The Traveling Death and Resurrection Show - Ariel Gore [14]
Barbaro sat in the front row, quiet-mesmerized.
Our last night on campus, he approached the cafeteria table where I sat with Madre, scarfing down a plateful of fried zucchini and drinking hot cider. He wore Carhart work pants and an old Ramones T-shirt. “It would please me greatly if I could spit fire for you,” he said. “But I am not permissed to do so inside.”
“What?”
His features reminded me of some prehistoric bird, nose curved, Adam’s apple pronounced, eyes deep chocolate colored and hopeful. He cleared his throat. “You have performed for my colleagues and I beautifully. Now, if you will permiss me, I would very much like to reciprocate. The only inconvenience is that you will have to come outside.”
Madre frowned, skeptical, but I tugged at her habit sleeve. “C’mon. We can finish our cider later.”
“You will not be disappointed,” Barbaro promised.
We left our steaming cups on the table, followed the stranger outside.
Under the three-quarter moon, he lit a torch. Madre and I huddled together against the January night as Barbaro gargled his lamp oil. He gestured for us to stand back, and we took a full step away before he exhaled his plume of fire.
Madre gasped.
I pulled her close to me as Barbaro let out a strange sound like an overused espresso machine. Flames poured from his nostrils.
“Where’d you learn to do that?”
He didn’t answer. “I read about your road show when I was still training to become a doctor in Italia, before I gave up medicine for drama. As soon as I came here to Ohio, I implored the theater group to locate your brigade. I believe I have what it takes to be a fellow traveler.”
I didn’t know quite what to say. His fire-breathing was impressive, to be sure, but I’d never had anyone audition for me point-blank like that. I looked at Madre.
She spoke slowly. “We would, of course, have to consult the others.”
“Yes, yes, of course.” Barbaro nodded.
“Can you perform for them?”
“Certainly.”
Magdelena and Tony had already retired to their cozy dorm rooms, didn’t want to be bothered with a sad star-struck Italian outside in the quad, but Madre managed to lure Magdelena to the late-night audition and I convinced Tony, saying, “It’s only polite. These people paid us really well and this guy’s the one who got them to do it.”
Tony couldn’t argue with me on that one. Most nights, we’d be lucky to bring in a hundred bucks between the four of us. We were walking away from Antioch well fed and well rested, with $500 each and another $500 for the troupe’s purse. Tony kicked back the comforter. “This better be banana-split-good,” he mumbled.
Outside, it had started to snow. Barbaro’s short dark hair looked almost gray under the flakes. “I do not want to presume,” he said as he lit his torch, “but I must tell you, ever since I read of your Death & Resurrection Show, I knew I should be a part of it. In so many ways, I was born to spit fire for you.”
The four of us stood in a semicircle as he gargled his lamp oil.
The snow fell from a black sky like weightless diamonds, and all at once—the wind roar—flames licked through the flurry.
Tony watched, captivated.
“He’s a fairy tale dragon,” Magdelena whispered.
We’d already planned a three-week break at a friend’s house outside Miami, told Barbaro as much, and in the morning we headed south where everything smelled of cut grass and the winter sun tinged our skin brown.
Our last day on the beach, the bird boy Barbaro showed up with his red and white canvas backpack. The sight of him made my heart flutter inexplicably. I looked down at his red Converse high-tops, wondered if he was gay, decided he wasn’t. “I hope you have not changed your minds about me,” he said, tilting his head to the side.
Barbaro the great fire-spitter