The Last Boat Home (6 page)

Petter placed his satchel on the ground and, after tossing back its flap, pulled a crumpled piece of paper from inside. His fingers trembled as he flattened it out. He presented it to Else, whose eyes grew wide when she realised what it was.

‘It was pasted up outside of Arnholm’s kiosk,’ he said. ‘I just tore it off.’

In the middle of the poster, a cartoon clown bared his teeth in an open-mouthed grin. His gloved hands pointed to a title in the
top left corner: ‘Circus Leona Is Coming!’ A camel’s neck popped up between splashes of purple and red. Four poodles stood on their hind legs in a row at the bottom of the sheet. To the right of the clown, there was a drawing of a man in a loincloth lifting a horse above his head. His arms bulged as round as the letters that proclaimed ‘Circus Leona Is Coming!’

Lars let out a low whistle. He grabbed the poster from Else. ‘What did I tell you?’ he said. ‘The fucking circus is coming.’

Three dates had been scrawled in black ink under the dogs’ paws: 3rd October, 4th October, 5th October.

‘Next Thursday,’ said Lars. ‘We’ll sneak in next Thursday after school. It’ll be busy on the first night, so it’ll be easier to hide.’

‘Won’t you be going with your family?’ asked Petter.

‘So what?’ said Lars. ‘I can go twice.’

Else could not take her eyes from the poster that Lars had spread over his lap. The clown beamed at her beside the strong man’s swollen torso.

‘I’ll come,’ she said.

‘Of course you’re coming,’ said Lars. ‘None of us are missing this.’

During the next week Else’s thoughts returned often to the poster, lifting off from familiar tasks and settling on a scene of poodles prancing on two legs. She would be doing her homework in the dining room and discover that minutes had been lost staring at the pages of a textbook, reading and rereading a single line but seeing clowns bouncing on the humps of trotting camels. Her excitement mounted with each day that brought the circus closer to town, quickening like a pulse under her skin whenever she overheard her mother muttering, ‘Knut Tenvik must be out of his mind.’

The afternoon before the first performance, Else climbed Torggata on her way to the bakery. Petter tagged along, having just remembered that he, too, had promised his mother he would buy a loaf after school. He walked with his eyes on the pavement,
skirting the puddles that had collected during the morning’s rain. His silence made Else awkward. She wished he had not come or, better yet, that Lars had come in his place.

The bakery smelled of cinnamon when she opened the door. Inside, Ingrid Berge handed a paper bag to a customer.

‘Who’s next?’ she asked.

‘One loaf,’ said Else.

‘
Kneip
?’

‘Yes, please.’

Petter ordered the same, as well as two raisin buns. He gave one to Else, who bit into its crust while Ingrid wrapped Petter’s loaf. A shout from Torggata made her turn to the window, but all she could see was a slice of the empty street.

‘In all my days,’ said Ingrid. ‘Someone is making a racket.’

The second holler was nearer than the last. Petter pocketed his change and dashed outside after Else, who collided with a boy racing up the hill.

‘Watch where you’re going!’ said Petter over the trumpet of a car horn. Else looked up the road to the parade that the boy had been running to meet. Twenty cars or more rolled through the town behind a van. Across its bonnet, the words ‘Circus Leona’ were painted in purple and red.

‘They’re here,’ Petter said.

The van’s horn blared. Several others answered its call.

‘Do you hear that?’ he said. ‘Else, do you see them? Come on!’

He set off at a sprint up the hill, leaving her to stare at the chain of cars that was edging towards her. The van’s driver leaned out of his window to wave and grin at the crowd that was multiplying on the pavement. His face was flushed. The hair on his head crawled onto his cheeks in fat sideburns that fused in a bristly strip under his nose.

‘Thursday! Friday! Saturday!’ His letters tripped off his tongue with an exotic trill. ‘Come see the animals and acrobats!’

The bakery door opened at Else’s back.

‘What’s going on?’ said Ingrid Berge.

‘Thursday! Friday! Saturday!’

‘Oh, my,’ she said.

One after another, the cars passed. Vehicles in all shapes and sizes followed after the van. Volkswagens in various stages of disrepair towed trailers and caravans, while lorries and buses rattled in and out of potholes. From their seats in the cavalcade the circus troupe dealt out smiles to the townspeople, their dark eyes shining in dark faces. Else spotted a muzzle poking through an open window. A pair of nostrils quivered in the air, then disappeared.

