Entwined

Chapter 13

Torsen's eyes were becoming bloodshot reading the screens; he had been at it for hours and still had not traced the Jeczawitzes' marriage certificate. Many of the files were incomplete, and the further back he went, the worse they were.

Torsen looked up as the woman in charge of the records department gestured to her watch. She wanted to leave. "The building is empty, Inspector, and the watchman has to lock up the main gates before nine."

He began to collect his belongings. She came to stand by his side. "You still have four more files on the Js... will you come back tomorrow?"

Torsen nodded. She promised to have the files ready for him.

"Not knowing the year this man was married it is very difficult, especially in the fifties, there were so many refugees, so many homeless people, you know the cost of the Nazi dictatorship."

They walked to the door, and she sighed as she turned off the overhead lights. "There were four million inhabitants, more, and you know how many were left? Only two million. This city was devastated, there were corpses everywhere, burned-out tanks... You are too young to remember, but the survivors were mostly children, old men and old women, making homes amidst the rubble, in cellars, in old bunkers..."

They walked toward the main exit. On the way she stopped at a coat closet. "There was something so frightening about the terrible emptiness in the city; even the survivors crept about — no one believed it was over. I lost my father, my brothers, my family home — all my possessions..."

Torsen waited while she collected her coat and hat and told the watchman to lock up. He took her arm, and they walked slowly across the courtyard.

"I began working here after the war, nearly all my life, recording marriages, births, and trying to trace the dead. The worst was trying to put the papers in order. You see the building had caught fire, there was nothing left. In those days the main priority was to find food, everything was scarce, and without documents people could not get food coupons. The black market trade flourished, there were forged documents galore, endless confusion. It still goes on. People from all over the world are trying to trace their relatives, they come back year after year to find out about a son, a daughter... It is impossible, but we do what we can; that is all we can do."

Torsen paused and took out his notebook. "May I ask you a great favor, if you could, when you have a moment, see if you can find any record of Rudi Jeczawitz's wife. All I have is a Christian name, Ruda, I don't know her age."

They walked on. She seemed glad of his company. "Ruda? Is that Polish? Russian? We had so many refugees, they poured in daily, they were starved... many so young, all they had was their body. Now we have them again, refugees from the borders — they come every day, no papers, no money... it is getting bad, begging on the street, Gypsies — Romanian, Czech, Polish. Dear God, it seems it will never end!"

Torsen nodded. "I have been told she was a prostitute, perhaps they were not married legally, I don't know..."

"Many married for papers, they would marry for a name, for an identity. You know, many children roaming the streets in those days knew only their first name, nothing more — and some only a number. It was a terrible sight to see these young children everywhere, their shaved heads, their skeletal bodies. Now, when I see these punks... this new fashion stuns me, they do not remember... maybe, maybe it is best they don't, because it haunts the living, I know that."

Torsen continued walking. "My father has been saying the same things to me, he's in a nursing home. He said there were many who clung to life because their memories made them afraid of dying..."

She turned to him, a tight smile on her face. Her blue eyes searched his for a moment, and then she pointed to a bus stop. "I leave you here, my friend, and I will do what I can, but no promises. I have enjoyed speaking with you."

They shook hands, and Torsen apologized: He did not know her name.

"Lena. Lena Klapps."

Torsen waved to her as she stepped onto her bus, and then caught one himself, going in the opposite direction. He was worn out, and wondered whether he had been wasting his time; the days were passing and he had made no arrest. He was behind in his regular duties. He closed his eyes. "There are no coincidences in a murder inquiry..." As he opened his eyes he looked out of the window — and saw Ruda Kellerman stepping out of a taxicab. He craned his neck to look more closely, but he could not see her face because she wore dark glasses, and a fur draped around her shoulders. She was standing outside Mama Magda's — a notorious hangout for gay, lesbian, and mixed couples. He moved to the back of the bus to see more clearly, and watched her entering the dark, paint-peeling doorway. He was sure it was her. He wondered what she was doing in such a place, then returned to his seat, his mind churning over the day's events, asking himself if there was some connection between Ruda Kellerman and the two murders. Suddenly he realized he was almost at his stop, and as he rushed from his seat calling out to the bus driver he rang the bell. Hurrying along the aisle he came face to face with the driver he wished to question again. He asked whether he could hold the bus for just a few moments.

For privacy, they spoke on the pavement. Torsen asked for a fuller description of the woman who got off his bus near the Grand Hotel the night of Kellerman's murder.

The man removed his cap, rubbed his head, and tried to recall what he had told the inspector — while the disgruntled passengers glared at them from their seats.

"She was foreign, definitely dark-haired... and wearing a dark coat, no, a mackintosh... it was raining, and she was tall, yes, tall... taller than me, say about five feet eight, maybe a little more."

"That is very tall, are you sure she was that tall?"

The driver backed off and sized up Torsen, asking him how tall he was. They then stood shoulder to shoulder, until the man was satisfied he was correct.

A passenger descended the steps and asked angrily if they were going to stay there all night.

Torsen let himself into his apartment, and turned on his electric heater. He looked into his empty fridge and swore, slamming the door shut. He brewed some tea, sat at his kitchen table, and began making laborious notes.

He had a suspect, one he underlined three times. Ruda Keller-man-Grimaldi — but what was the motive?

1. Motive: None.

2. Gain: None.

3. Alibi: Good.

4. Did she have help?

5. Could she have inflicted the hammer blows?

Torsen erased number five, then reinstated it. He recalled her handshake. She was very strong, she was very tall. Could she have been mistaken for a man leaving Kellerman's hotel?

6. Check if Ruda Kellerman has a trilby.

7. Check if Kellerman had a trilby.

8. Stock up fridge — coffee and milk.

The more he thought of food the hungrier he got, so in the end he went to buy some rolls from the all-night delicatessen. He ate standing by the window, at a small bar provided by the shop for their customers.

