Dancing with Gravity Page 22

  “May I join you?”

  Whiting looked up to see Nikolai standing over him holding out two beers like a peace offering. Surprised, Whiting could only nod. He took one final swallow to empty his first bottle and accepted the beer Nikolai offered. Nikolai took a seat beside him, an empty chair between them. He, too, watched the women as they worked.

  “Did you enjoy the performance this evening?”

  “Quite a bit. But it had a different feel than before.”

  “How so?”

  “The elephant was missing. Hard to miss that one.”

  “Ah yes, the elephant in the room, the thing no one mentions.” The ghost of a smile passed over Nikolai’s mouth. “But Millefleurs and her handler will be happier in their new surroundings. I wish them well.”

  “The handler is gone? The blonde woman? Or the man with the pony tail?”

  “The man is with the elephant. The woman—she joined us only a few months ago—is away from both of them. And away from us. We want no part of her.”

  “When she hit the elephant, it made the audience hate her.”

  “People come to the circus to be amazed. They do not want to see suffering.”

  “Do the sisters know they’re gone?”

  “They arranged it.” Nikolai shot him an appraising glance. “Why does this surprise you?”

  “Is it safe, to leave here, I mean?” Even as he said these words, Whiting worried that he had revealed too much knowledge about the performers’ status.

  “Your concern is misplaced. It is better for the elephant to travel with its handler. They will stay together for a while, then perhaps the handler will move on—I do not know his journey. The woman, she’ll be fine. She was not a nice person.” Nikolai turned to face Whiting. “Not everyone is in danger, Samuel. Only a few.” The revelation came as a shock—as much for his cool delivery as for its content.

  “Nikolai, watch!” The boy he had instructed earlier now tossed five rings high into the air and juggled them for several seconds before ending his performance. Nikolai applauded, and the boy took a bow before rushing away.

  “He caught on quickly. I saw you working with him when I came in this evening.”

  “Jugglers are a breed apart. Once they master three rings, they want to juggle five, six—or more. They are always pushing themselves. Always looking to what is next.”

  “That’s a daunting view of the future.”

  “To be a successful juggler, you must practice until instinct takes over. It’s just like anything else you want to be good at. If you are not attentive, it will be ruined. The performance never ends.”

  “So everything is just a performance for you?”

  Nikolai gave Whiting an assessing look. “It’s how we live, Samuel. It’s the way of the circus.”

  The ring was now filled with voices, and Whiting watched as Sarah arrived carrying a cake. She took in the two men as she made her way to the table. After arranging plates and plastic ware, she turned toward them and smiled. Her eyes were bright, as if she had a secret—or had been drinking. She fixed a plate of food and joined several performers a few feet away.

  Alyiana emerged from the tunnel. As soon as she saw Nikolai, she crossed the ring to join him. She pulled up a chair facing him, stopping only to pull a bottle of beer from the ice. She handed the bottle to Nikolai and addressed him in Russian. He took the bottle from her and twisted off the cap, then handed it back. She leaned forward and spoke to him in low tones while touching his hands, his arms—intimate gestures they both seemed to expect and ignore. Whiting could not understand their language, but the sexual connotations were unmistakable. He wondered whether they had ever been romantically involved. He shifted in his seat and looked away.

  Sarah, Whiting noted, cast frequent, quick glances in Nikolai’s direction, but made no attempt to join him. Had they argued? Was she jealous of Alyiana? Whiting could not decide which idea intrigued him more. Far more accustomed to self-recrimination than revenge, he felt a small thrill at her suffering. He looked from Nikolai’s partner to Sarah and back again. Even though Sarah pretended great interest in the conversations around her, Whiting could tell she wasn’t engaged. Her attention was focused on Nikolai.

  Alyiana whispered something in Nikolai’s ear that made him smile. Whiting checked at once for Sarah’s reaction. Incandescent. That was the word that came to him. The way a headlight might grow suddenly brighter before going out. Her energy in Nikolai’s presence was exhilarating. But it had an edge that made him nervous. It was clear she desperately wanted Nikolai’s attention. Surely Nikolai must see it too. But what does he think of her? He studied Nikolai’s profile. So relaxed. But I suspect you’re far more complicated than others suspect. Or is it all an act, just “the way of the circus?”

