table. He remembered those days as happy ones, some calm equilibrium between the expectations of his youth and the quieter life to come. In his mind it existed as a perpetual summer, though surely it was longer than a summer’s length. He walked home every night through the golden dying light of the solstice, the feel of round, weighty objects in his fingers, and found Françoise, freshly showered and dressed in something loose, pouring wine into clear glasses.
It ended soon enough. He scarred a marble floor when a wrench slipped through his fingers, and a week later he’d taken out a chandelier with a piece of pipe that flew unexpectedly high.
He’d had to pay for that one, and he’d nearly been fired. That was the end of his on-the-job performances. He was back to solid plumbing, though his fingers itched now with the urge to toss small objects in the air. At home he juggled everything: eggs and 64
The Secrets of a Fire King
bananas, matching bars of soap, the teacups Françoise’s parents gave them when they fi nally married. The great restlessness that had entered him grew into an obsession. He exercised rigorously, morning and night, horrified by the slow softening of his fl esh. He arrived home before Françoise and waited, some wild position trembling in his mind. Come, he’d say, as soon as her key was in the lock. He took her hand and led her to the practice mats, without giving her a chance to rest or shower or even put down her purse. Come, let’s try this. He became obsessed with the thought of making love in a headstand. When Françoise, exhausted from a day of teaching, slipped or fell, he lost his temper. He knew it was irrational, but he felt as though everything depended on it, suddenly, that if they could not achieve this thing together then everything else would be lost.
“We have to do something about this,” Françoise said, fi nally.
They were lying on the practice mats, and Marc was turned away from her, his arms hugged close to his body. In his state of mind those days, he thought she meant they should be divorced.
“Marc,” she said, touching his shoulder with her callous and chalk-smoothed palm. “Marc, you have to get your life back. This is what I think.” She had stood up, pulling on a black silk robe with a dragon embroidered on the back.
And so it had begun, their troupe. Over the years the other members had changed, grown younger or older, more or less skilled. Drunkards had been fired, a woman who was fl awless in practice but who shattered things in front of an audience was also fired. But always, at the center of it all, were he and Françoise.
They went to nearby towns and villages, they performed for the children of the wealthy. Françoise kept her job as an instructor, and he was a plumber all week long. But on the weekends they were transformed, masters of a balancing act they had sustained for fourteen years.
Now it was Françoise who needed to continue. Eight months ago she had been retired as an instructor, promoted into the management of the school. The day she received this news she had stood before her three-sided mirror for a long time, fl exing muscle Balance
65
after muscle and glancing back and forth, from flesh to glass.
Then she had turned away sharply, closing the mirrored wings across the flat center piece. She had bought six new suits and had never mentioned her promotion again. Three days later she had found Peter tossing urns in the park, and had invited him to join the troupe.
Peter’s youthful presence had forced Marc to look around. He noticed that the sword dancer was slower than others had been and that Frank, the magician, was growing fat. He wondered how much longer they could continue. Yet Françoise showed no signs of stopping. Marc imagined them years from now, he juggling bi-focals, false teeth, pill bottles, all the evidence of his age, while Françoise twirled on the trapeze, her hair a blaze of white against the vivid sky.
The
It ended soon enough. He scarred a marble floor when a wrench slipped through his fingers, and a week later he’d taken out a chandelier with a piece of pipe that flew unexpectedly high.
He’d had to pay for that one, and he’d nearly been fired. That was the end of his on-the-job performances. He was back to solid plumbing, though his fingers itched now with the urge to toss small objects in the air. At home he juggled everything: eggs and 64
The Secrets of a Fire King
bananas, matching bars of soap, the teacups Françoise’s parents gave them when they fi nally married. The great restlessness that had entered him grew into an obsession. He exercised rigorously, morning and night, horrified by the slow softening of his fl esh. He arrived home before Françoise and waited, some wild position trembling in his mind. Come, he’d say, as soon as her key was in the lock. He took her hand and led her to the practice mats, without giving her a chance to rest or shower or even put down her purse. Come, let’s try this. He became obsessed with the thought of making love in a headstand. When Françoise, exhausted from a day of teaching, slipped or fell, he lost his temper. He knew it was irrational, but he felt as though everything depended on it, suddenly, that if they could not achieve this thing together then everything else would be lost.
“We have to do something about this,” Françoise said, fi nally.
They were lying on the practice mats, and Marc was turned away from her, his arms hugged close to his body. In his state of mind those days, he thought she meant they should be divorced.
“Marc,” she said, touching his shoulder with her callous and chalk-smoothed palm. “Marc, you have to get your life back. This is what I think.” She had stood up, pulling on a black silk robe with a dragon embroidered on the back.
And so it had begun, their troupe. Over the years the other members had changed, grown younger or older, more or less skilled. Drunkards had been fired, a woman who was fl awless in practice but who shattered things in front of an audience was also fired. But always, at the center of it all, were he and Françoise.
They went to nearby towns and villages, they performed for the children of the wealthy. Françoise kept her job as an instructor, and he was a plumber all week long. But on the weekends they were transformed, masters of a balancing act they had sustained for fourteen years.
Now it was Françoise who needed to continue. Eight months ago she had been retired as an instructor, promoted into the management of the school. The day she received this news she had stood before her three-sided mirror for a long time, fl exing muscle Balance
65
after muscle and glancing back and forth, from flesh to glass.
Then she had turned away sharply, closing the mirrored wings across the flat center piece. She had bought six new suits and had never mentioned her promotion again. Three days later she had found Peter tossing urns in the park, and had invited him to join the troupe.
Peter’s youthful presence had forced Marc to look around. He noticed that the sword dancer was slower than others had been and that Frank, the magician, was growing fat. He wondered how much longer they could continue. Yet Françoise showed no signs of stopping. Marc imagined them years from now, he juggling bi-focals, false teeth, pill bottles, all the evidence of his age, while Françoise twirled on the trapeze, her hair a blaze of white against the vivid sky.
The
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