When he returned to his apartment it was after ten; a message was pinned to his door. Freda had popped by to deliver the note from his father. She had also left her address and phone number, and her schedule list of days on/days off, evenings on/evenings off. He liked that, liked that she was methodical and made lists. He decided he would call her in the morning, to ask for a date.

That same evening, Ruda was ironing her jacket lapels. Luis woke up and sniffed. He loved the smell of freshly ironed clothes: They reminded him of his mother. He wrapped his dressing gown around himself and wandered in to see Ruda.

"How did rehearsal go?"

"Mamon is adjusting, but he still hates the new plinths. He's acting up, and I really have to push him."

Grimaldi looked into a large frying pan left on the stove. There were bacon, sausages, and onion rings, all of it cold. She turned off the iron. "I did call you, but decided not to wake you. There's a baked potato in the oven. Do you want a beer?"

He forked out some food and refused the beer, said he'd stick to water. He carried his plate to the table and sat down. She called out that he would have time to shower and change, the dress rehearsal was not until nine. She came in zipping up her tight white pants. "Ours is the last act before the intermission, and we open the second act. It's a good spot — well, the one before the intermission is. I'd like to close the show, but the manager won't let me have the time to reassemble the cages."

She put on her jacket, looked in the mirror, and then arranged her hair in a tight braid down her back. She pulled it back tightly from her face so that it looked sleek, almost Spanish. She leaned against him as she slipped her feet into her boots. He looked her over, and gave her a pat on the behind.

"Don't," she snapped, "your fingers are all greasy!"

"You look good," he said with his mouth full, and she did a small pirouette, then picked up the short whip and her stick. With a final glance at her reflection, she went to the trailer door.

"Get dressed, Luis, I want you on display, sober and looking good. Everyone heard about our scene, so let's put up a good front. It's almost seven-thirty."

He laughed. "This crowd thrives on what the Grimaldis do, what they said, who hit whom — tell them to go fuck themselves."

She picked up her hat, twisted it, and put it on. "Over and out, big man! See you in the ring!"

Grimaldi shaved and dressed, and looked at himself in the mirror. Even after a shave and a long sleep he looked beat: his eyes bloodshot, his skin puffy. He checked his hairline; he needed a tint, the gray was showing through.

He tightened his thick belt. His belly hung over the top, and he hitched the shirt up so it almost hid the extra pounds. And as he stared at himself in the long mirror, he asked himself where it had all gone wrong... he couldn't blame it all on the mauling. He was falling apart long before that.

He looked at the wall of photographs, saw his papa and his brothers, and remembered holding tightly to his dying father's hand. "You keep it going, you marry, you have sons, don't let the Grimaldi name die. Have many sons!.. for your brothers, Luis, God rest their souls."

He thought about little Tina. It had been a foolish dream, and yet he had been thrilled to think at last he would have a son, an heir. He had even wondered what it would feel like to hold his son, he never considered it could be a girl: It was a son he had always wanted. Yet he had married Ruda...

Luis opened a drawer and took out an old folder of small snapshots. He sifted through them, not even sure what he was searching for.

He inched open Ruda's closet, wondering where she had stashed all his albums.

He looked up: There was a row of cupboards on top of the closet. In the first she kept her show hats; in the second he saw an old winter coat and a plastic rain cape. He couldn't open the third, so he stepped up on a stool and pulled hard. He almost lost his balance as the albums tumbled out. Paper clippings and loose photographs spilled everywhere; he swore as he bent to retrieve them.

He sat on her bed and began to flip through the books, chuckling and smiling as the memories flooded back. He had had a wonderful childhood. But Ruda never talked of her past; she had said without any emotion that some things are best left buried. She had talked about her life with Kellerman, even, up to a point, about the old magician, but then she would change the subject, as if her life before that was not worth mentioning, or perhaps too painful to bring up, because when he had insisted, she had rolled up her cuff, and had thrust the scar in his face.

"I have this to remind me. I am reminded every time I stand naked, every time my head aches, that's enough... Why talk about it? Why open up memories I have fought to forget?"

When she had been in one of her moods, when she had thrown one of her tantrums — because money was short or his drinking was out of hand — she would turn on him enraged, screaming that whatever pain he was in, she had known worse.

She would thrust her tattoo defiantly under his nose. "This is my proof, what is yours, Luis? What right have you got to complain about anything?"

She had taken over. Slowly he turned the pages, asking himself how he had allowed it to happen. The first time he had met her, he was the star, he had money — he had success.

He lay back on her hard pillow and closed his eyes, visualizing the Florida winter quarters, remembering how he had stood by the cages as the vet went from one animal to the next. He had been working in England, just before all the quarantine laws come into effect. His act had gone down well. He had traveled to Manchester, to Brighton, and then to Wembley for the big Chipperfield contract. In the early sixties he had been at his peak — what a time that had been — and then he had returned to America, at the invitation of a Barnum & Bailey scout.

With the winter season coming on he had arrived in Venice, Florida, ready to be an internationally acclaimed star.

Knowing he had the contract, Grimaldi spent freely, even bought two more tigers. Then the bombshell: First to die was his lead cat, a massive Siberian tiger trained by his father. The big animal began sweating, his eyes ran, and his coat quickly began to look dull. The vets diagnosed a virulent, dangerous flu, most likely contracted in England.

The flu spread like a forest fire. They were going down one by one; the act was disappearing in front of his eyes. He worked every hour God gave him, but no matter what care and attention he lavished on his beloved animals, they died. No injection could save them, his only hope was to segregate the animals. Then the second calamity struck; the surviving animals were poisoned by hay laced with a pesticide intended to kill rodents in the barn from which it came. The fittest of his remaining cats now became dangerously ill, and Luis worked himself into a state of exhaustion. He watched his beasts sweat and cough, their breath rasping as they choked and grew listless, eyes and noses running. Their paws sweat, they refused their food. They died in his arms. A pyre was built, and he stood by watching as the prize and pride of his life burned in front of him. He felt as if it were his own life blazing.

Out of eighteen tigers only four were left, plus one fully grown lion and a small, sickly panther. The cost of replacing the animals was astronomical, and no insurance covered the epidemic.

