Nightmare Carnival

Once inside Leo dismisses the sweepers who file out, grumbling that their work’s not done. Leo sits on an upturned crate, Christos beside him, but Rollo contrives to insert himself between them, an arm around their shoulders.

Rebecca drops her robe. It lands around her feet in a way that makes Leo’s heart stop and start. He glances at Christos. His brother’s eyes are shining.

Her costume’s made of rough, fire-retardant fabric, cut and stitched into a short flared dress that skims her thighs.

She holds her right hand out to one side. The flame starts as a flicker in her palm that grows. She undulates as if rolling it up her arm and across her shoulders and then lets it come to rest in her other hand. More flames appear, one then another, not just along the path the first flame had taken but on her chest, her stomach, and her legs. They move at random, growing in size.

Rebecca tosses them into the air, juggling with rapid movements that make the fireballs look more like streaks. It looks like she’s fumbled a throw and one of them will land on top of her head but Rebecca puts her head back and opens her mouth, swallowing it. In they go, one after another. Fire’s flying from her hands as if from nowhere and she gulps them down in quick succession.

There’s a pause, in which Leo thinks she’s finished, but then smoke and sparks pour from her mouth, followed by a jet of flames that shoots twenty feet in the air. There’s a flash, then it falls, covering her from head to foot, and Leo starts forward but is restrained by Christos’s hand on his shoulder.

Rebecca claps, a single sharp sound that seems to douse the flames. Done, she awaits judgment.

“What’s in your accelerant?” Rollo asks.

“That’s my secret.”

Rollo turns to Christos, who holds up his hands.

“You can’t work here unless you tell us. There are no secrets from management.” Rollo’s looking at Leo, waiting for affirmation.

“I can do more than this, Leo.”

“May I?” Leo stands close. He touches her jaw with his fingertips.

She opens her mouth and he looks inside. Not a blister, not a mark. It looks entirely normal. Nor is a single hair or eyebrow singed. He’s not fond of fire acts or the arcana of the craft. He knows the tricks. How to harden the skin with a mixture of sulphur and alum, to which some add onion or rosemary essence. Afterward they have to soak off this toughened skin with hot wine. Then there’s what they use to coat the delicate flesh inside the mouth: concoctions of more sulphur and alum, this time with soap and carbolic acid. Rebecca’s skin is soft, not callused, and she smells sweet, not like the bowels of hell. He won’t press her to tell him her secret, not yet, not if she’s not told Christos.

“You like danger.”

Leo’s seen his share of its ill effects. What happens when the wind unexpectedly shifts and immolates a performer. The awful condition, fire lung, which follows accidental inhalation of the fuel being held in their mouths. He’s also seen the longer term consequences of this game: the stained, bleeding gums and then the florid, fungus-shaped cancers of the throat and tongue that fire swallowers are prone to.

“I know the risks. You’ve not told me what you think of me.”

“You’re good. You’ve been practicing but you’re new to this game.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Only to me.” Leo smiles despite himself. “It’s about presentation. We can teach you that stuff, if you really want to do it. I want you to know that you don’t have to, though. None of us expects it.”

Christos, why did you bring her here? If she were mine there’d be a house with a lawn. Or an apartment in the city with a view, just a short walk from the theater.

Anything she wanted. Just not this.

His existence seems shabby despite all his enterprise. He’s a vulgar showman grubbing in the dirt for coins.

“Are you joking? She’ll be a star.” Rollo’s praise sounds sour.

“I was born for this,” Rebecca insists.

“Then you’re going to need a better costume. And a name.”

“We’d been on the road all our lives. Leo gave us a home. Rebecca messed everything up. Afterward it all fell apart. We all went different ways.”

Henry has sat up all night, watching Rollo’s interviews again and again.

“For people who are unique you’ve proved hard to find.”

“Who have you talked to?”

“People who worked in Paradise but no one else from this photo.” Henry sees the back of his own head as he leans into the camera shot to hand Rollo the photograph. It’s the one of the group dressed for dinner.

Rollo clutches it, dumb. Looking at a past he can’t get back.

“I’ll send you a copy.” Henry retrieves it. “You stayed on in Paradise for a while.”

“Yes.”

“Until you were sacked.”

“Trumped-up excuses. They had no idea what they were doing.”

“You mean Flint’s men?”