Rain Village - Carolyn Turgeon [92]
The cookhouse was the real gathering place in the train; other than that, people met in each other’s rooms or just slept until we reached the next town, where groups of us descended upon the local pubs or just sat around outside by a bonfire, talking about everything: the shows, the crowds, the other circuses hitting the same towns on the same routes. It was a small world, I would discover, with many performers moving between the circuses and sideshows of the various companies. Staying with the Velasquez Circus year after year, the Vadalas and Ramirezes were more the exception than the rule.
Once we settled into the first lot, I tried to keep myself busy every second. I pitched in with everyone else to raise the big top, toss sawdust over the ground, and assemble the tangle of wires and ropes and hooks and poles that would fuel the show. I wandered through the lot as the sideshow hucksters set up their own tents and the cookhouse workers set pots of soups and stew to boiling. All the while I just heard the beating of my heart, the pounding that counted down the seconds and minutes and hours before I would perform for the first time.
The day before the show Lollie insisted on running me through my routine for hours to make sure I hadn’t lost momentum with the traveling and setup, all the new people milling around, curious to catch sight of me in the big top.
“I’m okay,” I kept telling her. “I know the routine. I want to do the flying trapeze.”
“You’re not ready,” she said.
“Next season maybe,” Paulo said, and my heart swelled with disappointment.
I ran through my Roman rings act and practiced the swing-overs. To my surprise, more and more of a crowd gathered in the bleachers just to watch me. It hadn’t really hit me yet, I suppose, that anyone outside my small circle would even care, despite the posters, despite the twenty-dollar-a-week salary Mr. Velasquez had agreed to after some hard negotiations with Carlos.
That first morning on the lot, I ran through my swing-over act, then sidled down to the floor, only to see the entire Vadala family staring at me and clapping from the bleachers.
“Brava!” Gregorio, the family patriarch, called out. “Bellissima!”
“She’s something else, no?” Lollie called out, laughing.
I was delighted and overwhelmed by the attention. As Mauro continually told me, I would get used to it over time.
Later that afternoon I was flipping around on the rings and then steadied myself into an iron cross. Suddenly I caught sight of something glinting from the bleachers, and looked down to see Clementine, the bird girl, staring up at me. I faltered for a second, then dropped to a hanging position.
“What’s wrong?” Lollie asked immediately, rushing up to me.
“Nothing,” I said, trying to lift myself back up but unable to. My heart pounded and I could feel my whole body flushing. It took so little to bring the old shame back.
Lollie glanced over and saw immediately what had affected me.
“Come on, sweetheart,” she laughed, under her breath. “Don’t let that get to you. It was so long ago.”
But Clementine sat there like a beautiful movie goddess, like one of those stars with pale skin and pale hair, bright red lips, and a full, languorous body. I dropped to the ground, out of breath.
“Tessa,” Lollie said, putting her arm around me, placing a hand on my horrified, cringing face. “Tessa!”
“Don’t let them see me,” I whispered, burying my face in her. “Please take me out of here.”
I don’t know how long Clementine ended up sitting there, or if she even had any idea what had happened. Lollie sighed and walked out of the big top with me, into the afternoon.
“What the hell is going on?” Paulo demanded, striding out after us. “What