Then, when he believed nothing else could go wrong, a hurricane swept through the state. His trailer was destroyed and two more cats perished. His cages were wrecked, his props and plinths crushed.

Luis Grimaldi could not sign the contract, his most coveted prize; he didn't have the resources to buy new animals. He was finished. He moved into a run-down trailer given to him by the circus folk of the winter quarters. That's where his drinking began. For weeks his old retainers fed and cleaned the remaining animals, without wages, but eventually they were driven by necessity to seek work elsewhere. Only Johnny Two Seats was left, so nicknamed because of his wide, fat ass. He cared for Grimaldi as best he could, and saw that at least he ate the odd meal.

Winter came and went, the circus performers moved on, and Grimaldi remained. He had nowhere else to go and, out of pity, the owners and managers let him stay on.

One day Ruda Kellerman had appeared, in a rusty old Jeep, with her obnoxious husband. They were traveling on to Chicago, where Kellerman was to join a troupe of acrobats. She wasn't half starved anymore, but well filled out — twice the size of her diminutive spouse.

Kellerman was there only a few hours before he got into a brawl, and was asked to leave. He yelled that it hadn't been his idea to come to the run-down shithole, but his wife's, because she wanted to see Grimaldi.

Ruda appeared at Grimaldi's shambles of a trailer. She banged on the window. Hung over, unshaven, and stinking to high heaven, he had flung open the door, shouting to whoever it was to leave him alone. She was shocked to see him in this state, the man who had been her idol for years.

She brought him food, brewed some coffee, told him how she made pocket money doing astrology charts and reading palms. She had laughed at how easy it was to make money.

Grimaldi wasn't listening; he sat in a stupor, drinking the thick black sweet coffee. She dug deep into her old trouser pockets, took out a wad of dollars and stuffed them into his hand. "Here, you were kind to me once, I've never forgotten that..."

Kellerman had banged on the door and yelled that they were on their way. She had shouted back for him to wait in the truck, and stood up staring at Grimaldi, concerned. "I got to go, you take care now, maybe I'll see you around."

She extended her hand, like a man, but he turned away, embarrassed at having taken her money, and yet unable to turn it down.

For the next four months Ruda and Kellerman had traveled around, stopping off at small-time circuses, never for long. Kellerman held on to his dream of working in one of the main venues in Vegas, but when they eventually arrived there they were so broke he had to sell all his so-called props. He had no act to sell, never mind one that would earn them any cash, and none of the high-class acts would even consider his type of performance. Ruda had to work as a waitress, at a roadside truckers' stop. She worked twelve-hour shifts to earn enough for them to live on.

The gambling bug took hold of Tommy: Slot machines attracted him like a drug, and he began to borrow more and more money. Then he made the mistake of getting in with loan sharks. He owed thousands, and gambled in a feverish panic to try and cover his losses. Three weeks after their arrival in Vegas, Ruda returned home, worn out after a late-night shift, to discover Kellerman had sold their mobile home at the trailer park — sold it, when they didn't even own it! But he had at least left word where he had bolted to and she tracked him down to a small, seedy rooming house. The only possessions he had been unable to sell were a few of her clothes. Ruda had told Grimaldi, albeit a long time after, how she had opened her cheap trunk, rummaged through her things, and then slammed down the lid. She had told him how angry she had been, demanding to know what Kellerman had done with her albums and notebooks. Kellerman, so Ruda had said, hadn't seemed to care, he had simply got out as fast as he could.

Grimaldi remembered asking Ruda if that was why she had left Kellerman, and she had told him... He frowned, trying to recall what reason she had given, then suddenly it came to him, he remembered exactly what Ruda had said:

"I was pissed off at him so much of the time, and the thought that he had left my boxes, the ones with all my letters, my customers' telephone numbers, that really got me mad." She had grown silent, and Grimaldi had asked about the boxes. Had Ruda got them back? She had shrugged, was dismissive.

"Yeah, the little shit had that much decency. Oh, Luis, I was so angry, I beat the hell out of him and I really went crazy when I found out he'd gone through them. He knew he wouldn't find any money there, but what got me so mad was that he couldn't even leave my boxes alone. It was the last straw that finally made me leave him. He didn't give me any respect. You see, they're mine. They're all I got."

Grimaldi could have no knowledge of the importance of the boxes to Ruda. He could not know that Kellerman had watched her check each item: the little pebble, a piece of string, a heavy gold wedding ring, and all the tiny folded squares of newspaper, some of them brown with age, their edges frayed from being opened and refolded so many times. Ruda had never told her husband of the fight that had followed.

Ruda was always placing ads in newspapers. In every city, every town, she would run the same, just two lines: "Red, Blue, Green, Ruda, Arbeit Macht Frei" and then the box number where she could be contacted. Kellerman had given up trying to persuade her it was a waste of time; finally he had got so angry he had torn up the neatly cut square of newspaper, ripped it into shreds and screamed: "She will never contact you. She is dead, dead, DEAD!"

Ruda had looked at him, then calmly opened the kitchen drawer and taken out a carving knife. She flew at him from across the room, and he had saved himself only by crawling under a table. She kicked at him, and stabbed the knife into the wooden tabletop; her frenzied attack continued until she had slumped exhausted onto the floor beside him. She had let him remove the knife from her hands, and like two children hiding, they huddled together under the table.

Kellerman never brought up the subject again, or acknowledged how much it hurt him to see those words: Arbeit Macht Frei. These words were printed above each hut in the concentration camp. He knew, more than anyone else, the importance of the black box, but he had not realized it meant more to her than he did.

The morning after the fight, Ruda had given him some money she had earned as tips the previous night. He had promised he would not gamble, he would look for a job, but he hadn't even attempted to find one. He used Ruda's money to buy a gun.

Kellerman and two pals had planned a robbery together. They would go to a circus where he had once worked. Kellerman knew when and where the takings were counted.

