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    Circus Days and Nights

    Page 7
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      we shall be performers in Rome;

      we will be here for a month,

      we will be part of the flow of this life

      and all through

      the month of July

      a part of its flow.

      When we leave,

      Rome will remember

      and we will remember.

      Sitting in the tent they said,

      “But you could come this afternoon.”

      “Really?”

      “Surely!”

      After a tour of the zoo, where we enjoyed the small white pony, and where we saw the five staring baby wolves—and they gave me the french word, loups (cuteau), and indicated tiny with their hands—we issued from that tent and went around past theirs to the back of the main tent, the performer’s entrance, where we met William Randal, a French clown, cousin of Zavata, and Nono, the dwarf sténodactylo from a northern town in France, who, tired of life and taunts in an office, woke his parents one night when the circus was in town and said, “Please, Mother and Father, I desire to go with the circus.” They cried and he cried, but he went and has seldom cried since (so beautiful is his smile and so content his soul). He is a friend of William Randal’s.

      The Le Forts introduced me to another man, big and big-faced, stern and kindly, who shook my hand and said he was enchanted (and seemed to be) with an American journalist who had come to see the show. We talked of photographing the circus from the outside and at night from the inside with lights.

      There was music inside the tent. And though I tried to keep my eyes upon the presence of my friends, they strayed, hoping to catch a moment’s view of the ring.

      The Le Forts could see this and they asked the big-faced man if I could enter. William Randal looked at me to see if this is surely what I desired. In less than a moment I said yes, and the big-faced man said yes. And they said to me, and indicated with their hands, go with him (follow after and he will take you to your place). They came with me almost to the row of seats, then left for their trailer. The big man pointed to a row of blue canvas chairs and said, “Take your choice.” I thanked him and took the nearest one.

      After he departed another came, the perchist’s brother, whom I welcomed. He sat in the chair beside me.

      “Fait chaud,” he said, mopping his brow as a charade.

      “Yes, hot.”

      “Not many people.”

      “But for a matinee it isn’t bad.”

      “It is too hot. Last night the tent was full.”

      We watched the girl from Milan (the French clown’s friend) in a ballet dress as she rode a white and black horse around the ring; kneeling and leaning against his neck, and pointing one toe daintily in the air. She whirled down, spun around, and regained this position. She leapt from the horse and ran beside it. Again with a leap she mounted, sitting sideways on the bareback horse; her arms held out, her hands dropped prettily, jogging as the horse went around. Smiling she rode as with wings in the air.

      There was music playing. There were dancers. There was a family of boys who tossed a small brother from one to another and who leapt in the air as he swiftly ran under them.

      The wind blew open a flap that led to the performer’s entrance. In sunlight slanting through the door I saw the clean, taut, supple calves of an acrobat. A moment later, to solemn music, the Brothers Le Fort entered.

      A platform had been raised in the center ring and they stepped up and stood upon it, each at one corner of the platform. Facing the audience in front, they raised their arms slowly up the side and over their heads (a solemn salutation full of light), “Mesdames, Messieurs, we salute you. Behold, regard the wonder we have been gifted to perform.”

      They step together and René ascends, standing on the shoulders of his brother. Solemnly, as music plays, he drops his hands while Albert raises his. He then bends (hand to hand), he stands, René upon his palms, upon his brother’s upraised hands; and every muscle strains and every vein stands out; the muscles of the lower brother’s back are all symmetrical, and all stand out; the leaves and branches of the slim spinal tree, and all the human structure top to toe is taut with the effort of the ritual. Now René moves his weight to one side, pointing his toes, arcing his body to the right. His right hand presses down upon his brother’s; the left goes free to find a point of balance for the whole. A moment thus the form remains. Then René redescends, carefully, slowly, with lithe decorum, never breaking the mystical line of balance.

      There is a moment when they stand in line, their muscles still taut from the exercise. They stand outlined in the light, then they turn again to the audience, lift their hands; the applause is like the sound of leaves or rain.

