Читать книгу The Long Shadows - Andrew Boone's Erlich - Страница 8

Let me finish telling you what happened at Madison Square Garden. Where was I? Oh, yes.

After I left Harry in the freaks’ dressing area, I walked down the hallway and found the staircase. Slowly I climbed down the dimly lit stairwell to the basement where they kept the menagerie and where, in venues like the Garden, we set up the sideshow. I felt like a desperado fleeing to his hideout. But instead of a posse, I wanted to dodge Ingalls, the threat of being fired, and the pressure to make a decision about renewing my contract. I also wanted to avoid any circus friends with their questions about what went down the night before.

For my purposes, there was no better place to disappear than the menagerie. Before the incident with the rube it was my favorite place in the circus. There was something about that space; so full of squawking, growling animal life and feral smells that made me forget about myself.

It was 1936 and by then I’d been with Ringling Bros for ten years. At thirty, you’d think I’d know my own mind or at least have some sense of direction. In those hard times the circus was a sure bet. I got shelter, three squares a day, a fair salary, and I was a celebrity to boot. But I was miserable. Yet, when I thought of leaving I’d get scared like a kid. I felt as confused and down as I did before Papa and I had made our fateful trip to Hollywood.

When I stepped into the menagerie that morning, the first thing I did was take a look around. This was the scene of the crime that will most likely end my circus career, I thought.

Immediately I heard the roars and growls and breathed in the odors I’d come to love. They let me know that even in the midst of a big city the place was full of wildness. That day it reminded me of a wild place in me.

I glanced to the front of Gargantua’s cage, sure I would see the rube’s corpse where I had flattened him. Instead I spotted my friend Frank “Bring ‘Em Back Alive” Buck speaking to a tall drink of water. When I approached the pair, Buck turned toward me. From the look on his face I couldn’t tell if he was surprised or upset that I was interrupting his hunt.

“Way to go last night, mate,” the lion tamer said. The woman he was talking with looked up at me and smiled.

Without thinking, I smiled back. She must be another of Buck’s fawning chippies, I thought. It seemed like every place we played he had women. They were attracted to him like flies to sugar.

“That was one bad fellow who deserved his comeuppance,” Buck said. Sometimes the lion tamer’s personality matched his appearance, dashing and full of bravado. But he could also be kind and caring, not only to the animals he ran but also to his friends. He was a lean six-footer, mustached, and ruggedly handsome in his custom-tailored, khaki lion tamer’s costume and brown safari jodhpurs.

“Maybe you could plead my case to Clyde Ingalls. I think he’s going to fire me,” I replied.

“Don’t be silly, Jake. We’ve all got a soft spot for that gorilla. Just about everybody who works with Ringling Bros knows what Gargantua went through; taken from his mother when he was just a baby and that drunken sailor that threw acid in his face on the voyage from Mombasa. That son of a bitch left him with a scowl,” he said, turning toward what I assumed was his starstruck paramour. “Please forgive my French, ma’am.” The young woman nodded. “And if it wasn’t for Gargantua, this show would really be hurting. So don’t you worry,” he added, stepping forward and patting me on the forearm.

“Who is your friend?” the woman asked.

“Oh, I’m so rude. Let me introduce you two. You know the social niceties aren’t my strong suit. I don’t have too much call for them on the savanna,” Buck added, making a sweeping gesture to the right as if we could glance in that direction and see the African plain, complete with a herd of zebras. “Valerie McPhearson, this is my dear friend and the gentlest giant, Jake Erlich, also known as Jack Earle.”

She looked up at me and extended her hand, which got lost in mine. The woman had a firm handshake.

Val was in her early thirties and about five foot nine. She had long auburn hair and wore a paint-stained brown artist’s smock. I imagined the smock camouflaged her curves, long legs, and an expensive French outfit she wore underneath it. Her eyes were bright green and big; the kind a man could get lost in. They sparkled. I would come to realize that woman’s beauty was intoxicating and healing. Like Orpheus’s music, it made me forget, at least for a while, all my troubles. But like all drugs, I would pay a price for it.

“Val is here doing a sculpture of Gargantua for her art class at NYU,” Buck explained.

I glanced across to the gorilla’s cage. He was an altogether different creature from the enraged beast I’d seen the night before. Now Gargantua slept peacefully on a pile of light-green and yellow straw in the front of his cage.

I looked down to Val’s rough first attempt at his likeness, resting on a small card table in front of her. On the right side of the sculpture was a mound of untouched brown clay.

To this day I don’t know why I said anything, but I did. It was like the words sprang out of me with a life of their own:

“Do you mind if I take a crack at sculpting one of the animals?” I asked.

“Be my guest,” she answered, clearly surprised by my request. She wasn’t the only one; Buck gave me a curious look as well.

“I never thought of you as an artiste, Jake,” Buck said. “But if you must, which one of the beasts will you use as your model?”

“I think I’ll try the giraffe,” I said.

