The Traveling Death and Resurrection Show - Ariel Gore [4]
“Well, yes,” the man said. “I’d like to sleep with you, Clarisse.”
Julian’s face reddened. The nerve!
But Clarisse just smiled. “Let me show you the bed.”
Julian clenched his teeth. Penance, he whispered to himself. Sometimes life is all about penance.
Clarisse said good-night to her husband and went to join the tired stranger, but she found the bed empty.
From outside, they heard the traveler’s voice: “You have been tested. Your sins are forgiven.” Then the angel vanished, leaving the couple so bewildered they hardly knew where they were.
Forgiven, Julian and Clarisse carried on with their lives of service, ferrying travelers across the river and harboring the road-weary.
Late one night, moonlight bathing their tiny room in a silvery iridescence, thieves broke in and killed them both with a single blow. But travel to that river crossing even today and you’ll find nothing but miracles. Anywhere you are in the world, if you need shelter, just think of Julian and Clarisse. Say a quick paternoster, and you’ll find what you need.
Patron saint of innkeepers and traveling performers, Julian will serve you well. Say thanks by giving away something you can’t imagine living without. Trade all your weapons of violence and privilege for musical instruments, and welcome the winds of change into your small world.
Back at the River Theater an hour before showtime, I unfurl the indigo backdrop, help Barbaro move platforms.
Paula rigs ropes and swings. “It’s brilliant to be in a real theater,” she sighs.
The place isn’t huge, seats maybe a hundred, but it smells of old upholstery and fresh paint. A real theater. Most nights, Paula hangs the trapeze from café ceiling beams or hauls out the freestanding rig. We perform over the hiss and roar of espresso machines and the clink of beer glasses. Tonight Tony sits at the edge of the stage, testing his amps, serious-excited. Lupe braids her hair into a long rope. Madre Pia calls out directions from the back of the house: “That platform needs to be angled to the right. I’d turn your volume up, Tony. Lupe? You’ll set your booth up in the lobby?”
Even the baby feels important. He dances and spins onstage, belting out the Sesame Street theme song. The baby. I guess he’s not so little anymore. It hardly seems more than a few rainy months since he joined us—a double-chinned infant attached only to his mother’s tit, oblivious to both the newness and boredom of the road. Time boggles the mind. Little tubster, he turned four in March, knows the show by heart. He stands boldly against this knotted world we all pray against prayer will somehow rise to meet his enthusiasm for it. “To get to Sesame Street!” He applauds for himself, takes a bow.
Backstage, I trade my jeans and T-shirt for a loose white dress, futz with my hair. Should I wear it up or down? It actually looks better up, but I think I look younger with it down, so I leave it brushing my shoulders. How many years did I spend waiting for my life to start, only to be reduced to longing for those waiting years at the first sign of age?
Magdelena spreads a thick layer of foundation over her porcelain skin, paints her plum lips, pulls her blond hair into a tight ponytail. Her lit cigarette balances on the edge of a black makeup table. “Too bad we’re only here one night,” she says, then knocks back a shot of brandy, picks up her cigarette, and flicks the ash into her empty glass. “We could do a real run in a theater like this.”
I reach to borrow her Great Lash.
A real run. If only we could froth up the crowds for it. A town of ten thousand—even a generous town of ten thousand—can’t be expected to sit through more than a night or two of miracles.
“You ever get the feeling that your destiny is way bigger than the life you’re living?” Magdelena asks. She’s been coming up with Big Questions ever since she turned thirty. “I used to think that destiny just happened—like you couldn’t control it one way or the other—but what if it’s possible to just completely miss your boat?” She applies her kohl eyeliner with the precision of a calligrapher.