Алекс Калер: The Immortal Circus (Cirque des Immortels)

“Doubtful,” he says, looking at Melody. “I just think you’re the only new thing in this troupe for the past, what would you say, Mel? Three years?” Melody shrugs, and Kingston turns his gaze back to me. “Awfully suspicious, don’t you think? Barely a month after the new girl starts and someone winds up dead?”

“What? You think I’m the killer? You know I’m not that type.”

And I’m not. I’m too scrawny, too quiet. I’m a vegetarian, for Christ’s sake. I never got into fights or did competitive sports. I’ve never even done gymnastics or cheerleading. Or band. At least, not that I can remember. Which is probably why the only job Mab could find for me was as a cotton-candy seller.

Kingston laughs. The doves ignite in that instant, flaring up like strobes and disintegrating into ash. My breath catches at the way his brown eyes flash in the flame.

“Viv, this is show business. Nothing here is what it seems.”

Not, I’m sure, even him.

“This isn’t like any other circus,” Mab said, her fingers idly caressing the handle of a whip coiled on her desk. The book of names and contracts had flown back to the shelf behind her, and now she was staring at me with green eyes as intent as a jaguar’s. “All of our performers have…eccentricities.”

A haze surrounded the exact terms of our agreement, but I didn’t really care. I no longer felt like the world was crashing down around me. Still, her gaze made me wonder if I was stepping from the frying pan into the inferno.

“What do you mean?” I asked, though I already knew. My mind wrapped around the idea of this place much more easily than it should have. Magic, circus freaks…it seemed more natural than it rationally should. I knew in the corner of my mind that these should all be warning signs, signals that something was terribly wrong, that I should be getting out now. I shouldn’t be letting myself believe in magic or flying books or any of this. That voice was tiny. The stronger voice told me it was okay, it was all normal, and my tired mind was all too happy not to fight it. Luckily, Mab didn’t give me any time to fret.

“I only hire exceptional performers. And, like you, they were often in a bind. And I,” she said, flourishing her hands, “am a humanitarian at best. I help. In return, they work for me, using their talents to capture the imaginations of our audience.”

“But I don’t have any talents,” I said, thinking we should have had this conversation before I signed the contract.

“Oh, love, everyone has a talent. Yours will blossom in time. Trust me.” She smiled at me, and something in her eyes told me that I didn’t have a choice.

“Circle up, lovelies,” Mab says, striding into the huddle of performers. Inside the main tent, the muted rumble of another full house is masked by the creepy tones of live organ music. It’s just before the 8 p.m. show and somehow the sky is already turning dark. Mab is wearing her ringleader outfit — a hideously sparkling getup made of a bedazzled tailcoat and top hat, nude leggings, and high-heeled black boots. Her whip is coiled at her side, and her long black hair falls down her back like the River Styx. Despite having disposed of a body earlier that day, she seems remarkably nonchalant.

Everyone does.

“As you know,” she says, once we’re all in a huddle, “this morning we lost a dear member of our troupe. Sabina will always live on in our hearts, and she will be greatly missed. Tonight, let our show be in honor of her work. A moment of silence, please.”

Everyone bows their heads.

I’m standing just outside of the huddle. I’m not one of the performers, so I don’t get the sparkly leotards and elaborate headpieces. I just get a black T-shirt that reads Cirque des Immortels on the front and Crew on the back. But at least they let me stay back here for opening, unlike most of the concessionaires, who are just hired locals.

After a few moments, Mab takes a deep breath that even I can hear, and everyone looks up again.

“For Sabina,” she says.

The members of the troupe put their hands in the center and shout.

After that, the twenty-something performers run to their places. Everyone goes out for the opening act, the charivari. They don’t need me to sell cotton candy until intermission, so I sneak to one of the side entrances to catch a glance. I lean against the cool metal supports of the bleachers and stare out into the center ring, trying to ignore the kid banging his feet against the seat to my right. In the aisle around me, keeping out of sight, are a handful of the performers, their faces set in concentration. Kingston and Melody are on the other side. I can barely make them out in this light, but Melody’s giant wig is a dead giveaway.

The music changes. Organ music shifts to heavy downbeats, bass floods the tent, and then the five-piece band kicks in with swinging violins and saxophones. On cue, the troupe floods into the ring in a swarm of beautiful chaos. Twin aerialists drop from the air, wrapped in sheets of burgundy fabric, as the acrobats burst from the back curtain, tumbling and leaping over each other in an intricate dance. Jugglers flip over the ring curb and toss their flaming knives across the full space of the ring, creating an arc of fire and steel that illuminates the contortionists twisting themselves on arms and elbows. I look over just in time to see Kingston and Melody whirl onstage like salsa dancers, their feet stepping a quick rhythm perfectly synced to the throb of techno. The moment they spin apart, Kingston raises his wand and shoots a shower of vivid purple sparks. Melody does a perfect aerial through it, landing in a split that makes the crowd roar with applause. More performers crowd into the ring. A pair of women do a one-arm balance on the heads of their burly bases. Men and women in leather and velvet wield flaming staffs and poi, swirling the fire in arcs that sear ghostly traces in my vision. More aerialists drop from the ceiling, this time dangling and stretching from hoops and a spinning trapeze. My hands already hurt from clapping so hard. In these fantastic moments, it’s easy to forget that just this morning, one of our members was murdered right where the hand-balancers are standing now.

Almost as soon as the manic party has begun, the troupe assembles near the back of the ring. With one quick call out, half the performers leap onto the thighs of their bases, creating a human wall of color and smiles. The fliers clap and wave, then spread their hands wide as the music changes once more. Then they freeze.

The lights in the ring dim, and colors fade to black and blue and silver-white. Fog appears from the thick black curtain in the back, filling the round stage with a pool of writhing mist. The music becomes haunting again as a pipe-organ chord rises above the drums’ downbeats and the cello’s churnings. A strobe goes off, and Mab is there, revealed in a whirl of fog like Venus emerging from the sea. Only this Venus glitters with a thousand tiny Swarovski crystals and sports a top hat. And a whip.

The crowd, of course, goes wild.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she calls, her voice as thick and dusty as the smoke that curls at her feet, just as soft and just as overpowering. She strides forward and raises her top hat, sweeping it down in a bow that seems to encompass everyone in the crowd. When she stands, her green eyes are sparkling as bright as her outfit. “Welcome to Cirque des Immortels! Tonight, we have a show to ensnare and entwine, filled with acts to allure you, hellish and divine. Tonight — tonight only — we offer you this, a night of ecstasy, a night of bliss. For once our shows are over and through, for the very select — the most special of you — to our backstage, we cordially invite, to wine, to dine, relax and…delight. Curious? You should be. Just ask, and you’ll know. But for now, sit back, relax, and enjoy our show.”