The robbery, seemingly so simple, got out of hand and the cashier, a man who had himself lent money to Kellerman at one stage, was shot and died on his way to the hospital. Kellerman had planned to run away with Ruda, but he had barely arrived back at the rooming house with the money when the police came for him.

Ruda had been arrested along with him and held in jail, suspected of being his accomplice.

Perhaps one of the few decent things Kellerman had ever done in his grubby, miserable life was to deny adamantly that Ruda had played any part in the robbery. She was released. She went to see him only once, and had listened to him as he begged her to find a good lawyer. Then she had looked at him and asked how she was to pay for it. He had pleaded with her: "You've got to help me, Ruda, please. Help me get out of this!"

She hadn't even waited for the visiting time to be over; instead she had said, with a half smile: "No, Tommy. I'm through helping you. You see, Tommy, you should never have opened my box. It's mine."

Ruda never tried to contact Kellerman again. She read in the papers he had been sentenced to eight years. By this time she was already heading back to Florida, and arrived at Grimaldi's winter quarters on the same day he had been asked to leave. Grimaldi was broke: The people who had befriended him could extend their charity no longer.

Ruda acted as if he were expecting her, putting down her suitcase beside the table, picking up his notice to leave, and walking over to the manager's office. She paid over two thousand dollars in cash and asked if she could use Grimaldi's shack for fortune-telling. They all knew about Kellerman's arrest — the fact that he had stolen from his own people — but Ruda stood her ground, saying she had walked out and filed for divorce as soon as she knew what he had done.

Grimaldi had run up huge debts, and just to have the rent paid made Ruda's appearance acceptable. She promised that from that moment on she would take care of him, as though she had wished to substitute one loser for another. Luis asked himself why. Why had she come to him?

Ruda had returned to the run-down trailer and ordered Luis to get out while she cleaned the place up with buckets of water and disinfectants, washing and scrubbing as he sat on the steps drinking beer. She borrowed a van and carried the filthy sheets and laundry to a laundromat; she ironed and tidied, bought groceries and cans of paint. She was up at the crack of dawn, painting the outside of the old trailer, forcing old "Two Seats" to lend a hand. Grimaldi never lifted a finger.

Ruda slept on the old bunk bed in the main living area; Grimaldi had the so-called bedroom.

One morning, Grimaldi leaned against the open door, watching her work. She was sweating with the effort, it was a blistering hot day. He caught her arm as she was about to push past him.

"Where's Kellerman now?"

"In jail. We're through, finished. He's history." She released her arm, and went inside. It was dark, there were flies everywhere. She poured water from a bucket into the sink — they didn't have running water.

"We got a quickie divorce, only cost a few dollars. If I'd known how cheap it was to get rid of him I'd have done it years ago."

Grimaldi slumped into a chair. "So you married him?"

She turned, hands on hips. "Yeah, I married him. I had no way of getting out of Berlin — he was my way. That answer your question?"

He looked up at her helplessly. "I don't know what you want from me. Why are you doing all this?"

"You got somebody else?"

He laughed. "Does it look like it? I'm just trying to get a handle on what you want."

Her eyes were a strange color — amber — they reminded him of his cats, and even in his drink-addled mind he felt she was dangerous. She had moved close to him; it was not sexual, it was a strange closeness. She put out her hand and covered his heart.

"Marry me."

He had laughed, but her hand clutched his chest. "I'm serious; marry me. I'll get you back on your feet, I'll get you going again. All you need is money, I can make money, I can get enough so you can start again, but I want some kind of deal, and if I am your wife, that's a good enough contract."

"My wife?"

She returned to the sink, began scrubbing a pan. "Think about it. I don't want sex, sex doesn't mean anything to me. It'll just be a partnership."

Grimaldi grinned, not believing what he was hearing. "You got any idea how much cats cost?... and feed, and transportation? Then there's the training, it'll take months to get an act, any kind of a decent act together."

"Yeah, I'm sure it's a lot, but we can do it, and I am willing to learn. I can muck out, do anything you tell me to do. I've been around circuses now for long enough, I know the ropes, and I know it's hard work."

He sighed, shaking his head. "No way, I couldn't do it... I'm finished."

She threw the pan across the room. "You were the best, the best, and you can be the best again. I'm giving you a chance."

He grabbed her hand, dragged her out of the trailer, and crossed to the back of the sheds, to the pitiful remains of his once fine act. He shoved her against the bars. "Look at these animals, they're as fucked and as finished as I am... You don't know what you're talking about, you have no idea of what an act, an act the likes of mine took, years — my father, his father before him... and that's what I'm left with..."

She gave him one hell of a punch. "They'd turn in their graves if they heard you. Go on, get another bottle, go on, get drunk... you weak bum!"

He stormed off in a rage, wanting to hit her back, but wanting even more to hit himself. Alone, she had stared at the bedraggled unkempt cats, their filthy cages, their ribs showing through their matted coats. She grabbed a bucket of water and headed back to the trailer.

The water hit him in the face, then the bucket. "You bastard! You can get drunk, you can let yourself go, but what you've done out there is a crime... you're starving them to death."

"I have no money to feed them... I got no money, and nobody wants to buy them!!"

She rolled up her sleeve, shoved her tattooed arm under his nose. "See this? I've been caged, I've been starved, I've been beaten, I've been to hell and back and I am still here. I am still fighting, and I have enough for the two of us, you got ten minutes before I take a gun and shoot what's left of those poor creatures, and then I'll leave a bullet for you. You won't let them suffer another hour, you hear me?... You hear me?"

She had slammed the door of the trailer so hard it came off its hinges. She went around to the cages. Never having been inside a cat's cage, she simply unbolted the door, stepped in, and took out the empty trays. She then rebolted the door and went back to the trailer. He was sitting, head bowed.

"What do they eat?"

"Meat, horsemeat... maybe I should put myself in there, let them have a go at me!"