  Just then, Sarah threw back her head and laughed—a sound both harsh and artificial. Whiting turned back to the trapeze artist to check his reaction. Alyiana placed her hand on Nikolai’s thigh. Whiting’s discomfort increased—he felt himself a voyeur. Worse, he felt invisible.

  “Excuse me,” he said, although he did not think that either Nikolai or Alyiana even heard him. As he turned away, a hand clapped him on the back.

  “There you are, Father.” Anjo held a bottle of Grappa as he spoke. “I was afraid you’d be gone by now. Forgive me for taking so long.”

  “Actually I was just getting ready to leave. I’ve had a long week.”

  “We haven’t seen you for three weeks. We were beginning to think you didn’t care.” Anjo exaggerated his sadness, like a clown. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair still dripping from his shower.

  “Come, Father…please. You must have some of my wife’s feijoada.”

  “Feijoada? I’ve never heard of it.”

  “Ah, then you must try it. It is a delicious stew made with beans, beef, and pork over rice; in Brazil, it is our national dish. Don’t tell Rose, but her feijoada is really why I married her.” Anjo offered a knowing wink, then led him to the table. Someone handed Whiting a plate and a glass of wine—the first of several plates and many drinks that followed.

  As the evening progressed, it seemed that his glass was always being refilled.

  Through the lens of his drunkenness, Whiting studied the performers. Shy, even charming, they laughed easily and seemed to truly care for one another. He was delighted to be in their midst, and as the alcohol wore down his defenses, he relaxed and found himself enjoying the evening.

  This is so unlike my life at the hospital. When Whiting attended group lunches or the rare evening event to mark some special occasion with staff from St. Theresa’s, he never relaxed. People would sit stiffly at long tables, wondering who would be the first to step out of the office identity and give others license to do the same. If anyone revealed too much or drank to excess, the others dissected it for days, their gossip tastier than the leftovers they carried to work in their nylon lunch sacks.

  The conversation in the tent grew louder as the evening passed and the performers traded stories. Anjo catalogued a trip through Southern Mexico that was plagued with mishaps. Through an involved series of events that Whiting could not quite track, no one had remembered to buy gas for the generators. The problem was not discovered until the fuel ran out and the tent was plunged into darkness during a show. One of the clowns laughed so hard that tears ran down his face as Anjo acted out siphoning gas from the performers’ trucks while their audience waited in the dark.

  The circus people came and went, brought wine or photographs to share. Each photo inspired a story. Helena, one of the acrobats in the equestrian act, sat at Whiting’s right and offered a brief explanation of each photograph as she passed it off to him.

  “This is Mila. She’s with Big Apple Circus now. This is my cousin Tini. He’s driving trucks until his ankle heals.”

  Nikolai was now sitting across from Whiting. When had he moved? Had he left and returned? He, too, handed off several photographs, but without introduction. Helena told W
hiting that the images were from Nikolai’s tour with Cirque de LaSalle in southern France. One photograph showed him in a mid-air somersault between two swings. Another showed Nikolai and a partner in white sequined costumes. They stood in the spotlight in the center of the ring, arms raised. The woman in the photograph was not Alyiana. Whiting leaned closer to make sure.

  “Who is this?” He looked across the circle to Nikolai. Several others laughed, as though he’d made a joke. “No really. Who is this?” he persisted.

  “A younger version of me.” said Nikolai.

  “But the woman?”

  “My former partner. My ex-wife.”

  Whiting blinked. Sarah had never mentioned an ex-wife. He wanted to see her reaction, but he did not have a clear line of vision. He passed the pictures to his left.