      Now they face each other (music playing), grasp each other’s hands, and both lean back, their backs curve down like the line of a boat, with weight at the center. Then with Albert leaning back and René leaning forward, he lowers him to the floor. Albert’s knees rise up like a fulcrum. René, a lever, seesaws over them. Again they are hand to hand and begin a new ascent. With labor of muscles, Albert turns on his side, raising his brother as he does, thrusting him upward with his lower strength.

      There is a moment for the sculptor: Albert’s back beginning the ascent; then all is fluid again as they arise. And there is no art but this, the main a main, to reproduce the wonder of that rising.

      “Do you think,” they had asked, “an act like this is too slow for the circus in America? In the music hall I think it would pass, but for the circus do you think it is too slow?”

      Performers’ entrance;

      round stools the

      elephants stand on their heads on,

      a clown,

      a dwarf,

      two hand balancers working out,

      a girl in a ballet dress limbering up,

      a tan Norwegian horse waiting for his act to begin,

      the boys who work around the circus standing, watching,

      the flat cars out in the back with all the neighborhood

      children standing, watching,

      the German worker watching.

      William Randal practices his dance. Zavata gives him a couple of new ideas. Zavata suggests another trick, “Throw the puppet out when you dance with her. See, like this.” Randal watches. Sees that it’s funny. Everybody watches. All are charmed to see one instruct another.

      The perch-pole boys about to enter;

      the grey troupe’s perch-pole coming out

      of the curtain over the performer’s entrance.

      The juggler going to enter.

      Thin line of red lipstick on truck driver’s mouth,

      white satin tights over scrap-iron body,

      long, coarse blond hair,

      scar of lanced carbuncle on back of neck,

      the blond hair chopped off by barber (or stable boy).

      The big bag of chalk or sawdust they reach their

      hands into to dry them.

      The silhouette of the girl getting flipped by an understander against the performer’s entrance curtain in the long light of afternoon.

      The performer’s entrance is the place of the most (magic) activity. It is between the world of performance and preparation.

      The moment before flowering (long) after planting. A moment before the bursting of the bud; almost the moment of bursting. When the flap opens, it is the bud unfurling; the green bud of the flower. A charmed place. It is within the tent, not of it. It is intimate with the tent, but has a wide door to the backlots.

      To the audience

      it is the tabernacle

      from which

      the

      awaited

      enters.

      For the performers

      it is a place

      for a moment’s

      rest.

      In the afternoon it shares

      the streaming

      rays

      of sun,

      it gets the breeze,

      the view of the lot,

      the people beyond,

      the ruins,


      the world outside.

      The people inside

      are willingly cut off.

      The performers (priests)

      help them forget;

      help forget

      by giving them

      (the cream)

      give them the life

      of outside,

      concentrated

      and

      perfected,

      and thus

      refocusing them

      for another look

      at a world

      whose pattern they had lost

      a world

      before whose

      multiplicity

      their eyes

      had

      grown

      dim.

      THE JUGGLER

      The juggler

      is throwing

      and catching

      (standing

      where the tent

      flaps open)

      practicing

      his art.

      Hours a day,

      with Indian clubs

      steadily moving;

      if one of them drops,

      he moves very slowly,

      bending

      and reaching

      to pick it up.

      Two from the right hand

      two from the left,

      and catching two and two;

      one from the right,

      and one from the left,

      one from the right,

      and one from the left;

      catching them

      one by one.

      They wing

      through the air;

      they fly like birds.

      They land

      in his hand

      like pigeons

      roosting.

      They are clubs turning,

      whirling,

      birds flying,

      comets falling.

      They are

      fields

      moving,

      circling,

      flying,

      being moved

      from hand to hand

      (his hand

      sends flying,

      his hand

      brings home).

      But there is a law

      in earth and air

      to make

      the bird

      return.

      Between his turns

      the juggler stands

      holding his clubs,

      resting his weight,

      watching the earth.

      Again he is swift,

      is agile,

      full of wit.

      He commands

      and they follow;

      he sends them spinning

      where they intend to go.

      He is here,

      is there,

      moving swiftly;

      one who hides

      from cloud,

      to spring

      to mountain-cleft,

      to a voice

      within a flame.

      He leans back

      and throws them

      over his head

      (two at a time,

      two at a time)

      catching

      and throwing

      (under his right leg,

      under his left,

      under his right leg,

      under his left)

      his solemn dancing

      is only a way

      of letting clubs

      go by.