Ruda stormed out and went into town. She came back an hour later, carrying a stack of boxes. She found Grimaldi mucking out the cages, Two Seats using a hose to wash them down. She cleaned out the bowls, and carried the fresh meat to the cages. Two Seats gave a toothless smile to Ruda, and he touched her hand with his gnarled, crusted fingers.

"I don't know what you said, but I thank God for you, young woman."

They fed the cats and went back into town for fresh bales of hay and sawdust. Neither of them brought up the question of marriage. Luis stopped drinking and began to exercise the animals. Two Seats collected the old plinths from the storage huts and dusted and washed them down. The heat was oppressive and the small trailer airless; they continued to sleep separately.

Four months after Ruda's arrival, Grimaldi took off for town. Old Two Seats sat on the steps glumly muttering that he doubted if the boss would come back that night, he'd be getting plastered at the local whorehouse.

Ruda flopped down on her bunk. "Shit! Shit!" She had traded one bum in for another. She was wondering if she had made the wrong decision when she heard Grimaldi calling her. Luis had returned, stone sober, and he put on the kitchen table an envelope and a small red box. It was a marriage license and a wedding ring. He said nothing, just pointed to the table.

He hovered outside the trailer, watching her from the window as she opened the envelope. He saw Ruda smile — she who so rarely smiled — and then slowly open the ring box. She snapped it shut, was about to walk out to him when she heard Grimaldi ask the old man if he had a suit.

"A suit!.. You must be jokin', it's at the pawnbroker's."

"Well, get it out, and by Wednesday, 'cos you're gonna need it."

"What fer?"

"Wedding, you old bugger."

"What?"

"We need a witness, me and Ruda are getting married next Wednesday."

There was a loud guffaw, and then a lot of back slapping. She came to the door, and Grimaldi held out his big hand. She took it, gripped it tightly as the old man wrinkled his nose and then threw his hat up in the air with a yell.

"By Christ — that's the best news I've heard in years!"

The wedding had been a small affair with just a few people from the winter quarters. They had lunch at a local restaurant, and then returned to feed the cats. Ruda had been very quiet, she had smiled for a photograph, but as the day drew to a close she continued to find things to do, anything to delay the consummation of the marriage, even though she was unsure if that was what Luis wanted. She had arranged a platonic partnership with Kellerman, but after six months he had demanded to have sex with her. Kellerman revolted her, but nevertheless the marriage had been consummated, insofar as it ever could be. Kellerman liked kinky sex, her physical problems had never bothered him. He liked her to give him blow jobs, liked the sight of her on her knees in front of him.

Luis had brought flowers and champagne, and she noticed that the bed linen had been removed from the couch she had always slept on. Luis was in high spirits. Having made the decision to marry Ruda, he was now more than willing to take her into his bed. He opened the champagne, and then produced a box, which he gave her with a flourish. She opened it, and the delicate nightdress, its lace and frills carefully snuggled in white tissue paper, made her bite her lips. She didn't even want to take it out of the box.

"Don't you like it? It's silk, the lace is from France, is it the right size? Take it out, go on take it out..."

Slowly she had held the delicate nightgown against herself.

"You like it?"

She whispered that it was beautiful, and he asked her to put it on. She hesitated, and seemed so distressed he wanted to put his arms around her, but she stepped away from him. "Nobody ever gave me anything..."

"So let me see you in it?" he said gently.

"You want this to be a proper marriage?"

Luis was confused, he said that he thought that was what she wanted, and she had turned away from him, hunching up her shoulders.

"I guess that is what I want, Ruda. I mean, maybe I've not been the best person to have around, not said the right things, but you wanted to marry me, didn't you?"

She nodded, but when he tried once again to hold her she fended him off. "I want to tell you something, I sort of thought you knew..."

Again he tried to make her turn to him, look at him, but she pulled further away. "Don't, please don't touch me."

She lifted the soft silk to her face, almost caressing the gown. "Luis, I can't have normal sex. Something was done to me when I was a child. I can make it all right for you, but that is all."

Luis had a sudden vision of her as having had her sex changed: Was she really a man? He couldn't hide his revulsion, his confusion. "Jesus Christ, what a fucking time to tell me! Are you kidding?"

She turned to him, unbuttoning her shirt, her face rigid. "Do you think this is something to kid about? Do you?"

She began to undress in front of him, and he now backed away from her. She undid her blouse, took off her bra, and then started to unzip her trousers. "Look, Ruda, don't... don't, I can't deal with it, please, Ruda!"

She continued to undress, easing her pants down. She had on a pair of thick cotton underpants. Grimaldi was convinced she was going to show him a penis. Instead, he saw the terrible scars on her belly. He stared in disbelief.

Ruda then held up her wrist, showing him the tattoo. He looked from the row of numbers to her body; he couldn't look into her eyes.

"I'm surprised you've never commented on it before."

He swallowed, and gave a half smile, but his hands were shaking. "I guess I'm just not very observant..."

She stood in front of him with such helplessness, such shame, her head bowed. He picked up the gown, and slipped it over her head. Then he stepped back.

"Now you look like a bride."

The small space between them was like a chasm he did not know how to cross. Seeing her standing there in the white negligee made him want to weep.

Her voice was husky, her head low. "I'll make up the bed on the sofa... You don't have to be with me, I understand."

He gathered her in his arms and held her tightly. His voice was thick with emotion. "What kind of a man do you think I am? We said to each other for better or worse, didn't we? Well, I don't think you got such a great bargain, so maybe you're damaged too, that's okay, we'll make out."

Ruda had clung to him, her whole body shaking. When he cupped her face in his big hands, two tears rolled down her cheeks. He told her then that he loved her. Maybe it was those two tears, he had never seen her cry before, and he had carried her into the small bedroom and gently laid her down. He undressed, and then he got in beside her, and he reached out and cradled her in his arms.

"Don't ask me about it, Luis. You don't ever want to know what was done to me, because it might open up a darkness inside me that I could not control. It happened, and now it's over..."

He had never felt as protective of any living soul. He kissed her head as she rested against his chest. "I will always take care of you, Ruda, nobody will ever hurt you again. You are my wife, this will be our secret, no one will ever know."