“Why am I not astounded by that choice?” Buck retorted sarcastically.

When I picked up the clay no one uttered a word. The two of them just watched me kneading it.

“I’ll tell you something you might not know about giraffes,” Buck finally said, filling the vacuum.

Or that we might not want to know, I thought but would never say.

He was my friend but there was a certain formal distance I maintained with “the dangerous great white hunter who faced down man-eaters,” especially when he was around one of his conquests. At that point, Buck did not consider me a threat.

“It goes all the way back to the early thirteenth century, when the Ming emperor commanded adventurers to search the world for riches,” he began.

I shot a look over at the young lady as if to say: You have to excuse him, Miss. My friend Frank fancies himself a history professor.

Valerie winked at me and then turned to face Buck. I thought of my mother's admonition to avoid women who wink at you. Oh, he’s got a pigeon here, I thought. Little did I know who the real predator was.

“The adventurers sailed the globe with a fleet of three hundred ships and thirty thousand men. They visited thirty countries and returned home with treasures; precious stones, pearls, ivory, coral, lions, and leopards. But the most exotic gift was from the Chief of the Kingdom of Malindi in Africa,” Buck explained.

“What was it?” Val asked.

“A giraffe,” Buck said, pointing to my sculpture. As Buck spoke, I deliberately lost myself in the warm, pliable clay I worked between my fingers. “Jake, are you with us?” Buck’s voice stirred me from my trance, bringing me back to the menagerie.

“Oh, I’m sorry; I got carried away. You were saying something about the giraffe.”

“Yes, the Malindi called him Ch’ilin. As Frank spoke, I continued to manipulate the malleable clay in my hands. “Well, believe it or not, the Chinamen also used the word Ch’ilin in their language,” Buck continued.

Valerie reached out and took Frank’s hand coquettishly. “So don’t keep us in suspense, Frank. What does Ch’ilin mean in Chinese?” Valerie asked.

“It’s the name of a very special, mythic creature that only appears in visions to those who are most pure,” Buck answered.

By then I had finished my sculpture and set it on the table next to Val’s. I looked up at the penned giraffe I had been using as a model.

“Jake, you and the Ch’ilin have a lot in common,” Val said, smiling warmly at me.

“We both eat plants?” I joked, a bit embarrassed by her attention.

“No, seriously; you both see the world from above,” Val added.

You know, I’ve come to think we all have our own personal menagerie in us with our own Gargantuas and giraffes. Sometimes we’re proud of our menagerie and sometimes were ashamed. For most, our giraffes and gorillas are invisible to everyone else. They just live in a very dark place within us that only we know. But for others, their menagerie is not only visible but dramatic and draws disturbing attention.

The young woman stepped closer to me and began circling the small artist’s table to get a better look at my primitive attempt at sculpture. Even now, I wonder what she saw in me and why I tried so hard to get to know her.

“Wow, that is really good,” she said, her gaze going back and forth between the giraffe in the pen, the clay giraffe on the table, and me. “I mean, I’m impressed. This is really good,” she repeated. “Who have you been studying with?”

“No one,” I said laughing. “This is the first time I’ve done anything like this. I’m no artist,” I said, dismissing her compliment.

“I cannot believe that. You’re a natural.” She touched my hand, as she had touched Buck’s. Buck stepped forward and grabbed her hand. Though she was no longer touching me, it still felt electric. The admiration in her voice was unmistakable. I liked it.

“Hey, Jake, if you don’t make it in the sideshow, or as a boxer who beats up rubes, you could give sculpting a try,” Buck said.

His words stung. Normally I would not personalize the jokes he told at my expense. But that time it was hard to ignore his banter. The crack about not making it in the circus and beating up rubes was hitting below the belt. His words zeroed in on what, at that moment, were my two biggest dilemmas: my attack on the fan the night before and my future in Ringling Bros. If I knew then what I know now, I would have understood that Buck’s insensitive comment was a reflection of jealousy.

“I hate to go. I’m having so much fun with you fellows, but I have to run,” Valerie said, interrupting the jousting she’d just caused. “I’m due at a Junior League charity luncheon at the Waldorf,” Val said, looking at her jeweled wristwatch. “I will talk to you soon,” she said, taking hold of the gorilla she had been sculpting and putting it in a small cardboard box that was resting under the table. I picked up the giraffe I had just made. Val quickly began to unfold the legs on the small table and stowed it under Gangantua’s cage. She turned back as she started to walk away.

“Say, Mr. Erlich, may I keep the giraffe?”

“I think Ringling Bros might have an issue with that,” I replied, impressed by my spontaneity. Val chuckled. Buck just stood there and watched.

“No, you silly man. I’m talking about the sculpture. There are some people I want to show it to.”

“Help yourself,” I replied.

She walked back to me, took hold of the thing, put it in the box with hers, and turned to walk away again. I wondered what she would do with my sculpture. It turns out I would never see it again.

“Ta-ta, gentlemen,” she said. “I’ll be in touch.”

