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“Perhaps you could give me some tips on my technique now, sir,” I said, which was a little deceitful on my part, for I really wanted to show off. But you catch more flies with honey, so they say.
The smooth practice must have mellowed Mr. Rose. “Oh, go ahead,” he said.
“Wait, I’ll get my knives,” I said, almost bouncing like a child.
“Well, make it snappy,” said Mr. Rose. “I want some luncheon.”
Uncle Jack’s gifts were splendid. They flew from my fingers like cupid’s arrows headed straight for love, and I hit the target from much farther away than I had ever done before. I bowed to Mr. Rose with a flourish and couldn’t keep a grin from my face.
“Quite good,” said Mr. Rose. The words were delivered like an offhand slap and drove my smile away. “You have a rather plain style, though.”
“But I got excellent distance, did I not?” I asked, dismayed to hear a quaver in my voice.
“Distance isn’t what they want; they want thrills. Thrills and not kills. You can’t get the accuracy you need to trace a live target from that far away.”
“Perhaps I can,” I answered, my dander up.
“You’d best learn how not to hit your subject at a sensible range before you try that sort of grandstanding,” Mr. Rose said. “Now, find yourself a good evening suit so you can look presentable with your back to the target.”
“I have one, thank you,” I snapped, and I walked off before I said something I’d regret.
By the time I was waiting for my cue in the small tent near the back door of the big top, I had regained my composure. I wore my good suit and thought I made a dashing figure. Mr. Rose hadn’t made an appearance yet, and I hoped fervently that he wasn’t keeping company with a bottle.
Performers bustled this way and that through the open staging area, in and out from behind screens. They fiddled with ribbons and bootlaces, conferred about last-minute changes, or sat for the application of stage makeup. I thought I might be the only one apart from all this purposeful chaos, until I saw an apparition. The sweetest young lady I could imagine stood like a still and silent mirage amid all the activity. She wore an innocent pink confection—a cap-sleeved peasant blouse and short bloomers combined into one with smocking at her tiny waist. Red tights clothed her legs, and on her feet were pink ballet slippers with ribbons that tied halfway up her most attractive calves. Around her upper arms and her throat were ribbon bows to match. Her long, dark hair was secured in a knot at the nape of her neck.
Her compatriots, three men and a boy, wore yellow shorts and red waistcoats over their leotards, and fancy matching calf shields above soft leather boots. By these costumes I recognized them as the trapeze artists. Her partners bantered with one another in a guttural language I didn’t recognize. They laughed, clapped one another’s backs, and ignored the girl beside them, who looked to be their little sister. She gazed about her with huge, dark eyes in a solemn face, and she seemed lonely.
Ah, this is the foreign girl I’m fated to love, I thought half seriously. She didn’t look the sort to be scornful and cruel, like the equestrienne, so I drew up the courage to approach her. Surely no one would mind with her brothers standing right there, and she looked like she needed a friend.
“Hello, my name’s Abel Dandy,” I prepared to say. “I’m new to the show. Would you take pity on a stranger and offer me conversation?”
Her eyes grew even larger as I walked up, and her lovely lips parted in surprise. I gulped down the tremor that her lips invoked in me, and squeaked, “Hello,” like a fool.
“Marika?” One of those brothers turned our way. He glared at me and nudged the man next to him.
“Are you annoying my sister?” asked the first.
“No, sir, truly,” I answered.
“How dare you,” said another brother, and moved toward me.
I stepped back involuntarily. “Sorry, sir. I was being friendly.”
“We decide who is friendly to our sister,” said the first brother.
“Do we have to teach you manners?” asked a third.
“No, sir.” I backed away another step. Marika gave me a little, hesitant smile and glanced anxiously at her brothers in case they had seen. Well, all the girls weren’t stuck up, then, I decided, but how did one talk to them? I beat a retreat right into Mr. Rose.
Mr. Rose bent double with laughter and slapped his thigh. “Leave the virgins alone, young Dandy,” he wheezed. “Find yourself a married lady with a busy husband.”
Catching me in an uncomfortable predicament put Mr. Rose in a good mood. He acted quite chummy with me before we went on to perform, and I was relieved to note he didn’t smell of whiskey. “Always enter the ring with your right foot,” he told me. “It’s good luck.” He managed to put a reasonable distance between his knives and me during the act, and after the show he invited me along to sup with him. I was glad of the company, even though I didn’t much like him. Supper proved quite bearable, except we had to listen to the elephant trainer complain endlessly that someone had taken one of his beasts out for a walk again without his permission and given all of the elephants treats. More than once Mr. Rose rolled his eyes.
I fell asleep that night to thoughts of the pretty trapeze artist, but the dancing girl strode up to me with a face like a petulant flower and placed her hands on her hips.
“Stay away from that girl,” she demanded. “You are mine.”
7
