None of this elevation in their living conditions had come about as a result of Salvo’s skill as a farmer. Salvo was a horrible farmer, a fact known by him and everyone else within a five-mile radius. On the rare occasions that he went into town for supplies, he could feel people laughing at him, everyone thinking it hilarious how a man who could balance on a thin wire high above the earth could not bring a field of corn to harvest.
They kept no animals. There was no point; Salvo was too frightened of animals in general to deal with them on a regular basis, and there would be absolutely no question of him ever slaughtering a beast. Anna had not forced the issue, feeling much the same. They kept a small field of corn and had a modest vegetable garden that yielded a variety of foods, enough for their family but not enough for a commercial enterprise.
Surprisingly, Salvo did not mind being a farmer. He didn’t like that he wasn’t very good at it, and he was frustrated with his inability to grow even the simplest of crops, but despite all this he enjoyed the relative peace and quiet. He thought he did, at any rate. There were times when he wasn’t sure whether his feelings were genuine or a masterful self-deception. He knew he wanted to be happy, if only because any fool could see that Anna was happy.
In the spring of 1951 Salvo hired a local boy named Jacob Blacke to help him on the farm. It wasn’t so much that there was more work than Salvo could handle. Salvo had simply accepted the fact that, as an ex-circus-performing Rom, he knew little about making things grow. Jacob Blacke knew a lot in that regard, so Salvo hired him.
Jacob was a handsome boy, eighteen years old, with youthful but rugged features that bore the marks of hard work and early mornings. He lived a mile down the road and drove a rusty truck that Salvo could hear coming for most of the way. That spring they had planted seven acres of corn, and Salvo was confident that he would see results this year, finally.
“The growing’s not so hard, Mr. Ursari,” Jacob said. “You’ll get used to it.”
Salvo nodded, but he wasn’t sure he believed him.
“It’s a real nice piece of land. You’re lucky to have good soil. Our soil’s not so good.”
“It matters?”
“Sure it matters. Better the dirt, better the corn.” Jacob smiled a wide smile that made Salvo smile too.
Anna approved of Jacob’s help. It had been her idea, at first. She had subtly suggested and prodded until Salvo had thought that it would be a good idea too, and had presented it to her as his innovation, which she readily endorsed. She knew that this was the best way to get Salvo to do something.
With three children, she was a master of organizational manipulation. Daniel, whom they guessed to be about eleven years old now, was easy; the boy rarely disobeyed either of his parents, was an amiable older brother to the twins and was not nearly as loud or boisterous as other boys his age. He sometimes seemed to have a maturity that was far beyond his years. At other times, though, he would stare up at Anna with blank eyes, looking for all the world as if he hadn’t a clue where he was. She often wondered whether there wasn’t something seriously wrong with the boy, but she had long ago resolved to love him like a son, and her wonderings were appropriately tainted with a mother’s affection.
Salvo recognized the look in Daniel’s eyes for what it was: fear. He tried to do what he could for the boy, understanding all too well what it was to go through life with your fears following right behind you, but as he had never discovered a way to quell them himself, there was little he could do. Overall the boy seemed happy, and that was good enough for Salvo, who knew that it was quite possible to have a less-than-perfect childhood and still be a happy adult. Considering what Daniel had experienced so far in his life, Salvo considered it normal that the boy should not be entirely without dread.
His girls, however, were the opposite of Daniel. If they had demons that haunted their sleep, they never showed it. They were identical in appearance to the point where Anna was the only one who could always tell them apart. Salvo still, on occasion, could misidentify them; he felt bad after doing so, chastising himself for being a poor father.
Errors only happened when a cursory glimpse of the girls was all he had to go on. If he looked for even a second longer, he would know for sure who was who; Elsabeth and Mika were so different in personality that their facial expressions gave them away more accurately than if they had been wearing name tags.
Elsabeth was like Salvo in many ways, mostly in ways that Salvo liked. She had somehow managed to escape inheriting his many neuroses, which was no small relief to both him and Anna. Mika, on the other hand, reminded Salvo of what he imagined his wife had been like when she was eight years old, although he never said as much to her. Mika was charming, funny and kind, but both her parents knew that there was a performer in her. Salvo thought this a good thing; Anna did not.
Both girls were, as far as Salvo was concerned, quite beautiful. As a parent he knew he was obliged to believe this, but most others were inclined to agree, also noting that Salvo and Anna were attractive themselves, though it was generally agreed that Salvo looked much younger than his forty-one years, while Anna looked older than her thirty-five. Other than Salvo’s history with the Fisher-Fielding Extravaganza, little was known about either Ursari by their neighbours, and little information was volunteered on the rare occasions that Salvo and Anna fraternized with those surrounding them.
They led, all things considered, a happy life, or so Salvo believed. Therefore he was both puzzled and frightened when, in the late spring of 1951, the panic and fear that had plagued him for most of his life intensified unexpectedly, making the hours before sleep nearly unbearable.
“ONCE,” SALVO BEGAN, “THERE WAS A FAMILY of Roma who left all that they knew and went to a strange land. They did not speak the language, and they knew no one. But they were brave, and they were proud, and they could walk high in the air, where no one else could walk, and for this people grew to love them.”