The final car in the procession pulled a caravan whose walls had been mended with sheets of canvas and timber.

‘Oh, Lord,’ said Ingrid and bent her knees for a better peek at its driver. He was larger than any man Else had ever seen. His shoulders sprouted arms as thick as two knuckles of meat. He kept his eyes on the lorry ahead of him, not seeming to notice the crowd that inspected him with dropping jaws. Else felt the dip in her belly that always came when she cradled one of onkel Olav’s coffee cups in her palm. Only after he had driven on did she realise that she had been holding her breath.

‘Well,’ said Ingrid, ‘and now I’ve seen that, too.’

Ingrid withdrew into the bakery as soon as the spectators began to scatter. A staunch group made up mainly of children lingered at the rear of the parade, marching after it down Torggata and cheering with each bleat of the van’s horn. Else searched the faces of those who remained and, when she did not find Petter, started to climb, realising with regret that her fingers had crushed the half-eaten raisin bun he had given her. At the top of the street, she looked back at the water. From here, she could see most of the town. White houses with black roofs speckled the hillside that tumbled to the fjord.

The procession had turned the corner at the Longpier and was now inching along Havneveien. At the end of the harbour, it picked up speed and pulled away from what was left of the crowd. Still the children ran, galloping after the column of cars as it receded from sight, keeping up with each other until, one by one, they fell by the wayside.

O
N THE EVENING
of the first circus show, Else walked the distance to Tenvik’s farm with her head down, grateful for the rain that let her shrink under her hood, though water trickled down her jacket in streams that were soaked up by her trouser legs. Two cars sped by before slowing at Tenvik’s gate and she crept after them onto his land, slogging through the mud in front of the farmhouse, whose windows were lit from within. To the right of his barns, a track decorated with red and purple sashes hooked away from the yard. Else’s breath met the air in puffs of steam as she moved towards it.

Another car bumped onto the path behind her, catching her in its headlights, making her stumble. She turned her face to the bushes until it had driven on, then continued towards the music that was crashing through the dark. The band grew louder the closer she came to the paddock which, by now, she and Lars knew well. They had made the journey through the woods several times since he had first brought her there. As they lay in the shelter of its tall grass, they had tried to imagine what the circus would look like, where the Big Top would stand, where they would keep the animals, where the tickets would be sold.

Now, as Else stepped onto the field, the colours of the Big Top danced in a mist of white light. A winding queue of would-be ticket holders clutched money in their palms, anxious to escape the rain. She stole away from them, sticking to the shadows behind
the generator and skirting the circus vans that were parked to one side of the tent. Between their bumpers she caught glimpses of bodies, a shimmer of costume, a whip of hair.

Lars was waiting by a row of boulders at the north end of the paddock. He stood with Rune and Petter, who sucked on a cigarette before offering it around. Else let Lars kiss her in front of the others and did not care that Rune swore, or that Petter looked away. She pressed Lars’s hand.

‘Ready?’ he asked.

A voice bellowed inside the Big Top. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ it said, ‘please take your seats.’

Else ducked into the gap between a car and its trailer, squeezing in behind Lars. He ventured forward and then drew back without a word. Two men hurried by, quarrelling in a language she could not understand. Once they had passed, Lars tried again. He dared a step, then another, and then he charged. From where she stood, Else watched him cover the distance to the Big Top in seconds flat. Next, a shadow darted from the trailer one car along. Rune and Petter were moving. She would have to be quick.

She took a deep breath. The air stank of horses. With one last peek around the corner, Else launched herself from behind the trailer’s wall. Her shoes splattered mud. She was making too much noise: the whole circus would be able to hear her. She glanced left and right. A group had gathered at the rear of the tent. She could make out the silhouette of an animal, maybe two.

When she caught up with the boys, Lars was crouched on the ground with his fingers gripping the hem of the tent.

‘Here we go,’ he said. He lifted the canvas and crawled into the Big Top.

Else stooped after him, landing in sawdust which stuck to her palms and wet trouser legs. The band was walloping a tune to compete with the chatter of the audience, whose ankles dangled above her. On their hands and knees, Lars, Petter and Rune
scrabbled under rows of shoe soles and scaffolding to the front, where restless feet revealed hints of the ring that lay beyond.