As I watched Val walk away, I noticed Clyde Ingalls walking toward us across the menagerie at a fast gate. He had a determined look on his face. When he got closer, I saw a piece of paper clutched in his right hand. He’s got my contract, I thought. I felt trapped. There was no place I could hide.

“I hope he didn’t spot me,” I said to Buck as I jumped to the side of the giraffe’s pen.

“What’s the problem, Jake?” Buck asked, looking up at me.

“I just don’t want to see him right now,” I replied. I was embarrassed to tell Buck the truth; that I wasn’t sure about signing up for another season.

“You’re edgy cause of that idiot last night, right?”

I peeked around the enclosure to spy on Ingalls. He was halfway across the menagerie and headed right for us. I quickly moved a few steps to get behind Gargantua’s cage. It offered more cover from my pursuer. The gorilla turned his head and looked out at me from behind the bars with a curious expression and went back to chewing on a piece of straw. Buck followed behind me.

“Please don’t tell the old man you saw me,” I said, looking down at him over my right shoulder.

Then I dashed away toward the nearest exit, a door in the wall of the basement that prop men and janitors used. That exit led to a narrow, shadowy passageway that ended who knows where. Sometimes when you’re running from something, you don’t stop to worry about where you’re headed or if you will fit. The ceiling was only about seven feet high, so I had to walk bent over. It didn’t matter, since I was relieved to be getting away from Ingalls.

That feeling of using a back way, a behind-the-scenes space to hide out reminded me of all those alleys in El Paso I had taken when I was a kid.

In those days I was more and more withdrawn; in full retreat. Back alleys were my best friends, helping me avoid people. Taking alleys became a habit, a reflex for survival, providing the illusion that I could escape other people and my sadness.

One of my favorite alleys was located behind our family’s Fewel Street home. That sanctuary ran for almost half a mile down the steep hill that stretched from Sunset Heights to Mesa Street.

About a quarter mile down from our house, just before the alley intersected North Oregon Street, a huge old willow tree that looked like it hadn’t been trimmed in ages rested up against the fence at the rear of the Krohn place. I imagined that in 1598, when Juan de Oñate and his party of explorers first gave El Paso del Norte its name, they rested under that tree.

When I wanted to avoid people I would retreat to that willow and lay down under it. Sometimes when I rested there I would close my eyes, squeezing them so tightly that I’d see golden and scarlet flecks of light. Then I’d breathe in the cool shadiness, remembering, if just for a while, that I was part of the same life force that animated the tree. I liked how it towered over me. Often I’d focus on the detail of its bark, trunk, leaves, and branches. I imagined its growing roots descending deep. They led me to secret underground caverns with civilizations where I would be considered small and my worries would dissolve. As far as I knew, trees were never judged. They never felt alone or that they didn’t fit in. Trees became my good friends. I’m embarrassed to admit it, but sometimes I even spoke to them.

XXXX

The narrow alleyway I’d been using to escape from Clyde Ingalls came to an end at a small door that looked plum-color in the limited light. I pushed hard and it flew open into blinding, mid-morning Manhattan sunshine. As I bent even lower at the waist and stepped out onto the sidewalk, I began to feel the stares.

After a stint in silent pictures and ten years with the circus, I had come to expect the attention. When I was on stage I’d even grown a bit numb to it. But up close and personal like that, I always found the gawkers jarring. Given the fact that I was wearing my Western costume, I drew the scrutiny of more New Yorkers staring up at me than normal.

To escape, I jumped into the first available cab I saw. “Fulton Fish Market, please,” I said. There were still two hours before I would be required to line up in the backyard for the matinee’s opening spec. I wanted to spend that time as far away from Ingalls as possible.

As we drove along, I was relieved by the sight of the Brooklyn Bridge, the cool breeze, and the telltale smell of fish. When I exited the taxi at the waterfront, I walked on the ancient pier. Everywhere I looked there were wooden cartons full of fish on mounds of crushed white ice—all kinds of fish: haddock, halibut, cod, snapper, blue-fin tuna, shrimp, scallops, lobster, and crab. I couldn’t get enough of places like the Fulton Fish Market. The unique sights, sounds, and smells it exuded that morning got me to ignore the unwanted attention of strangers and took my mind off myself.

I loved the scene of the fishmongers marketing their wares. Just like the menagerie, there was a unique freshness, life, and mystery about that place. That day, the East River reflected the brilliant sunshine back in my direction in a million tiny diamonds of light. I ambled up to the railing, enjoying the dancing colors displayed by those shimmering, liquid prisms. A tugboat pushing a huge garbage barge north cruised upriver against the tide.

That tiny tugboat, pushing a weight that seemed larger than it could bear, reminded me of the struggle I was having about whether to stay or leave the circus. The sight of that tug and the smell of fish also made me think of another transition in my life, heralded by another boat. It took place during a life-altering trip that was supposed to be a vacation in California four years before I joined Ringling Bros.