The three children sat at his feet, enraptured. Anna had gone into town for groceries, and as soon as she had left, the children started in on Salvo, first asking then begging for a story. Though Salvo often told them stories, he did not tell them nearly as many as they would have liked. His stories were by far their favourite thing about their father. He almost turned into a different person, a person they thought was maybe not even their father but someone else from a strange and exciting world they had never before experienced.
“From all over, people would come to see these Roma perform their feats of daring, always leaving amazed and pleased with what they had witnessed. The Romany family became heroes.
“Then one day there was a horrible fire. It was hotter than the sun herself. The Romany family was trapped, but because they were strong and brave they found a way to escape. And on their way, a boy was snatched from the jaws of the lions, and the Romany family brought him out of the fire and made him one of them.”
“That’s me!” Daniel whispered, incredulous. He had heard this story before, but Salvo always told it slightly differently, and Daniel always appeared surprised about his inclusion in the tale.
“Did the family of Roma have any other children?” Mika asked, nudging her sister. Elsabeth smiled and they both looked expectantly at Salvo.
“Of course they did. Roma always have many children, because they can never get enough of them. But their children were not in the fire, because Romany parents always keep their children safe.”
“Will you always keep us safe?” Elsabeth asked.
“As long as I am breathing, no harm will come to you. Your mother and I have taken a vow.”
“A secret vow?” Daniel’s eyes shone. He was currently fascinated by secrets and liked to pretend that he had a great many of them to keep.
“A very secret vow. But I can say no more about it. I have already told you too much.”
Mika was not interested in secrets. “What happened after the fire?”
Salvo’s face became serious. “Af
ter the fire, the family of Roma did not want to walk across the sky again. They knew they must protect their children, that they must live as others do. So they went to a quiet land and made their home.”
“Were they happy?” Elsabeth asked. “Did they miss their old life?”
“Yes, they were very happy,” Salvo said. “And they did not miss their old life at all.”
His voice was convincing, and there was nothing in his manner to suggest he was being less than truthful. Still, each of the children was left feeling that perhaps there was more to the story than they were being told, though they never said as much, either to each other or to their father.
New York had not been a welcome place for András and Etel. After Salvo and Anna left and it was apparent that there would be no work with any circus, András set about getting himself a job. He could neither read nor write, and though his conversational English was good, he had an accent that to many sounded German, which was an unspoken but definite barrier to employment. He eventually got a job working for a man who owned a number of hot-dog wagons throughout the city. The pay was not good, but after Etel got a job cleaning the rooms in a dive hotel they were able to scrape by.
When they left the F-F, Etel had known that there was more behind their departure than she was being told. She did not press the matter initially, assuming that she would be told once they were gone. Hours before they left, though, Martin Fisher-Fielding had approached her as she waited in line for the washroom. She could feel a chill from other performers towards her, and it made her uncomfortable. When Martin approached, many abandoned their places in line and pretended to be otherwise occupied, trying to avoid being seen in Etel’s general proximity and at the same time remain within earshot. Martin made it hard for potential eavesdroppers, leaning in close to Etel’s ear.
“For the record,” he said, “I do not believe you started the fire.”
Etel was too dumbfounded to speak. She shook the hand that Martin offered, and watched as he turned the corner out of view. First slowly, and then with exponential acceleration, she realized what was happening. Why, she wondered, have András and Salvo said nothing? Then she knew they stayed quiet because they thought she might have done it. And she became angry.
Six years later she was still angry. She had said nothing to another soul about the fire, and even András did not suspect that she knew the whole story. As time went on, her anger crested and fell and rose again, and several times she almost leapt from her seat and attacked her brother with her fists. But her rage always abated just before she broke, bottoming out before it steadily began to rise again.
Her anger had become a burden, she knew. There were times when she would catch András giving her a long, assessing look and she knew that he was wondering whether she had done it. She wanted to scream that she had not, but if András needed to be told, then she did not want to tell him.
She felt betrayed and she hated her brothers for it. But they were her family so she stayed quiet, and she knew that she would always stay quiet. Things are not perfect in this world, she told herself, and wishing changes nothing.
Most nights András arrived home late, Etel and János already asleep. They rented a two-room apartment in the Bronx, Etel and János sleeping in the bedroom and András sleeping on the sofa in the main room. János was nearly seven, an age where he was getting to be too old to share a bed with his aunt, and there had been discussion lately of them perhaps looking for a larger apartment, which András knew they could not afford. He would make himself a sandwich in their tiny kitchen and open the door to the bedroom, looking in on his son and sister. Etel would be snoring loudly, her back to the door, and János would be barely visible under the covers. And András would shake his head sadly. This was no good.
He had no idea Etel knew about Norris’s accusations. He had, however, noticed that she had not smoked a single cigarette since the fire, and while she had once been somewhat lax with her personal hygiene, she now washed with a ferocious regularity, smelling of soap where she had once smelt of smoke. In his weakest moments, András did wonder if there could be any truth to Norris’s allegation. He tried very hard to not have weak moments.