Lars dropped to his stomach behind a pair of boots and craned his neck to look for Else. She eased herself to the floor between him and Petter and sank into sawdust to meet the chill of the ground. The lights under the Big Top dimmed. A drum roll started.

‘Good evening, dear ladies and gentlemen.’

The voice seemed to echo through the tent. A hush fell over the crowd. Petter’s body stirred beside her. She could feel him trembling. Else found Lars’s hand.

‘Please allow me to welcome you. To the one. The only. Circus Leona!’

The Big Top exploded. First came the horses flashing white around the ring, their necks curved and their riders sparkling white from head to toe. Three sets of hooves thundered by, flicking dirt into Else’s eyes. Next the clowns rolled in red and the acrobats flipped silver, green and blue, like mackerel straight out of the water. And everything was moving – spinning, flipping and rolling – and the colour was so bright, it was like landing on the sun.

The audience scrambled to their feet and screamed their delight and stamped the scaffolding which shuddered over Else’s head. Cymbals crashed and the riders planted their feet on their saddles, though their horses galloped on. Another smash of the cymbals and the riders jumped and now they were falling in somersaults to the ground. They touched down with a splash in the sawdust and the Big Top shook with the crowd’s jubilation.

‘And now. For the first act of the evening.’

The microphone crackled and Else shivered. In a gap between a pair of legs, she saw the ringmaster stepping in from the wings to the centre of the manège. He wore a red top hat and tails embroidered with rhinestones. Even in his costume, Else
recognised the driver of the van. The ringmaster smiled a glittering smile.

‘I ask you to welcome. Ladies and Gentlemen. From the bottom of your hearts. The Brothers Bezrukov!’

The spotlight blinked off and on. Now it pointed to the back of the ring, where two men jogged out with their arms open wide. A net as big as a fisherman’s dropped from the ceiling to the floor and the first brother stepped up to wind his ankles in its mesh. The audience gasped as the net jerked, snatching the man into the air. His body twisted and twitched and became ever more tangled until his struggle tore the net in two. It dragged his legs into a split and tipped him upside down and he reached for his brother, who grabbed his wrists. Instead of saving him, he, too, was swept off his feet. He twirled up and over until both brothers were ensnared.

Else looked past their gymnastics to the spectators across the ring. In the grey light of the stalls, she recognised faces from school and even from church. Ingrid Berge appeared transfixed beside her daughter, Gro, who perched on the edge of her seat and pressed her palms in her lap. Behind them, Astrid Stormo’s two sons had forgotten the blooms of candyfloss gripped in their hands. Tenvik sat in the front row and leaned forward in his chair, his fingers clutching the barrier rail. His eyes never strayed from the performers, though he shook his head from time to time as if unable to believe what they saw.

One by one, the ringmaster introduced the acts that followed the Brothers Bezrukov, each more wonderful than the last. A contortionist touched his ears with his toes before a clown proposed marriage to Tenvik’s wife. Llamas and camels gave way to a quartet of poodles which sprang through hoops and balanced balls on their noses. A magician drove swords into a chest, while his assistant screamed her terror from inside. Trapeze artists swung and toppled, a juggler threw fire, a tightrope walker pirouetted
under a red-and-purple-starred sky. The air smelled of sweat and dung and spun sugar. The tent was all twinkle and feathers and shine.

‘And now,’ said the ringmaster, ‘for the night’s final performance.’

The lights fell. Darkness smothered the murmur of the crowd.

‘Prepare yourselves, Ladies and Gentlemen, to be dazzled.’

Petter inched closer to Else. Lars’s fingers touched her elbow, sending a tingling up her arm.

‘Here is the mighty. The unequalled. Please welcome, Ladies and Gentlemen. Valentin Popov!’

When the spotlight came on, a man was waiting in the middle of the ring, his fists resting on his hips. Above the hose that was moulded to his calves and thighs, his torso glistened in the light. It was the giant from the parade. Else remembered how he had seemed unconcerned by the townspeople gawking at him in his car. Any detachment he had shown then was gone. He glared at the audience, who welcomed him with raucous applause. He kept his stare level when a boy in a military coat led a golden retriever to his side. Valentin Popov noticed the duo and threw his hands into the air before scooping the dog up in his arms. After pumping the animal three times over his head, he put it back on the ground and shooed his partner away.