John Irving - Avenue of Mysteries

Ignacio shot Mañana because the horse had a broken leg. In Juan Diego’s opinion, Ignacio wasn’t justified in shooting Hombre. Lupe had been right: what happened wasn’t the lion’s fault. What motivated Ignacio to shoot Hombre was twofold. The lion tamer was a coward; he didn’t dare go inside Hombre’s cage after the lion had killed Lupe — not when Hombre was alive. (The tension in the lion’s cage, after Lupe was killed, was unknown territory.) And Ignacio was assuredly motivated by some macho bullshit of the “man-eater” mentality — namely, the lion tamer needed to believe that instances of humans falling victim to lions were always the lions’ fault.

And of course, however misguided Lupe’s thinking was, she’d been right about everything that would happen if Hombre killed her. Lupe knew Ignacio would shoot Hombre — she must have known what would happen as a result of that, too.

As it turned out, Juan Diego wouldn’t fully appreciate Lupe’s foresight (her superhuman, if not divine, omniscience) until the following morning.

The day Lupe was killed, Circo de La Maravilla was overrun by those types Ignacio thought of as the “authorities.” Because the lion tamer had always seen himself as the authority, Ignacio did not function very well in the presence of other authorities — the police, and people with similarly official roles to play.

The lion tamer was curt with Juan Diego when the boy told him that Lupe had fed the lionesses before she fed Hombre. Juan Diego knew this, because he figured that Lupe would have thought no one would feed the lionesses that day if she didn’t.

Juan Diego also knew this because he’d gone to have a look at the lionesses after Lupe and Hombre were killed. The night before, Lupe had unlocked the slot for the feeding tray in the cage for the lionesses, too. She must have fed the lionesses the usual way; then she’d pulled the feeding tray entirely out, leaving it leaning against the outside of the lionesses’ cage, exactly the way she’d left the feeding tray to Hombre’s cage.

Besides, the lionesses looked as if they’d been fed; “las señoritas,” as Ignacio called them, were just lying around at the back of their cage and had simply stared at Juan Diego in their unreadable way.

Ignacio’s response to Juan Diego made the boy feel it didn’t matter to the lion tamer whether Lupe had fed the lionesses before she died, or not, but it did matter, as things would turn out. It mattered a lot. It meant that no one else had to feed the lionesses on the day Lupe and Hombre were killed.

Juan Diego even tried to give Ignacio the two keys to the slots in the lion cages for the feeding trays, but Ignacio didn’t want the keys. “Keep them — I got my own keys,” the lion tamer told him.

Naturally, Brother Pepe and Edward Bonshaw hadn’t allowed Juan Diego to spend another night in the dogs’ troupe tent. Pepe and Señor Eduardo had helped Juan Diego pack his things, together with Lupe’s few things — namely, her clothes. (Lupe had no keepsakes; she didn’t miss her Coatlicue figurine, not since Mary’s new nose.)

In the hasty move from La Maravilla to Lost Children, Juan Diego would lose the lid to the coffee can that had held the nose-inspiring ashes, but that night he slept in his old room at Lost Children, and he went to bed with Lupe’s lanyard around his neck. He could feel the two keys to the lion cages; in the dark, he squeezed the keys between his thumb and index finger before he fell asleep. Next to him, in the small bed Lupe used to sleep in, the parrot man watched over him — that is, when the Iowan wasn’t snoring.

Boys dream of being heroes; after Juan Diego lost Lupe, he wouldn’t have those dreams. He knew his sister had sought to save him; he knew he’d failed to save her. An aura of fate had marked him — even at fourteen, Juan Diego knew this, too.

The morning after he lost Lupe, Juan Diego woke to the sound of children chanting — the kindergartners were repeating Sister Gloria’s responsive prayer. “Ahora y siempre,” the kindergartners recited. “Now and forever”—not this, not for the rest of my life, Juan Diego was thinking; he was awake, but he kept his eyes closed. Juan Diego didn’t want to see his old room at Lost Children; he didn’t want to see Lupe’s small bed, with no one (or perhaps the parrot man) in it.

That next morning, Lupe’s body would have been with Dr. Vargas. Father Alfonso and Father Octavio had already asked Vargas for a viewing of the child’s body; the two old priests wanted to bring one of the nuns from Lost Children with them to Cruz Roja. There were questions about how Lupe’s body should be dressed, and — given the lion bite — whether or not an open casket was advisable. (Brother Pepe had said he couldn’t do it — that is, view Lupe’s body. That was why the two old priests asked Vargas for a viewing.)

That morning, as far as anyone at La Maravilla knew — except for Ignacio, who knew differently — Dolores had simply run away. It was the talk of the circus, how The Wonder herself had just disappeared; it seemed so unlikely that no one had seen her in Oaxaca. A pretty girl like that, with long legs like hers, couldn’t just vanish from sight, could she?

Maybe only Ignacio knew that Dolores was in Guadalajara; maybe the amateur abortion had already occurred, and the peritoneal infection was just developing. Perhaps Dolores believed she would recover soon, and she’d started her return trip to Oaxaca.

That morning, at Lost Children, Edward Bonshaw must have had a lot on his mind. He had a huge confession to make to Father Alfonso and Father Octavio — not the kind of confession the two old priests were used to. And Señor Eduardo knew he needed the Church’s help. The scholastic had not only forsaken his vows; the Iowan was a gay man in love with a transvestite.

How could two such people hope to adopt an orphan? Why would anyone allow Edward Bonshaw and Flor to be legal guardians of Juan Diego? (Señor Eduardo didn’t just need the Church’s help ; he needed the Church to bend the rules, more than a little.)

That morning, at La Maravilla, Ignacio knew he had to feed the lionesses himself. Who could the lion tamer have persuaded to do it for him? Soledad wasn’t speaking to him, and Ignacio had managed to make the girl acrobats afraid of the lions; his bullshit about the lions sensing when the girls got their periods had scared the young acrobats away. Even before Hombre killed Lupe, the girls were frightened — even of the lionesses.

“It’s the lionesses the lion tamer should be afraid of,” Lupe had predicted.

That morning, the day after Ignacio shot and killed Hombre, the lion tamer must have made a mistake when he was feeding the lionesses. “They can’t fool me — I know what they’re thinking,” Ignacio had bragged about the lionesses. “The young ladies are obvious,” the lion tamer had told Lupe. “I don’t need a mind reader for las señoritas.”

Ignacio had told Lupe he could read the lionesses’ minds by the body parts they were named for.

That morning, the lionesses must not have been as easy to read as the lion tamer once thought. According to studies of lions in the Serengeti, as Vargas would later impart to Juan Diego, lionesses are responsible for the majority of the kills. Lionesses know how to hunt as a team; when stalking a herd of wildebeest or zebra, they encircle the herd, cutting off any escape routes, before they attack.

When the dump kids had just met Hombre for the first time, Flor whispered to Edward Bonshaw: “If you think you just saw the king of beasts, think again. You’re about to meet him now. Ignacio is the king of beasts.”