      The juggler

      is playing,

      throwing and catching,

      resting,

      returning;

      practicing

      his art.

      A LOVER OF CATS

      The young

      Czechoslovak

      told me he was a lion

      tamer,

      and that his father

      had been one

      before him;

      until

      a lion

      ate

      him.

      He said that

      nonetheless

      he loved lions

      and loved to be

      a trainer;

      that the work

      took tremendous

      concentration,

      that the lions were

      moody

      from day to day

      (one never knew)

      and it was

      better

      not to be married

      if one was to follow

      this profession.

      Lions were

      dangerous

      yes,

      but he

      liked them.

      After a few moments’

      conversation,

      and a short

      uncomfortable silence,

      he

      excused himself.

      Later

      (from a distance)

      I saw

      him

      sitting alone

      on the crosspiece

      of his wagon,

      thinking.

      He had said

      he was a man

      without a country,

      that he would rather

      live with lions

      than people.

      Somebody told me

      that evening

      that he was not

      the tamer,

      that he was just

      a boy

      who helped around the zoo;

      feeding, cleaning up,

      prodding the lions

      as they prowled

      through their tunnel

      to the big cage

      for the performance.

      He stood

      alone

      at one matinee

      listening to the

      sound

      of the

      tamer’s whip,

      the growling beasts,

      the music of menace.

      His eyes

      were held by the movement

      of the enormous

      cats.

      When he

      saw me

      watching

      he looked away,

      and for several

      days

      I did not

      see him.

      Then

      I found him

      asleep

      under the bleachers

      in the afternoon;

      shirtless,

      facedown,

      resting on folded arms.

      Exactly

      at the center

      of his back

      (between his

      shoulder blades)

      there slept

      a small

      white mouse.

      A clown

      called me over to look.

      Aware of the audience

      the mouse half woke

      and moved to a higher

      position

      on the boy’s left

      shoulder.

      Later (waking)

      the lion-man

      held the mouse

      in his hand

      and stroked it,

      smiling very kindly.

      He took me back to

      his wagon

      to see

      the punctured

      cardboard box

      the white mouse

      lived in.

      One night

      during the show

      he sat in the shadows

      of the performer’s entrance.

      “How’s it going,” I said.

      “All right, it’s hot.”

      “How’s the small beast?”

      “What?”

      “How’s the mouse?”

      “Oh, fine”;

      he smiled.

      Later still,

      in the dark

      he stood looking in at the ring

      through a

      part

      in the performer’s curtain.

      A narrow

      shaft of strong light

      hit his face;

      shadows of the lions

      played across it.

      In the air

      was th
    e sound

      of the crowd,

      the whip,

      the roaring,

      and the music.

      FRITZIST

      The lion tamer

      said to me,

      “He’s good; Fritz.

      He’s a character.

      He is an original man.”

      Fritz

      was over in the sunlight

      washing his feet;

      a big man

      in a visored

      straw cap

      and bathing trunks.

      He sat

      on a camp stool

      splashing his feet

      in a tub of water,

      methodically soaping

      one leg at a time.

      “Comment ça va, Fritz?” I said.

      “Ça ne va pas.”

      “Comé, çe ne va pas.

      C’est que vous fait mal?”

      “Ah, c’est le monde.

      C’est le temps.

      Le temps sont mauvais.”

      “Il n’y a pas de la paix?”

      “Jamais la paix. La guerre toujours.

      Encore il sera sûrment la guerre.”

      “Vous le croyez.”

      “Sûrement.”

      “Il n’est pas possible à faire la paix?”

      “Not a chance.”

      “But why have war?

      Nobody wants it.”

      “Yes, the capitalists want it.

      The capitalists on both sides want it.

      The people don’t, but they do.”

      “How does it work?”

      “The capitalists get government contracts

      to make guns and cannons.

      They make guns and cannons for ten years

      until all the governments have a big supply.

      There is nothing to do with a big supply

      of guns and cannons but shoot them.”

      “What can you do about it?”

      “Nothing.

      The capitalists are no good,

     


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