  Helena took up the next set of photographs and offered them to Whiting. In the first one, Nikolai and his wife danced among other couples. He held her close. She was smiling as she stared into his eyes. She was slim with fine, sharp features and dark hair. In the next photograph Nikolai stood behind her and kissed her neck. Her head was thrown back in laughter. She was beautiful. Other people’s outlines showed in the background, but Nikolai and his wife were at the center. They seemed to glow. The others in the photograph who watched them appeared pale and uninteresting by comparison.

  Whiting scrutinized the image as though there was something he should understand, something hidden he couldn’t quite grasp. There was happiness in the photograph—the happiness of lovers. But there was something else as well—something that took him out of the moment. Tension? Nikolai must have known that all eyes were on them as they faced the camera. The performance never ends. Whiting realized he had been staring too long at the photograph and handed it to his left. Just then he looked up to see that Sarah was gathering her things. Nikolai remained in his chair and did not seem to notice her, but Whiting was sure the snub was deliberate. He could not have been more intrigued.

  Helena crossed to the table to get more wine. Someone asked for beer and two of the acrobats went to their trailers for more. Three clowns to Whiting’s left conversed in low, rapid Spanish. The others had already left.

  Whiting decided it was time for him to go, too. He thought he felt Nikolai’s eyes on him as he mumbled his goodnights and crossed the ring with the slow, deliberate movements of the intoxicated.

  Outside, the air was cool and helped revive him. Sarah, he knew, was gone. He stood a long time in the darkness, then made his way slowly to his car, which sat alone in the deserted lot.

  As he drove to his apartment, Whiting considered the events of the evening. So many conversations. Everyone talking at once. As his drunkenness had increased, the performers’ faces had grown surreal. I shouldn’t have had so much to drink. I should have said no, switched to something else. Scenes from the party came back to him, but the conversations were a jumble. What did we talk about? He remembered the photographs and Nikolai sitting slightly back from the group. He always does that—withdraws without being obvious. Or just enough to be noticed? An image of Nikolai arose in his mind’s eye, obscured by the shadows, smiling.

  Whiting felt lightheaded as he made his way to the kitchen. How many drinks did I have? Five? More? Stumbling, he walked to the sink and poured a glass of water. He fumbled with the lid on his vitamins, popped the top off the aspirin bottle, and scattered capsules across the counter top. With deliberate care, he counted out three aspirin and a vitamin, threw back his head and swallowed them all with a long drink before heading toward the bedroom. Weaving, he put his arms out against the corridor walls to steady himself. Did Sarah know I was getting drunk? Did Nikolai? He stripped and dropped his clothes on the floor as he made his way to the bed. I should get up and put my clothes away. The pillow was cool against his face. Did I say happy birthday to Leah and Joseph’s son? He pulled the covers over his shoulder. I shouldn’t have had so much to drink ….

  Whiting was falling, slowly tumbling forward and sideways, immersed in a wave of grief. He picked up speed, tumbling faster, falling deeper into the darkness—the darkness that always hung at the edges, just beyond his peripheral vision.

  He was jolted awake. The sensation of falling disappeared, but he was filled with overwhelming grief and anxiety. What did I dream? He waited. Nothing. Usually his dreams gave him great comfort and he could call up precise details from them, but now he couldn’t remember anything. Did I dream, or just replay the images from the day, from the party? He closed his eyes and tried to think, to remember the evening, but nothing came. I am losing my dreams. And for what? Why can’t I remember?

  Damp with sweat, he threw back his blanket and lay there in the darkness, filled with remorse. Why did I drink so much? What did I say? What did I do? Did I embarrass myself? Reveal too much? His heart beat faster, and he sat up. I need air. I’ve got to get up. He decided to shower and go in early to work. It will be light soon. I can last until then.

  He moved a stack of books away from the front of his digital radio to check the time. Several of the books fell to the floor. 3:00 a.m. His heart sank. The night closed in on him as a feeling of dread, of hopelessness, seized him.

  I should not … I must not drink. He rolled onto his side, bent his knees, and curled into a ball. I will never drink again, if only I can endure this night. How many times had he spent the night awake and alone praying—promising—that tomorrow would be different? Yet he always betrayed his promises. All at once, he remembered that it was Saturday. No work … no place I have to be …. Relief and resignation flooded over him. He sighed deeply and closed his eyes.