He made her feel secure, a feeling she had never experienced before. She felt warmed by this big soft man, and gently she stroked his chest, and then rolled over to lie on top of him. She smiled and then whispered that she could make him happy, there were ways, she would teach him how to make love to her, he would like it, he would be satisfied.

The old hand and the few workers left at the winter quarters gave knowing winks and nudges as a very happy Grimaldi greeted them the morning after the wedding. He was a man who appeared infatuated. Maybe it was indeed love.

The big album dropped to the floor, and Grimaldi woke with a start. For a moment he was disoriented, couldn't even remember coming into Ruda's bedroom. "You're gettin' old, you old bugger, noddin' off..." He yawned, and leaning back he became aware of Ruda's scent on the pillow. He nuzzled it, and then slipped his arm around it, sighing. "Oh Ruda... where did I go wrong, huh?" He knew she would give him hell if she found him in her room, but he chuckled and eased himself into a more comfortable position. His last thought before he fell into a deep sleep was of Ruda. "What a bloody wife..."

Ruda had intended to apply for a divorce from Kellerman as soon as she had the opportunity. That she had married Grimaldi bigamously never worried her; with Kellerman in prison, he would not find out; by the time he was out she would have secured a divorce. She wished she had done it in Vegas, as she had told Grimaldi she had, but she had been in such a hurry to leave that divorce had been the last thing on her mind.

Grimaldi began to earn money by training other acts, traveling around the United States. He returned with gifts, and cash to buy-new cats for his show. Ruda worked at the winter quarters. She learned how to groom and feed the animals, and they thrived under her care and attention. They began to breed the tigers and their first summer together as man and wife saw four new cubs born. Ruda was a doting mother, and was heartbroken when Grimaldi sold the cubs. He said they had to because they needed the money, but also he said the cubs were not a good color. He taught Ruda how to spot the best of the litters, how to test their strength. Health was always the main priority. Ruda was a willing pupil. She worked tirelessly, nothing was too much trouble. Everyone said that Grimaldi had found the perfect wife, that Ruda was getting him back on his feet.

Ruda continued with her stargazing sideline. The letters arrived every week, and she would spend hours every evening typing replies, making predictions. She typed very slowly with two fingers, deep in concentration. She had a dictionary beside her, always thumbing the well-worn pages. Grimaldi used to tease her, and at times was stunned when she asked him to spell the simplest of words. He believed at first it was because she was German and typing in English, but then watching her effort he understood she was almost illiterate. She had caught him observing her and had given him the finger. "I never went to school, dickhead, so no jokes!"

He leaned over her chair and began to read a letter. She tried to cover it with her hand, but he snatched it out of the roller.

" 'Dear Worried from Nebraska' — my God, what in God's name is somebody writing to you from Nebraska for?"

"I've done her charts, now give it back."

Grimaldi had waved the letter jokingly. "Her charts? What in Christ's name do you know about all this junk?"

He roared with laughter as he read Ruda's predictions. She folded her arms. "You laugh, but they pay ten bucks a letter, and they pay for the cats' feed. You got any better ideas how to make dough that fast?"

Grimaldi slapped the paper down and patted her head. "Keep working, keep working!"

She had carefully rolled the paper back into the typewriter, and he was about to walk out when he paused at the doorway. "You never did tell me how you did that scarf trick, you know, with that old magician?"

She began typing again, and without looking at him said that it wasn't a trick. He told her to stop pulling his leg, but she turned to face him. "That wasn't a trick. I'm telepathic."

"Oh yeah, prove it!"

She shrugged and said she didn't feel like it, but he insisted, teasing her, asking her to prove it. She sighed, then pushed the typewriter aside. She picked up the stack of letters she had received that week. She handed them to him, thumbing through them like a pack of cards. She then looked away and told him to turn up each envelope and she would tell him the color of the stamps. She repeated, in rapid succession: red, blue, red, red, green, blue, red, red, red, red... she then swiveled around in her chair and cocked her head.

"You knew... you cheated!"

She held out her hand and shrugged. "Yeah... Now can I get on with my work?"

"Don't let me hold you up, carry on!" But he remained leaning at the doorway watching her, until she looked up at him and made a funny face.

"Is it just the colors then? I mean, can you do anything else?"

She laughed. "If I were to say yes, what you gonna do? Set up a booth and make me wear a turban? Just get out, go on, don't you have anything to do?"

Grimaldi laughed. As he stepped down he called out: "I'll get myself a cloak like that old boy you worked with. Old Two Seats can bend over and give us a good fart, I'll set light to it!"

She could hear him laughing as he passed by the window, and then he stuck his head against the glass. "Did I tell you today how much I love you? Eh? Cross my palm with silver... and I'll tell you how much!"

She gave him the finger, shouted for him to "Sit on it!" and he gave his marvelous, deep-bellied laugh, and at last he went about his business.

Ruda began her laborious typing once more, but after a moment, she sat back and slid out from beneath the typewriter a slip of paper. It was another advertisement, in another place: Florida. She stared at the two lines, remembering how Tommy Kellerman had told her she was crazy. First she crumpled the paper, then changing her mind she straightened out the creases, and read and reread the two lines, "Red, blue, green, Ruda..." and the message Tommy had hated so much.

Ruda crossed to her dressing table, opened a drawer, and took out the small black tin box now fitted with a new lock. She went to get the key, hidden in the bookcase, and unlocked it. She looked at the stack of newspaper clippings. The last one she had inserted was in Vegas. This had been the longest pause between ads, perhaps because, for the first time in her life, she felt a sense of security.

Ruda locked away her secrets again, carefully hiding the tiny key, and returned to her typewriter. She sat staring at the white sheet of paper in the roller. She couldn't concentrate. She went into the bedroom and as she passed the door she slipped the bolt across, drew the curtains, until the small room was in semidarkness.

