do much for the deep caress of a passionate leopard's paw.
It happens all the time in my business. They just drop away:
the flyer who falls, the knife thrower whose arthritic knuckles be-
tray his eye, the bareback rider who breaks her spine, the
crocodile woman who looks on the fangs with fear and has to stop,
the actor who can hold the words no longer. And the dwarf who
dies. Dwarfs do not make old bones. Only clowns last. Look at
Carko, 75 this year, and I have him with the Reislings at a top
figure. My father was booking that shriveled old gentleman when
I was small enough to run under the horses' bellies and shorter
than the shortest dwarf.
I sighed. None of these thoughts ousted Jules. Then I told my-
self I would think of him as he had been and not as he became.
Does he wear a mask? I wondered. Or does he wait for the night
and then walk? It was no use. I could only remember the last I
saw.
The American from Ensenata, tall and sandy, planed the Atlan-
tic three days later. I met him at the airport and liked him. He
was big, broad, ebullient. A good showman. But tense underneath,
the way a cat man should be.
We flew to Amsterdam together and met the cats in the
pewter-colored light of early morning. You'd have thought he was
related, the way those sleepy majestic beasts took to him. He had
the touch, the flair, like Jules. I pushed the thought away, saw
Papa Gaudin embrace the boy, and knew the London season was
safe. My heart lightened. I collect the ten percent, and it's never
enough in my business. Expenses are so high.
The three of us left the empty tent together. Then I saw that
there had been a fourth and he was leaving just ahead. A tall
broad man who wore a heavy German topcoat. I've often thought
that topcoats give a distinctive national stamp to a man. My En-
glish ulster gives me away everywhere I go. It's good tweed and
l'ye had it years. This fellow walking in front of me was a Ger-
man. I was sure of that.
Christmas came fast. For me it's always the busiest time of the
year. I had artistes up and down the country, and most nights I
slept in a train. But I made the Olympic for Papa Gaudin's open-
ing.
That night he took the ring himself, splendid in a silk hat,
white tie, red tails, and the tall traditional whip firm in his right
hand. Speed. I never saw anything like it. Yet nothing overlap-
ped. That's the secret of being a good ringmaster. Marry the acts
without a second's wait, and back it all with a showy brass band
that plays music, not just noise.
I sat and basked in the atmosphere. There's something about a
circus audience. I suppose it's the kids. But it acts on me like a
walk in front of the sea. And the circus itself. I love it all. The
liberty horses, Indian flame eaters, Chinese tumblers, clowns,
elephants at the end of the first half, the trapeze high up. And
clowns again. And again. Magic all the way.
