Rain Village - Carolyn Turgeon [106]
If I had I seen her, I thought, I might have been able to save her.
PART THREE
CHAPTER NINETEEN
A few years after Geraldine’s visit, during the beginning of my seventh season with the Velasquez Circus, a breeze rose up in the south of Mexico and swept over the Mayan ruins and up the coastline, carrying the scents of clove and cinnamon into the southern states. Clothes hanging out on lines dried instantly. People stepped out of showers, reached for their towels, and found their whole bodies had gone dry. Women could no longer wear skirts in the street. The trees whipped about, tossing their heads, while flower petals spun off their stems and into the air. People began sprinkling hot chocolate with cinnamon and brewing vats of cider to satisfy the cravings the spiced air left them with. In the Velasquez Circus, we looked up and wondered at the flapping canvas, the Ferris wheel spinning too fast, the slight swaying of the train on the tracks. The scent wafted over our bodies and seeped into our skin. I was plagued by strange dreams every night, the kind that trickle into your waking life and unsettle you. We all grew restless, and took to wandering the lots and towns during the day instead of gathering in the cookhouse.
I was affected more than anyone, I think. A cough and a fever forced me to cancel performances for the first time ever and take to my bed. Mauro held me as I moaned and cried, as I writhed in my sleep and held up my arms to protect my face from lashing rain, from sweet smoke curling into my mouth and choking me.
Mauro shut all the windows and locked them, but still the breeze pushed its way into our car and under the blankets. Mauro packed me in as tightly as he could, but nothing helped. The breeze rubbed up on me like a cat. The spice scent crept into every pore on my skin, every strand of my hair.
I stayed in bed without moving. I could not even enter the ring, let alone curl my hands around the corde lisse. Lollie could not perform either, and Geraldo was forced to go out in the ring alone—though without her he just swung through the air uselessly, stretching out his arms to empty space. The audiences complained so much and grew so belligerent that Mr. Velasquez was forced to reduce ticket prices by as much as half.
There was nothing I could do. Mauro would sing and whisper to make me sleep, but I’d bolt awake from nightmares filled with dread and loss. I’d wake with my heart pounding in my chest, and the breeze would rustle through the sheets like an intruder. Mauro could not even touch me; he’d take my hands in his and then drop them as if they were two suns. He brought all my meals to me—plates of beans or shredded beef I left sitting on the table untouched—and he read me stories and poems. Carlos came by, too, to read, and his voice was so seductive and the stories told through it so riveting that I knew once and for all how he was able to capture all those women’s hearts, in every town we passed through.
The fever lasted for three weeks, as long as the breeze whisked through the circus and back again, trailing the scents of spices and stirring up longings of every kind. Mauro took to the bed with me some nights, nuzzled his face into my neck, and spoke of Mexico. Clementine fell into bed and dreamt of water; Ana dreamt of perfect white horses galloping as fast as light.
José was one of the worst afflicted. Clara haunted his dreams mercilessly and followed him throughout the day.