It was no great secret that Etel missed the wire. “Once,” she would tell János, “we walked high above the ground on a wire no thicker than your little finger. We were loved by all. No Rom has been more loved than your father, or your uncle, or myself.” Often late at night she would ask András if he missed the wire, always looking a little disappointed when he shrugged and said there was no point to missing what is over.
Though János bore a startling resemblance to his mother, András tried to stop himself from thinking of Margit. When he did, he remembered her face when she had first emerged from the burning tent, and remembered how he had saved his sister over her, and he knew that his choice had been made then. It upset him that life had placed him in such an untenable position; how does one choose between the woman one loves and the sister one has raised from a baby? It was impossible, he knew, and although he wished he had never been made to choose, he did not think he had done anything wrong. Etel was, he suspected, a far better mother to the boy than Margit would have been. But still there were nights when he could barely hold in his tears, when he felt so lonely he might implode.
When he had seen all he could take, András would ease the door closed and collapse into the sofa. He would check his watch and, seeing that he was due back at work in a few hours, try to sleep. The street outside was always alive with the sound of cars and people, no matter what the hour, but it never stopped him from falling into a deep slumber that could have lasted for weeks.
On the other side of the city, a power struggle was taking place that would affect the future of the American circus. When Cole Fisher-Fielding died, he had willed his share of the Fisher-Fielding Circus Company to his always-loyal nephew, Martin, which had left Martin with a three-sevenths interest in the company, the largest stake any one person had ever owned. The Spouses, between Charlotte Fisher-Fielding and the unholy union of Rebecca Fisher-Fielding and Phillip Barnes, controlled an equal share, with the Respectables once again possessing the tie-breaking vote. Norris Fisher-Fielding’s presidency was up for renewal in the spring of 1952, and it was no secret that Martin intended to challenge his cousin.
Norris’s position was precarious; many still viewed his decision to take the F-F into winter quarters before the season ended in 1945 as irresponsible, and others were upset with how he had attempted to remove all traces of Cole Fisher-Fielding from the Extravaganza. Specifically, people pointed to the firing of the Ursaris, although they were not the only ones to be let go, as the act of a petty, vindictive man, not at all the sort of leadership the circus needed.
As if this weren’t enough, the cold, hard numbers showed that the Fisher-Fielding Circus Company was losing business. Whether this was a result of Norris’s stewardship or not was debatable; all over the country, circus attendance was dwindling. Many big-top circuses had gone out of business, and those that had survived had moved to indoor venues. By 1950, the Fisher-Fielding Extravaganza was the only major circus still playing under a canvas tent. Aside from playing Madison Square Garden in New York and the few indoor dates that had followed the big-top fire, the F-F had always played under canvas. Even Norris Fisher-Fielding was reluctant to make the switch indoors.
Martin Fisher-Fielding proposed to do exactly that. He was less inclined to revere history as he was to celebrate showmanship, and he knew that if the F-F were to go on, it would have to change with the times. He believed his uncle would have agreed; the F-F’s survival was more important than the big top. He had, compounding this belief, more personal reasons for wanting to move the show indoors. He was there the day the big top had burned, and though he never told anyone, he had since then been unable to force himself to enter any tent or anything that resembled one. He had not been into the new big top the F-F had purchased for the 1946 season, nor did he think he ever woul
d.
Although he didn’t know it at the time, Martin was not alone in his phobia; among the survivors of the F-F fire there were many who could not enter a building without checking first for fire exits, and many who would not enter a tent of any kind. These people stood in the rain at weddings and picnics, did not attend fairs or outdoor shows and never, ever went to the circus.
The vote was close, and for a while it looked as if Martin might win. But in the end Norris successfully placated the Respectables, and he was given another five years. Martin resolved to bide his time. Five years was not so long.
On a sunny day in June 1953, Salvo stood in the middle of his cornfield, the corn nearly as high as his head. With Jacob Blacke’s help it appeared as though he would get a substantial crop, and he was pleased. He was tired and could not stop yawning, in spite of all the coffee he’d drank that morning. Sleep had eluded him in the preceding weeks, and he did not expect it to come easily that night. He was once again mortally terrified of the dark, though he would not leave a light on for fear that Anna would find out. He spent hours lying on his back, his heart racing, sweating through his nightclothes, waiting for disasters that never came. It left him exhausted, cranky and ashamed. Why he who had once walked a high wire should be such a coward on the ground was something he did not understand.
He was suddenly seized by an impulse he couldn’t describe. Before he could identify the source of this feeling, he found himself walking towards the barn. In the past it had held both livestock and hay, but as Salvo had neither of these, it was empty save for a few farming implements that leaned up against the far wall. When his eyes came to rest on a fifty-foot length of quarter-inch cable, he knew why he was there. With a ladder he drove a spike into the main vertical beam of the barn, sixteen feet off the ground, and secured one end of the cable to the spike. Then he climbed the hayloft at the other end of the barn and wrapped the cable tightly around a support beam. If he’d had extra cable, he would have put in a perpendicular guy wire.