She sat in front of the dressing table and slowly drew toward herself the three-sided, freestanding mirror. She got closer and closer until she could see her breath form a tiny gray circle on the glass. She turned her head first to the left, then her right. Finally she stared directly ahead. She breathed deeply through her nose, until she felt the strange, dizzy sensation sweep over her. Her shoulders lifted as her breathing deepened... first came the red, as if a beam of red light were focused on her face. She breathed deeper, concentrated harder, until the red turned into a deep green, then a blue. The colors began flashing and repeating: red, blue, red, red, green... They never fused, each was a clear block of single color. Her body began to shake, her hands gripped the edge of the table. The bottles of cologne vibrated, and the entire dressing table began to sway; she held on tightly for as long as she could, before she regulated her breathing again, bringing herself slowly out of the trance.

Her body felt limp, exhausted. Then she tilted her face forward to kiss the cold glass. Slowly she sat back, and traced with her fingers the faint impression of her lips lingering on the glass. She was consumed by an overpowering longing; the desire to feel warm lips return her kiss was like a pain inside her, a pain that, like her scars, would never heal. She could never give up, never, because on three occasions she was sure she had felt a contact.

She lay down on the bed and closed her eyes, waiting for sleep. But a nagging pain at the base of her spine made her feel uncomfortable. She turned on her side, but the pain grew worse, it began to feel as though something were being ripped out of her belly. Ruda was frightened as the pain intensified... she gripped her stomach, it felt swollen, and she began to rub her hands over it. As quickly as the pain had begun, it subsided. Ruda lay back.

Then the pain started again. Twisting in agony, she called out for Grimaldi. The rush of pain centered in her belly and as she tried to sit up, she screamed with all the power in her lungs.

Grimaldi was working in the barn. He paused and listened. "Did you hear that? Eh, you toothless old bastard, was that one of the cats?"

Two Seats shrugged. Grimaldi stood for a moment longer, listening intently. Hearing nothing more he resumed his work, but after a while he tossed down the pitchfork and walked back to the trailer. He peered in through the window, then crossed to the door, dragging his feet on the grid to wipe off the mud. He was just about to enter when he heard the bolt on the door drawn back.

"Ruda? You okay? Ruda?"

She opened the door, her face pale, shiny with sweat.

"What you lock the door for?"

Ruda gave a weak smile. "I just didn't feel too good. I think it must be something I ate. I've been sick."

"You running a temperature?"

He reached out to touch her face and she stepped back. "No, I'm fine now, you get on with your work. I'll lie down for a while. Goon."

"I'll check on the cats, I swear I heard screaming. Did you hear anything?"

"Get back to work, you lazy old so and so. I'll bring over some food. It was just something I ate, now off... off you go!"

He smiled, walking back to the barn, calling her a slave driver. He didn't notice that she held on to the door for support.

As soon as Grimaldi was out of sight, Ruda inched back to the table and slumped into the chair by her typewriter. She had felt this same pain before, although she couldn't remember exactly when, but the pain had been the same. She tried to type, forcing herself not to think about what she had just been through because it frightened her. She was terrified of doctors; hospital doctors in white coats made her shake with terror.

She felt her energy returning, and with great determination she forced herself to continue working, jotting down the week's itinerary for the work she had lined up for Grimaldi. Almost immediately she felt better.

With Ruda pushing him, Grimaldi continued taking on more training work. As the money came in, they began to buy more and more animals. Weekends he would train them, and she sat and watched his every move. Gradually she began to work alone when he was away, putting into practice everything she had seen him do.

They bought a new trailer and a truck and then one night, he sat her down.

"I know your injuries, the scars, but I was wondering, with you being here, and me away working until we have enough finances, that maybe this would be a good time..."

"For what?" she had asked, dragging out the typewriter.

"Maybe we should see a specialist. They have all kinds of newfangled equipment now, and maybe we should go see someone about having a baby."

She continued picking up papers, stacking them neatly at the typewriter, carrying her boxes of mail to the table. Over the past few months her little sideline had grown into a lucrative business. Having a semipermanent address helped, and she worked each evening after the animals were settled. Grimaldi sometimes sat and watched her, although he never read any of the letters, he was never that interested.

Tonight, though, he wasn't prepared to sit. He didn't want her working, he felt this was too important.

"Ruda, listen to me. Maybe, just maybe, you can have this done medically, you know, artificial insemination. We could at least try."

"I have enough work cut out for me, without bringing up a kid."

"I want a son, Ruda. I mean, we're breaking our backs to get an act back together, so why not? We'd have a hell of a boy, Ruda. Don't you even want to give it a try?"

She rolled a sheet of paper into the typewriter and started to type. He came and stood behind her, massaging her shoulders. He felt her shoulders shaking. She tried to type, and then folded her hands in her lap.

"If it hurts you, then we walk away. I don't want anything to hurt you, but we should just go see somebody."

He kissed the top of her head and left her. Slowly she began to type: "Baby-baby-baby-baby... MY BABY. MY BABY. MY SON..."

She stared at the word until it blurred. She touched the paper, the word baby. Nothing had prepared her for this, for Luis wanting a child. She whispered: "My child, he would be mine. My baby."

It had never occurred to her that there was a way. The more she thought about it, the more excited she became. Would it be possible? Dare she think it could be?

She ran out of the trailer, shouted to old Two Seats asking if he'd seen Grimaldi, and he pointed to the barn. She ran, calling for him, and hurtled into the barn. He was using a pitchfork, heaving the bales of hay. She threw herself at him, backing him onto the bales.

"Luis, Luis... I want a baby! I want a baby... I want I want I want!"

They kissed, and held each other tightly. She was excited, almost feverishly so, and asked him to fix an appointment. She would do anything necessary, and then she had leaned up on her elbows, looking down into his delighted face. "You love me, don't you? You really love me!"

Luis knew what it meant to her to learn she could not conceive. She had not spoken a word since they had returned from the clinic, and he was incapable of comforting her, needing comfort himself Even when he tried to reach out to her in bed she had turned her back on him.

"Don't touch me, please leave me alone."

