The Orphan's Tale(36)
I peer into the tent where the crowd waits uncertainly. Surely the rest of the show will have to be canceled. But the performers stand close, still ready to go on. “Clowns, schnell!” Herr Neuhoff calls, signaling quickly for the next act. The clowns tumble in, pantomiming a city scene. Happy clowns with large shoes and tiny little hats. Musical clowns. Buffoons who mock everything.
Peter seems to fit into none of these. He steps into the ring last, his face white and red with great black lines, eyeing the audience as though they have kept him waiting. Not sad, but a serious clown, his wit acerbic, smiles hard-won. While the other clowns perform a skit in tandem, Peter dances on the periphery, creating a pantomime all his own. He holds the entire chapiteau captive, cajoling, teasing, sensing who is reticent to come along on the journey or perhaps weary and drawing them in. It is as if he wills the audience to please him with their response and applause, when in fact the opposite should be the case. From the darkness in the corner, Astrid watches Peter, eyes rapt.
Herr Neuhoff also watches from the edge of the ring, his face uneasy. I hold my breath, waiting for Peter to launch into the goose-stepping routine Herr Neuhoff had forbidden. Peter has not incorporated the pro-Vichy anthem Herr Neuhoff suggested earlier into his act. But he keeps his performance light, as if sensing that after Yeta’s fall, anything else would be too much.
The clowns are followed by the elephants in their jeweled headpieces, the bear and monkeys in little dresses not unlike my own. The show breaks for intermission and the house lights go up. Patrons make their way back to the midway to stretch their legs and smoke. But the break is not for us. “We’re next,” Astrid informs me. “We must get ready.”
“Astrid, wait...” A giant pit seems to open in my stomach. Until now I had just been a spectator at the show, nearly forgetting the real reason I am here. But to actually step out in front of the crowd...after what happened to Yeta, how can I possibly? “I can’t do this.” My mind is a blur and I’ve forgotten everything.
“Of course you can,” she reassures, placing a hand on my shoulder. “That’s just your nerves.”
“No, I’ve forgotten everything. I’m not ready.” My voice rises with panic. A few of the other performers turn in my direction. One of the acrobats curves her mouth smugly, as if everything she suspected about me has proved true.
Astrid leads me away and then stops, placing one hand on each of my shoulders. “Now, listen to me. You are good. Gifted even. And you have worked hard. Ignore the audience and imagine it is just the two of us back in Darmstadt. You can do this.” She kisses me firmly on each cheek, as if pressing some of her calm and strength into me. Then she turns and starts for the ring.
A bell sounds and the audience returns to their seats. As I peer beyond the curtain at the crowd that waits expectantly, my legs grow heavy. I cannot possibly step out there. “Go,” Astrid growls, pushing me out roughly as the music cues us.
As the houselights dim once more, we scamper into the ring. In the winter quarters, the ladder had been bolted to the wall. But here it dangles from above, scarcely held in place at the bottom. I struggle not to fall as it wobbles. The climb takes longer than I expected and I have only just reached the board when the spotlight rises. It licks the sides of the tent, finds me. And then I am displayed before the crowd. I shiver. Why is it that the clowns can hide behind the oily greasepaint while we stand nearly naked, nothing but a thin slip of nylon separating us from hundreds of eyes?
The music slows, signaling the start of our act. Then there is silence, followed by a drumroll that grows louder, my cue to leap. “Hup!” comes Astrid’s call across the darkness. I am supposed to release right after she says it, but I do not. Astrid swings, waiting for me. In another second it will be too late and the act will be a failure.
With a deep breath, I leap from the board. Suddenly there is nothing beneath my feet but air. Though I have flown dozens of times in the winter quarters, I feel a second of sheer terror, as if it is the first time all over again. I swing higher, pushing fear away and relishing the air as it whooshes around me.
Astrid flies toward me, arms extended. I have to let go at the top of the arc for the trick to work. The catch still terrifies me, though, and more so now than ever after seeing Yeta fall. Astrid had let me fall once before, caused it. Would she do it again?
Our eyes lock. Trust me, she seems to say. I let go and soar through the air. Astrid’s hands clasp mine, swinging me below her for a split second. Relief and excitement surge through me. There is no time to celebrate, though. A second later, Astrid flings me back in the direction I need to go. I force myself to concentrate once more, spinning as she taught me. Then I reach outward, hardly daring to look. Astrid has aligned me perfectly, and the bar falls into my hands and the crowd cheers. I swing up to the board, the world righting itself beneath my feet.
We’ve done it! My heart fills with joy and I am happier than I’ve been since I can remember. The act is not over, though, and Astrid is waiting for me, her face stern, intensity unbroken. We perform the second pass, this time Astrid catching me by my feet. The applause lifts me higher now. Another pass and return, then it is over. For an instant, I am almost more sad than relieved.
I straighten as the spotlight finds me on the board. The audience cheers on and on. For me. They haven’t seen the work Astrid had done as catcher at all. I understand then how hard it was for her to have given up the limelight, the things she has sacrificed to bring me into the act.