing atop two orange crates, ironing an evening gown, “it feels like the trick is beside the point.”
“Kitty’s right,” said Vasco, slicking back his hair.
“There’s something wrong with this show,” said Marcel, borrowing the comb and completing the thought.
“Well,” said Milena, picking a feather boa from a steamer trunk, “right or wrong, we’ve got to get to work. It’s showtime.”
BRUNO DID HIS BEST. On this, all the freaks would agree. He made a valiant effort. And if good intentions could fill a sideshow, the annex would have been a straw house that night. He helped each member of the clan up onto his or her particular stage, helped them get positioned, and assisted with props. He rolled down each curtain — the Jubilee had reasonably appropriate banners for a hermaphrodite, a female dwarf, and Siamese twins. The rest got velvet drapes without any illustration. No one complained and everyone hit the boards as confident professionals.
Everyone, that is, except for Bruno. Put him in a ring, on a field, and he would shine. He could box or wrestle three men at a time. He could break chains, heave boulders, hoist the largest livestock on the farm. But what he could not do was bark.
Bruno Seboldt was no salesman. Not so long ago, he would never have imagined a time in his life when this fact would constitute a problem. But tonight, in the country of Gehenna, in the town of Mach’pella, in the company of the Roving Jubilee, it was nothing short of a crippling disability. And he found himself utterly tongue-tied and, for the first time, genuinely fearful.
He stood at the annex entrance, choking in a bow tie, sweating under the band of a straw boater, a bamboo cane looking like a child’s toy in his hand. He tried to recite the patter that Milena had written for him but it was no use. The words he managed to remember came out stilted and ridiculous.
“Step right up,” he began. “See the world’s most astounding individuals. One small fee brings you face to face with eleven wonders of the universe.”
And by the second sentence, his tongue had swollen and his mouth had gone dry. He was perspiring desperately.
“See the human mule and the lobster girl,” he cried. “See the skeleton and the fat lady. See Vasco and Marcel, the Siamese twins.”
But it came out as if he were reading from a laundry list. And the marks just gave him a suspicious or angry look and walked right by. Inside, the freaks waited, not so patiently, to hear the familiar noise of bodies filing into the sideshow annex, the voices of braggadocio and wonder, the nervous quips and laughter. Now, all they heard was Bruno’s muffled and mangled attempts to bark up some business.
“The show starts in ten minutes,” the strongman called. “One price buys you eleven freaks. See the human torso. See the pinhead. See the chicken boy.”
But there were no takers. And this was a first. Bruno had traveled with circuses and carnivals all of his life. The freak show was the closest thing to a sure bet he’d ever encountered, through cities and villages, in good times and bad. The Goldfaden Freaks had drawn sell-out crowds all across Old Bohemia. Why weren’t they drawing them in at the Jubilee?
The answer was provided with gleeful hostility by Chief Shawnee, the Jubilee’s resident strongman. He approached Bruno minutes before showtime, peeked into the empty annex, and laughed, “Now that’s a damn shame,” though it was obvious that he relished the sight of the empty tent.
He held out a bottle to Bruno, who declined. The Chief shrugged and took his own swig, wiped his mouth with his forearm, and said, “You’re the worst talker I’ve ever seen.”
“It’s not my specialty,” Bruno agreed.
“Oh, that’s right,” said the Chief, “you’re with the shovel brigade, aren’t you?”
“I’m a strongman,” Bruno said, “just like you.”
“That right?” Micmac said, arching his brows and pulling down his jaw. “I heard you were a dung shoveler. I heard you were a lowlife, shitslinging gazonie.”
The sweat was pouring down Bruno’s face and he could feel the muscles in his neck starting to pulse. He took a breath and said, “You heard wrong, Chief,” throwing all the accent onto the last word and turning it into a mocking insult.
The Chief took a drink and gave a half laugh. “No need to be ashamed,” he said. “Every circus needs its dung slingers. Hell,” a pause to belch, “I’d even say it’s a step up from trying to sell a bunch of sham freaks.”
“They’re not shams,” Bruno snapped, too quickly. “They’re the real things.”
The Chief nodded condescendingly. “’Course they’re shams. Everyone knows they’re shams. Why do you think no one’s buying a ticket? They all remember the last time the Jubilee offered up some freaks. They were all bogus. Every one of them. Frauds, fakers, and phonies.”
Bruno stepped out from behind the ticket booth.
“My freaks,” he said, “are genuine.”
“Well, then,” the Chief said, “you won’t mind showing them to me.” And he lifted the flap and strolled into the annex.
Bruno followed him inside, unsure of what to do. It was showtime, even if there was no audience. And if he refused to display the freaks, it would seem as if he were afraid of exposing their fraudulence.
“C’mon,” the Chief said. “Bring up the curtains and let’s have a look at your needle and thread monsters.”
Conflicted and annoyed, Bruno stomped over to the riggings and took hold of all the tie-lines at once. Instead of bringing one curtain up at a time, the way the show was supposed to unfold, he yanked all of them up simultaneously. And the freaks were revealed together, in eleven dioramas: Chick behind pen fencing, Kitty among oversized furniture, Nadja laid out with conch shells and sea stones, Fatos next to a cardboard cactus, and so on.
The Chief was taken aback at first. He’d been hitting the bottle when the curtains went up and he spilled liquor down his chest at the sight of them. Bruno watched him bite his bottom lip and stare. Then he took a step closer and leaned his head forward and muttered something unintelligible. He moved over to the first stage, where Antoinette was posed on a wooden stool before a classroom backdrop. The Chief studied the pinhead for awhile, then began to walk from stage to stage.
He took his time, stroking his chin as he gaped, sometimes scratching at his head. The last stage belonged to Milena, who was posed on a loveseat, lounging in an elaborate costume that was half white silk nightgown and half black pajama shirt and pants.
The hecklers and the rowdies always saved their strength for the hermaphrodite. It had been the same back home. Milena had heard every comment and developed several standard responses. So when the Chief said, “You gonna’ show them to me?” Milena didn’t even think before s/he said, “Not till you show me yours first.”
“I’m not the freak,” said the Chief.
“We won’t know that,” said Milena, “until I get a good look.”
Bruno was ready to launch himself if the Chief made a move toward the stage. But it wasn’t necessary. Shawnee glared at Milena, threw a hand dismissively in the hermaphrodite’s direction and uttered a single, disgusted syllable.