He was almost grateful that he had to leave for a two-week stint in Chicago.

After he left she didn't want to get up. She didn't even open the blinds, but remained in the darkened trailer. She remembered Eva then, a girl she had hardly known, a girl much older than herself. Eva had been in the camp too, like Ruda had survived. After the liberation, when Ruda had been taken to the mental institution, she hadn't known Eva was still alive — not until she saw her in the ward. Eva had a beard now, like a man. The teenage girl who had always had stories and jokes to tell the little ones now sat on a stool with her head bowed and her face covered with hair. Her eyes stared to some distant place.

Like Ruda, Eva had not spoken since she had been found, but Eva was docile, while Ruda showed signs that she was greatly disturbed. They had to sedate her. Ruda found it impossible to utter a word, impossible to believe it was over. Every night she waited for the men in white coats to take her back to the hospital ward in the old camp. She forced herself to stay awake; the screams and weeping from the inmates didn't frighten her, she was used to those sounds. What she was terrified of was being taken back, back to the camp. A key turning in the door sent bolts of terror through her. She could not verbalize her fear, could not cry. When the doctors tried to comfort her, she was sure it was a ruse; when they spoke kindly to her, she was sure they had some hidden motive. She spat out the pills they gave her, refused the food. Suspicious of everything, everyone, from the moment she had arrived in the institution, her paranoia grew in intensity when she saw Eva. Now she was certain it wasn't over, and she knew she had to escape somehow, because any day, any hour it would be her turn and she would become an animal like Eva.

In the end, Ruda made herself think her inability to conceive was for the best. Maybe she could only produce a monster, an Eva. She would not think of a baby, her baby, anymore: She would forget. As it was, the entire episode had taken her back to the darkness of her childhood. She was angry, determined that nothing would ever drag her back again.

Ruda had no real concept of how long she had been unreachable, how many times Luis had attempted to embrace her, show his love and concern. She wasn't aware he had slept on the couch, tried to tempt her to eat, or that she had kicked the tray from his hands. She was oblivious of the fact that when Luis had tried to tell her that he had to leave for a few weeks, she had told him to fuck off, go wherever he liked, she didn't care.

Grimaldi had discussed her behavior with old Two Seats, who suggested that all Ruda needed was time. She was just hurting, he said, and this hitting out at Luis was her way of dealing with it.

"She's just like one of 'em cats, Luis. They get injured, and by Christ you'll know it, they'll go fer you! She's just hurtin'."

Luis punched the old man's shoulder, said perhaps he was right. He never mentioned to her his own hurt; he had wanted a son. And he had left. She hadn't said good-bye because he hadn't wanted to disturb her. Ruda had been sitting on the bunk bed, with her old tin box.

Luis sighed, his face still pressed into Ruda's pillow. He rolled over, awake now, and he sighed again. "I wanted a boy, a son so bad, Ruda... but most important, I wanted him to be ours!"

He sat up and ran his hands through his thick hair and he got out of bed and straightened the bedcover. The photo album had fallen open at an old picture of himself with his father. He picked it up, touching the picture lightly with his finger. "Ah, well! Maybe the circus days are numbered, an' maybe I'd get a kid who wouldn't want to go into the ring, it happens..."

Luis stepped up on the stool, still talking to himself. "The Karengo brothers got a kid who's studying law! Mine'd probably end up in jail someplace, who knows?... Can't all be warriors, eh Dad?"

About to shut the cupboard door, he saw the box, the old square black tin box at the back. He stretched and reached, then stepped down with it. He tried to open it — it was locked. He went into the kitchen and took a knife, but when he tried to pry the box open, he buckled the lid. He swore as he wrenched and pulled, but it wouldn't open.

The trailer door banged, Luis turned guiltily: He was behaving just like Kellerman — had he reached this point with Ruda, too?

Mike called out that they were on in ten minutes.

"Ruda said to get over to the ring, the big boss is in the viewing room, and he's got a scout from Ringling Brothers' circus with him. We're all set to go."

Luis shouted that he would be right there, and quickly hid the box under his mattress. Mike was waiting at the door, and raised his eyebrows at seeing Grimaldi; he admired the old man's resilience. There he was all done up like a Christmas dinner, and not long before he had been good and plastered.

"Your hand okay?" Mike asked as they walked toward the big tent. Grimaldi gave a big rumbling laugh and hooked a huge arm around Mike's slim shoulder.

"Son, I've been slashed by a lot more dangerous species than a pitchfork!"

Mike laughed, then lifted the tent flap. "She's all steamed up as usual, pacing out there like a panther... Mamon's acting up, I hope to God he'll play ball tonight. It's those plinths, he hates them... did I tell you the Ringling scout is in?"

"Yeah you told me, son. You know once I had a contract with them, some years back, but they offered me a..."

Mike had gone, and he was alone, talking to himself. He stood in the semidarkness staring at the empty rows of seats. A juggling act was going through its paces in the ring, the performers' spangled costumes catching the spotlights. He looked to the lighted viewing box; Schmidt was talking with a man sitting next to him, gesturing down to the ring. Then Grimaldi saw a third man, seated just behind Schmidt. He shaded his eyes to get a better view. It was Walter Zapashny, probably one of the finest animal trainers in the world. Grimaldi wondered why he was up there; it made him feel uneasy.

Grimaldi inched down the aisle; he saw one of the hands standing by to erect the cages around the ring and moved quietly to the man's side.

"Have you seen who's in the viewing tower?"

The man nodded. Everyone knew, he whispered, it was the big Ringling scout; the word was out that he great Gunther Gebel Williams was about to retire. It meant that the most lucrative circus job in the world, a possible ten-year contract with the Ringling Bros, of New York, was coming up for grabs. Williams had dominated the bill as one of the greatest showmen for almost twenty years.

Grimaldi's heart was pounding. What he had dreamed of all his adult life could now be Ruda's. He felt a rush of pride.

"Tell Ruda I'm here, tell her to make this the best show she has ever done... hurry!"