rattling of carts woke him from his pleasant drowsing in the sun, and he looked up. Their lockers were being wheeled across the park. He saw the trunks come fi rst, containing equipment and costumes. Then came the trapeze, dismantled into long poles and bars and ropes. It took four men to carry it, balanced on their shoulders. Finally three men followed carrying the large boxes marked fragile. These were Peter’s porcelain urns, packed in layers of bubble plastic. The man before had used ordinary urns, the cheapest he could find, but Peter poked around in an-tique shops and flea markets, looking for pieces that would make the audience gasp as they floated through the air. Between shows he was very careful of them, treating them delicately, hovering anxiously around as they were unpacked.
Marc stood up from his bench, stretched, and followed the men at a distance across the diagonal of the park. As he had anticipated, they stopped at the edge of the square, at the junction of the two bricked streets, and began to unpack and measure, pausing now and then to point at the sky. In a while the trapeze would go up and Marc would climb up to test it, to check the sway and balance. But now he was hungry. He went into a cafe on the corner and ordered a cheese sandwich and tomato soup, taking some kind of reassurance from the ordinary food.
66
The Secrets of a Fire King
When he came out, Françoise and the others were already there. They were all dressed in sweatsuits and tennis shoes, but already Françoise stood at a slight distance from the others, a distance that marked her as the star. And it was true—though they had started the troupe together, it was because of Françoise that it continued. The man who could balance Oriental urns on the nape of his neck or the bridge of his nose, the man whose dancing partner was a bright flashing sword hugged close to his body, the man who could stand on half a dozen eggs without crushing them—all these came together because of Françoise. Every crowd knew this before she ever appeared. The trapeze hung above all the other acts, swaying in the slight breeze that came through the city streets.
Even when Peter threw the delicate urn, its pattern of blue and white spinning to a blur as it rose and fell again, all eyes lingered on the empty trapeze. This was why they came, this was what they waited for. And Françoise was very good. She didn’t disappoint them.
Now she was tugging the stabilizing rope of the trapeze into place, glancing up occasionally to gauge the angle. Marc did the same on the other side, and after a moment she climbed the rope ladder and lifted her weight onto the bar. Swinging, she turned her head and frowned slightly, as if listening to some barely audi-ble vibration. Then she called down to him and had him pull his supporting rope six inches tighter.
When she was on the ground again he went over and put his hand on her shoulder.
“Are you all right today, darling?” he asked, thinking, even as he spoke, that it was a mistake to say this. She had repaired her makeup, and she turned her face toward him. There was a knack she had of making herself go expressionless. He’d seen it countless times when she climbed up to the bar, a smile on her lips but the eyes, if you looked closely, unreadable. She was like that now. Gazing at the straight, emphasized eyebrows, the mouth touched with orange, the eyes clear and edged with black, he had the impression he was looking at a mime. Hers was a face capable of assuming any expression, but for the moment it revealed nothing, nothing at all.
Balance
67
“Of course I’m all right,” she said. The small smile. “Shouldn’t you be getting ready?” She looked at her watch. “We’ll start in just a quarter of an hour.”
There was always an instant when Marc, wearing green tights and a green felt hat, perched on a unicycle with balls and eggs tucked all through his clothes, felt he could not go through with it. He
Marc stood up from his bench, stretched, and followed the men at a distance across the diagonal of the park. As he had anticipated, they stopped at the edge of the square, at the junction of the two bricked streets, and began to unpack and measure, pausing now and then to point at the sky. In a while the trapeze would go up and Marc would climb up to test it, to check the sway and balance. But now he was hungry. He went into a cafe on the corner and ordered a cheese sandwich and tomato soup, taking some kind of reassurance from the ordinary food.
66
The Secrets of a Fire King
When he came out, Françoise and the others were already there. They were all dressed in sweatsuits and tennis shoes, but already Françoise stood at a slight distance from the others, a distance that marked her as the star. And it was true—though they had started the troupe together, it was because of Françoise that it continued. The man who could balance Oriental urns on the nape of his neck or the bridge of his nose, the man whose dancing partner was a bright flashing sword hugged close to his body, the man who could stand on half a dozen eggs without crushing them—all these came together because of Françoise. Every crowd knew this before she ever appeared. The trapeze hung above all the other acts, swaying in the slight breeze that came through the city streets.
Even when Peter threw the delicate urn, its pattern of blue and white spinning to a blur as it rose and fell again, all eyes lingered on the empty trapeze. This was why they came, this was what they waited for. And Françoise was very good. She didn’t disappoint them.
Now she was tugging the stabilizing rope of the trapeze into place, glancing up occasionally to gauge the angle. Marc did the same on the other side, and after a moment she climbed the rope ladder and lifted her weight onto the bar. Swinging, she turned her head and frowned slightly, as if listening to some barely audi-ble vibration. Then she called down to him and had him pull his supporting rope six inches tighter.
When she was on the ground again he went over and put his hand on her shoulder.
“Are you all right today, darling?” he asked, thinking, even as he spoke, that it was a mistake to say this. She had repaired her makeup, and she turned her face toward him. There was a knack she had of making herself go expressionless. He’d seen it countless times when she climbed up to the bar, a smile on her lips but the eyes, if you looked closely, unreadable. She was like that now. Gazing at the straight, emphasized eyebrows, the mouth touched with orange, the eyes clear and edged with black, he had the impression he was looking at a mime. Hers was a face capable of assuming any expression, but for the moment it revealed nothing, nothing at all.
Balance
67
“Of course I’m all right,” she said. The small smile. “Shouldn’t you be getting ready?” She looked at her watch. “We’ll start in just a quarter of an hour.”
There was always an instant when Marc, wearing green tights and a green felt hat, perched on a unicycle with balls and eggs tucked all through his clothes, felt he could not go through with it. He
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