  He stood in the line at the entrance to the Duomo. The day was warm, and the press of the crowd was unbearable. A wooden partition divided the arriving and departing tourists. The sun glared in the sky, but inside, the church was dark. As he entered, he had to wait to regain his vision. Once he did, he realized he was in line to climb to the church’s dome. A large man with a hard expression took his money and handed him a ticket. He stared down at the ticket in his hand. It was beautiful: an intricate design of colors and perforations on slick paper. The ticket seller banged on the side of his wooden booth to motion him onward. He was confused, unprepared. He looked toward the entrance to the stairs. He didn’t move. The man in the booth spoke angrily, but Whiting couldn’t hear him. There was no sound, just the man’s heated gestures. Whiting turned and saw the line of people clotted behind him, glaring, impatient for him to move forward, waiting for him to climb the stairs. He looked again toward the entrance and realized the act of going forward required a level of courage he did not possess. Embarrassed, he stepped aside and let half a dozen young people move ahead. But the darkened opening beckoned to him, and he found himself moving toward it. He hesitated again. The staircase was dark and steep—its stones smoothly slumped in the center, testament to the thousands of pilgrims who came before him. He reached out his hand. The iron handrail was damp and rough on his palm as he pulled himself up the darkened passageway. The stairwell echoed with the shuffling steps of unseen others. The line stretched ahead and behind in the darkness. The stairs wound around, wide and narrow. He put one foot in front of the other and began to climb. His heart pounded; he began to perspire. Voices reverberated on the stone walls. He struggled to maintain his pace, but those behind him pressed into him, pushing him forward. There wasn’t enough oxygen. His breath came in short, shallow gasps. If he had a heart attack, there would be no way to get help in time. He tried to cry out, to tell everyone to stop pushing, but no sound came. His mouth was open, empty, dry. The passage narrowed as it rose, and the ancient stone walls closed in on him like a tomb. He gagged and tasted the bile in the back of his throat.

  Whiting woke with a start, then checked his clock radio. 4:30. He got up and stumbled toward the bathroom. I need a sleeping pill. Just one—half a pill at least. A noise from his kitchen stopped him. He froze. Waited. Listened. He wanted to run back to the bedroom and barricade the door, but
he knew there was nothing in the kitchen, nothing to fear. Detesting his own cowardice, he forced himself to continue down the hall.

  He crossed to the bathroom and flipped on the light. The white tile shone with blinding brilliance, and he groaned and shielded his eyes. “I’ve got to get this alcohol out of my system.” His voice seemed too loud in the small room. With one hand over his eyes as if braving the midday sun, he took a bottle of sleeping pills from the medicine chest and squinted at the label. Do not take with alcohol. He stuck the bottle back on the shelf and went into the kitchen.

  Scattered aspirin still lay on the counter and he scooped up a couple, poured another glass of water and swallowed the pills all at once. They stuck in his throat and he quickly took another long drink. I have to change. This is no good. He set the glass in the sink. Things are not as bad as they once were. It was a fragment of conversation from the evening. Who said it? Why? He winced. Overcome by exhaustion, he turned out the light and went back to bed. He was in no condition to go to St. Margaret’s for Mass.

  Whiting opened the orange plastic bottle and peered inside at the intensely blue, oval pills. He set the bottle, with the cap resting carefully on top, back on the windowsill.

  “What are these pills for?”

  “I don’t know.” Lillian said. “The doctor didn’t say.”

  He looked up when she said this, but she was busy with the pots at the stove, so he went back to studying her other medications. “Did the blue ones replace the orange ones? I don’t see them here.”

  “The price went up, so I didn’t get them filled. It’s okay; I take enough pills as it is.”

  Whiting could hardly believe her casual announcement. “Please, Mama, never do that. If you’d only call me, I’d get them for you.”

  “I didn’t need to call you. I decided not to take them.”

  “You can’t just decide to not take your medicines.”