Stuart Kaminsky - A Fine Red Rain

"What?" Maya said as he returned to her in the line.

"What?" he repeated.

"What is wrong? Your eyes…"

"Work," he said. "The streets are full of criminals. If mis line moves fast enough, you can put on your new shoes and we can walk to the park and lie in the grass. I don't have to be anywhere till noon."

"All right," she said. She felt better but not younger, for there was something in her husband's behavior that made her feel that this was a particularly important day and noon a particularly important tune.

Dimitri Mazaraki parked his car and checked his watch. His schedule was off, and things were not going quite right. He had failed to hit Katya and he had seen in his rearview mirror the crippled policeman hurry across the street toward her. He got out, 'breathed deeply, touched his fine mustache, and grinned at nothing. He would survive, succeed. He had done so for this long. He would continue to do so. He was confident, sure of his cunning, his strength, his ruthlessness. He had no loyalty except to himself, and no dependencies. In Klaipeda, the coastal Lithuanian town on the Baltic Sea where he had been born and from which he had escaped through the tsirk, he had relativesa sister, several cousins. He needed them and they needed him when he and the circus came to the area, but it was a need born of money and security, not of affection. As he had for years, Mazaraki had scheduled a circus tour to Lithuania and Latvia. The circus director had never questioned his scheduling, had even liked the idea, because he liked the Baltic beaches in the summer.

The tour would begin in a few weeks. Mazaraki was beginning to think that it would be his final tour to Lithuania. Killing Katya would, perhaps, give him time, enough time, but that policeman who loved the circus had unrelenting eyes. Mazaraki was sure about those eyes. He saw such eyes hi his own mirror each morning when he admired his body and his fine mustache.

Mazaraki entered the New Circus building through the side door and moved toward his office. His footsteps echoed through the corridor that circled the building, and light streamed in from the tall, modern windows. Yes, he would get another chance at Katya, probably before the day was over, and if he did not he was fairly certain that she would say nothing, that she could say nothing. He had to, he would, protect himself.

And now he had work to do, a new act to schedule in, performers to talk to about extending their performances tonight to fill the show now that the Pesknoko act no longer existed. He would wear his red-and-black suit when he announced the acts. He would stand tall, meet the eyes of the crowd, introduce the performers as if he owned them, as if he were personally responsible for their very existences. It was a feeling he loved and would hate to lose. Perhaps, he thought, this will not be my last trip. It would be dangerous, but perhaps, just perhaps, he could keep it going for a while longer. In his office, Mazaraki checked his messages, found that the Circus School had called him about the act he wanted to recommend to the New Circus's director when he returned. Mazaraki sat behind his desk, surveyed his small office with satisfaction, and picked up the phone. Ten minutes later he had permission from the circus director, who was in Minsk, to bring in the new act at least on a temporary basis.

"Tragedy," said the director on the crackling phone line.

"Tragedy, indeed," echoed Mazaraki sympathetically.

"We'll have some kind of special dedication to Pesknoko and Duznetzov when I return," the director said. "What do you think?"

"An excellent idea, Comrade," said Mazaraki. "And I'll have the final tour plans ready."

"You are a zealous worker, Dimitri," the director said.

"I do my best," said Mazaraki, running his tongue over his white teeth as he examined his reflection in the window.

Five minutes later Mazaraki was in the locker/shower room in the rear wing of the building. He opened his locker, examined his black tights and short-sleeved black sweatshirt to be sure they were clean, and began to undress. Three men, the Stashov clowns, came in arguing. They were wearing loose-fitting work clothes and each was trying to outshout the other about some nuance of their act involving a pail of paint.

"Go back and see it again, and look carefully this time," said the oldest Stashov, the father. "Chaplin is handed the bucket. He doesn't bring it in."

"No, no, no. Never!" cried the middle Stashov, the one with red hair. "They do it to him. The old clown starts plastering him."

The middle Stashov was about to say something else but saw Mazaraki seated on the bench in the corner and shut his mouth. Mazaraki had that effect on the performers and was quite pleased with it.

"Comrade Mazaraki," said the Stashov father.

"Comrade Stashov," answered Mazaraki, putting on his American Puma shoes. "I have a videotape of The Circus if you want to see what Chaplin did. You can look at the scene in my office after I work out."

The Stashovs looked at each other furtively, surprised at this unexpected offer from the usually forbidding assistant director.

"We'd be very grateful, Comrade," said the older man.

"We are here to help each other," said Mazaraki, standing, a giant in black. "Like a big family."

"Yes," said the father with a nervous smile.

"Noon in my office," said Mazaraki, moving out of the locker room.

When he closed the door, the voices of the Stashovs resumed but they were quieter, wondering.

Mazaraki, back straight, walked across the hall to the rehearsal room where he had his weights. The sound of an accordion greeted him as he opened the door. The room was the size of a handball court, with echoes and cream walls. The carpet was green and thin. The accordionist was sitting on a pile of exercise mats in the corner. He wore street clothes and the red hat he used in his act. His partner, an incredibly beautiful thin young girl with long blond hair, sat beside him, her legs encased in tight jeans and pressed against the accordionist, who played and grinned at her. His teeth were too large. His face was also too large, but he had a way with bears and an act that always brought laughs. The girl was perfect for the act, a perfect contrast to both the bears and the homely accordionist. Mazaraki wondered what the girl thought when the accordionist made love to her. He wondered what it would be like to see the bear make love to her or to make love to her himself, balancing her on top of his flat, scarred belly.

The girl looked at Mazaraki and sensed something of his thoughts. She tugged at the sleeve of the accordionist, who had not looked up, and he pulled out of his reverie to smile at her and follow her gaze to Mazaraki. The music stopped.

"Go on playing," Mazaraki said, finding the chalk and powdering his palms.

"I was just… We were just finishing," the man said, his smile still fixed on his face but having lost its bemusement.

"Of course," said Mazaraki, looking at the girl, who pushed her long hair behind her back and avoided his eyes. The accordionist pretended not to notice the assistant director's look as he led the girl by the hand to the door.

"What was the song you were playing?" Mazaraki asked, reaching down for a pair of fifty-pound dumbbells.

"Just a… a French song," the accordionist said, opening the door.

"I like it," said Mazaraki, lifting a weight in each hand, feeling his biceps tighten. The girl tried not to look at him but turned and saw him grin under his huge mustache. She stared in fear and fascination for an instant before the accordionist led her out.

Alone, Mazaraki sighed deeply, straightened his back, and began to curl the dumbbells.

Ah, he thought, it feels good to be powerful.

The policeman had said something about lifting weights, Mazaraki remembered. The policeman, yes. Mazaraki was quite sure that he would be seeing that policeman again.