Woman of Light (22)
Mickey handed Pidre a whiskey-filled flask from his coat and pointed to the arena’s center where a vast silk curtain draped from the ceiling with ropes. A bedraggled clown sat on a barrel—face down, legs crossed—silent under the faintest spotlight. The clown appeared neither male nor female, but rather some in-between state, their face painted orange and red, their hair a marvelous blue. The clown drew silent stares as they tapped their long-shoed right foot against the barrel, a loud, rhythmic thwack. Then a drum line appeared, and the red tent erupted in marching music. The silk curtain fluttered and rose as if by a great wind and Wilston Montez materialized at the heart of the arena. The clown stood from their barrel and tumbled away. Wilston stepped down from the crate, revealing the great expanse of his musculature in rippled form.
“He’s a wild man,” Mickey said with a sparkle in his voice. “Hunted lions, sailed with pirates, trafficked in guns.”
“And now he kills bears,” said Pidre with an air of annoyance. “I suppose we’re all animals to him, then.”
If Mickey heard Pidre, he didn’t let him know and instead drank heavily from his flask. The arena went black, and lights reflected inside the audience’s eyes. They were silent and eager. They were greedy for death.
And then, the bear.
The animal emerged in iron shackles from the tent’s open door. Half a dozen men led the black beast, bound and already bloody, its claws bent inward and deformed. The pink and meaty side of the animal’s paws were cadaverous, as if by stigmata. Beneath the rising jeers of the crowd, Pidre could hear the bear’s agonizing shrieks, an extended lonesome plea.
“My god, Mickey,” Pidre said, dropping his face between his hands. “For shit’s sake, it’s damn near dead.”
The bear had been unshackled by its handlers and was now face-to-face with Wilston, who promptly grabbed the animal’s scarred snout and pushed the bear’s contorted face into rancid sawdust. He began beating the bear’s humped back with his fist. The bear grunted and Wilston reached for the animal’s discarded chains. He roped the iron shackles around the bear’s neck and pulled, impressive in his ability to drag the creature in a half-moon. But the bear was sickly, underfed, and Pidre knew that it was as close to death as possible while still being kept alive. That was a dangerous state—the line between the living and dead collapsed—and only evil could come of it. Wilston paused and held up his right hand to his ear, motioning for the crowd to raise their voices. He laughed maniacally. He grinned with mossy teeth. He pulled a blade from his flesh-colored trousers, taunting the animal with his flickering knife. The bear cried. There is no other way to say this. Pidre’s eyes welled with tears as the animal moaned in agony with its mouth opened to the crowd. For the first time, Pidre saw that every tooth in the bear’s mouth had been hastily removed, leaving behind a serrated bed of blackened gums.
“Let’s get going,” Pidre said to Mickey. “I don’t want to see no more.”
Mickey had gotten good and drunk. He was an agreeable man and shrugged off Pidre’s request with little protest. “You’re the boss,” he said.
They stood to exit the tent, navigating the bleachers, Pidre avoiding the sight of the tragic bear being beaten with leather straps by Wilston Montez. The crowd was louder than before and the ripe smells of their perspiration and abundant liquor mingled with the scent of the bear’s glandular fear.
They were nearly out of the fairgrounds when Mickey pointed to a side tent, an oblong bluish womb: SIMODECEA SALAZAR-SMITH, MEXICAN BLACK WIDOW, A SHOT BETTER THAN ANY MAN! WATCH HER SHOOT CARDS, GLASS MARBLES, BOTTLES, CLAY PIGEONS, HOLES THROUGH DIMES, THE FLAMES OFF CANDLES, AND MUCH MUCH MORE!
“Now that’s a sad story,” Mickey said, stepping toward the bulletin board, running his hand over the dusty boards. “She’s the one who killed her true love. Shot him clean through the head, took off half his face. They couldn’t have an open casket, they say.”
Pidre glanced at the sign and snorted. “Still performing after all that?”
“They say she started at eleven years old. It’s the only life she knows.”
Pidre stroked his smooth jawline and looked beyond the bulletin board through an opening in the tent flap. The rounded showground was half the size of the big top and hazy with smoke. There were sounds like songbirds confused by night. Forlorn whistles. A sterling gasp. As if pulled inward by an unseen embrace, Pidre guided himself and Mickey into the smallish tent. The crowd was sparse and the sawdust was clean, smelling of pine.
At first, it was difficult to see what drew the steady gazes of the serene crowd. Their eyes were wells of concentration, and their faces gleamed with gratitude, as if visited by a saint. Pidre heard the sonorous crack of gunfire. High on a wooden platform, she was a stately woman in a beaded gown, glistening in white fringe, her black hair braided down her back. Simodecea Salazar-Smith looked into a shard of broken glass like lightning in her left hand. And then with her long rifle aimed over her right shoulder, she shot.
“What’s she shooting at, Mickey?” Pidre asked, dumfounded.
Mickey chuckled. He lightly elbowed Pidre. “Watch. She’s reloading.”
Simodecea leaned over her perch and waved to the crowd. They cooed, as if in love. One of Jack Wesley’s workers had stepped into the ring. The man wore black and carried a metal bucket. Simodecea locked eyes with him and seemingly mouthed a countdown. Then, as if terrified by her aim, he tossed the bucket into the air and ran for his life, water splashing around him in a dome. Simodecea repositioned her rifle and pulled the trigger. The man in black reappeared and sifted his hands through the sawdust until he held up a gold coin with a bullet hole at its center. The crowd gasped with delight. Simodecea laughed and flipped her braid.