expensively framed, others carelessly sellotaped to the wall. I looked at a smartly mounted photograph of a man in full evening rig placing his head inside a polar bear’s mouth. The man had removed his top hat for the act, and now flourished it in his right hand. His own grin was just visible through the jagged teeth of the bear.
Ray saw me looking and said, ‘My grandfather.’
‘It’s an amazing picture.’
‘More amazing than you can know. Outside the ring my grandfather was as soft as butter. People said he let his children run wild, but when it came to animals he was in charge. He ruled lions, tigers, polar bears even, for thirty years, with no injury to himself or to them.’
‘A brave man.’
‘Yes, he knew the risks.’ Ray turned his attention to his desk, sifting through a pile of papers looking for something. ‘The moment after that photograph was taken the bear attacked him, perhaps the flash provoked it. My grandmother was his assistant. She was standing by the cage, as she did every night, with a loaded pistol. She shot the bear, but it takes more than a single bullet to kill a creature like that.’ He glanced back at the photograph. ‘It’s something we should all remember. Even if you’re not placing your head in a bear’s mouth, show business is a risky occupation.’ He smiled. ‘It’s a sad photograph. Let me show you one that will make you smile, then you can meet our stage manager and go through your requirements.’ We rose and Ray walked me into the theatre’s small foyer. ‘Look.’
Pinned behind glass was a large poster featuring a publicity shot Rich had insisted on three years ago. It was a while since I’d looked closely at it and blown up poster size it was clear that the intervening years had been crueller than I remembered. The suit I was wearing no longer fitted, and either the photographer had employed an airbrush, or I’d grown a deal redder and a trifle more craggy since we’d met. The man in the picture looked younger, leaner, sharper than I ever recalled being. It was even possible that he had a little more hair than me. I stroked my hand across my head wondering if I was about to add baldness to my list of worries. Ray’s expression was hidden behind the grey moustache, but his voice sounded anxious.
‘What do you think?’
I looked at the red lettering scattering superlatives across the poster. My German might be non-existent but I could guess the meaning of Fantastisch! I turned to the posters hanging beside my boastful image and it suddenly became clear why Ray had decided I was unsuitable to join the ensemble. Schall und Rauch’s cast shone from the picture fresh and smiling, the outlines of their bodies impressive beneath the tight fabric of their costumes. The recognition that Ray was right stung, but another more pressing worry had suddenly presented itself. Painted in shiny blue letters below the image was the legend, Cabaret Erotisch!
*
The stage manager turned out to be the girl I had first seen wiping the tables. She slid wearily from the ticket booth, brushing back tendrils of not very clean hair that had escaped from the loose roll twisted at the back of her head. She looked as if she hadn’t slept in weeks, but the look suited her. Suddenly, despite the rundown theatre and the reminder that I lacked the basic equipment to qualify for an erotic entertainment, Berlin didn’t seem such a bleak prospect. Ray introduced her as Ulla; I held out my hand and she shook it gently. Her palms were cold and dry and slightly calloused. I tried to keep the wolf out of my face and asked, ‘Do you do everything round here?’
Ulla frowned.
‘I do my job.’
Her English was slightly more accented than Ray’s. I liked it better. She was easier on the eye too, even when she was frowning. I slipped the duster that still dangled from her jeans pocket into my own.
Ulla led me through a door marked Privat and towards the changing rooms. Her silence should have been a relief after the journey, but I wanted her to talk to me. I reached into my pocket and drew out the old duster now tied in the centre of a ream of rainbow-coloured silks, presenting them to her with a flourish and a half bow.
‘There was no time to buy flowers.’
Ulla accepted the string of scarves without smiling.
‘The clowns present me with flowers all the time.’
‘And now you think every bouquet is going to squirt water in your eye?’ She ignored me, gently detaching her cloth as she led the way through the backstage labyrinth. ‘I hope I’m not disrupting you too much.’
Ulla handed back my crumpled silks without looking at me. I followed her gaze and saw the object of her attention. The buff athlete detailed to deliver my case was striding our way, a large cardboard box tucked casually under his arm. He stopped when he reached us and Ulla raised her face to his in a swift but tender kiss. I stood awkwardly while he whispered something into her hair that made her laugh then shake her head, glancing quickly towards me. Kolja turned the corners of his mouth down, gave her waist a quick squeeze with his free hand, and then continued along the corridor. Ulla’s eyes followed him briefly and then turned back to me.
‘Kolja has moved in with the twins, so you can have his dressing-room.’
There seemed no point in protesting that I was used to sharing. After all, I seemed destined to disrupt Kolja. The room Ulla had assigned me was like a slim prison cell bereft of even a barred window. I sat in the only chair and looked at the photos of Kolja stuck to the mirror.
He was a good-looking lad. Here he was on stage balancing an upside-down fellow athlete on one hand. Here he was again, stripped to his bathing shorts posing with both hands resting on his waist, his pumped-up arms a perfect complement to his inflated trunk. Did Kolja need these mementoes as reassurance of his athletic prowess? Or did he just like looking at himself? I wondered why he hadn’t taken the photographs to the twins’ cell with him. There were a lot of them, but not too many for Kolja’s muscular arms. Perhaps he’d been in too much of a rush or maybe he didn’t think I’d be around long enough to warrant the move. Whatever the reason I hoped I hadn’t upset Kolja. He looked like he could destroy me with a flick of his wrist.
Outside I could hear exchanges of greetings as staff and performers started to arrive for that evening’s show. I imagined I could smell the winter damp settled on their coats. I pushed the noise away, tried to ignore the resentful stares of all the different Koljas and concentrated on preparing my act.
*
Ray’s moustache trembled a little when he saw me leaving the theatre half an hour before show time, but he knew better than to interrupt a performer before their act. Folk have strange rituals and who was to say mine wasn’t walking out before I walked on?
There was a stall in the courtyard selling soup that was all noodles and dumplings. I bought myself a bowl, added a beer to go with it and sat on a wooden bench in sight of the theatre entrance, watching the audience arrive.
Unless you’re a children’s entertainer, your audience doesn’t believe that what you’re doing is truly magic. They want showmanship. Anyone can feel the satisfaction of teaching their hands to twist the rope until it unravels the way they intend. It isn’t so hard to jump the right card from the deck, or snap a shiny silver coin into your fingertips. The skill lies in making these moves into a performance.
I was always in the smart-suited-cheeky-chappy conjuring brigade, bounding on stage and spinning a line as I spun through my act. I’d long ago consigned mime to a box marked ‘puppets and face painting’. I lacked the nimbleness for a dumb show. And all those exaggerations of the
