You see a pair of Bactrian camels standing against the railings of a makeshift corral, placid and stoic, as if it makes no difference to them whether they are looking out over the arid steppes or a busy roadway on the outskirts of Vienna. An impatient Austrian honks at you and you hit the gas to push the big van forward.
You drive past the Danish bedding shop, past the supermarket, turn at the car dealership just as it is written on the hand-drawn map. Albert-Schweitzer-Gasse, the delivery street, loading docks to your right and then the backside of the same camels ahead of you. You steer the van left into a straw-strewn driveway and stop before a flimsy gate. There is a hand painted sign hanging from the top rail: Circus Horvat.
You sit inside the van and look out over the circus camp. The corral is made of sectional cattle fence and covers a crumbling parking lot. A motley of caravans and trailers cluster on a narrow strip of land beyond the corral. At their back is the river.
The circus people and their animals are marooned by the restrictions of quarantine and a new disease, trapped amongst the sleek shopping outlets on the edge of the city. They cannot travel and they cannot perform, yet the animals must be fed, just like the stock on your father’s farm.
A trio of shaggy llamas wander past the gate. There are goats and sheep, a dog or two, and a gaggle of Chinese geese. On the far side of the corral you see a pair of dairy cows. You wonder at that. Why cows? Can they be taught to do tricks?
A giant of a man emerges from behind one of the caravans. He lumbers across the corral, one huge hairy arm raised in greeting. A crooked smile breaks through the expanse of his black beard and random animals are drawn into his wake. The bear-like man pauses before the gate and turns with outstretched arms. His voice comes in a bellow that matches his girth.
“Back now, get back my friends. We must let our visitor in.”
The animals obey his commands as if the giant speaks a language they understand. Then he is through the gate and standing beside the open window at your elbow.
“Welcome, my friend, welcome to Circus Horvat. I am Josip, Josip Babić, at your service.”
The giant speaks an old-fashioned sort of German with a heavy Balkan accent. The sheer volume of the man’s voice stuns you, but you manage to find your own words and your manners as well.
“Pleased to meet you, Herr Babić. My name is Günter. My father sent me with this load of feed for the animals.”
“And we are very grateful, friend Günter. But please, call me Josip. The circus family stands on no formalities, unlike the good Austrians. You bring us help, so you are now part of that family.”
Josip raises a meaty arm and gestures across the corral. You look at that finger, big as a sausage, then past it to the far side of the corral. You see a shed roof supported on poles and under the roof a meager collection of bales and burlap sacks. The giant is speaking again, and his voice fills your ears and the entire van.
“I will open the gate. If you would be so kind as to park beside our humble feed shed, we will unload your treasure.”
He slaps the door of the van and steps forward to the gate. It swings open in his hand like a child’s toy and you drive the van across the corral. You stop the van at the shed, turn off the engine, and slide down to the cracked pavement.
The llamas have fallen in step behind Josip as he stalks to the rear of the van. He scatters them with a wave of his arm.
“Back now, you greedy children. Leave us in peace.”
You hear his booming laugh as you walk to the back of the van and open the doors. Then he is beside you, laughing all the louder.
“Look at this, just look at it! Günter, you are a savior to Circus Horvat. Bales of alfalfa for the llamas and camels. They will be your friends forever. And what do we have in the sacks?”
“Feed corn,” you say, “and some carrots from the cellar. I am afraid they are old and soft.”
One of the giant paws lands on your shoulder.
“I have never seen a goat turn up its nose at a carrot. Come, we shall unload this bounty and then you will share our hospitality, poor as it is.”
Before you can reach into the van you see Josip with a burlap sack in each hand, forty kilos apiece and swinging like small grocery bags. You heave out one of the bales and follow him under the shed roof. The van is unloaded in the twinkling of an eye and the two of you are standing beside it as the animals eye the new pile of food.
Curious, you look about the corral for more exotic creatures.
“Josip, are there lions or tigers?”
“No, we have none of the big cats. They eat a great deal and are very expensive. Very much trouble. Not useful like elephants are. Alas, we have no elephants either, but they are wonderful beasts, wonderful. I have worked with the elephants when I was a younger man like yourself. Do you know that they are wiser than men? When once you look into an elephant’s eye, you cannot doubt this. You will know it.”
You look up at the big man and see that his gaze is far away, out past the hills of the Wienerwald. You want to know more about this strange world.
“Josip, what do you do here at the circus?”
“Eh, what’s that? Why, I am a strongman and a clown, but in truth I do a bit of everything. We all of us do, of course. The circus requires a person to have many skills. Ever since I am a boy I am in the circus. I am born to it as they say. Yet in all of those years, never have I seen such sad times as these. We cannot set up the bigtop, cannot perform, and they say we cannot travel.”
The great voice is softer, and you hear the sadness in it.
“My father told me that the circus was going to Croatia.”
“Yes, the spring camp is home, as least for the animals and the few of us that tend them. When the summer begins everyone comes back and we travel the circuit. But this season, who knows?”
Josip spreads his hand wide and smiles at you through the black beard.
“The thing to remember is that the circus survives. Through great wars, hard times, disasters, still the circus comes to town. The players may change from year to year, but the circus goes on. And speaking of the players, it is time you met them and received their thanks. Come.”
Then he is leading you into the labyrinth of caravans and you have no choice but to follow. Dogs trot along next to you, sniffing and darting. A calico cat peers sphinx-like from the atop the safety of a tall crate. Josip squeezes through a narrow gap between two trailers and you emerge into an open-air kitchen. Three people are sitting at a sway-backed table while a fourth, a child, tends to a camp stove. You look again and see the cook is no child, but instead a very small man. Josip calls out to them and the little person joins the others.
“Friends, this is Günter, who has brought an entire shipment of feed for our beloved creatures. Please, if you will.”
To your great embarrassment they rise from their chairs and being to applaud. Josip joins in, his hands slapping together like cannon shots. You feel yourself blushing and then you catch the eye of the young woman, or she catches yours, and you duck your head. You feel one of Josip’s hands scooping you forward.
“Günter, allow me to introduce our family. This is Madam Dragica, trainer of the world’s most intelligent dogs. She is also our nurse, veterinarian, and surrogate mother when we need one.”
Madame Dragica nods in a stage curtsey, one ankle crossed in front of the other. Then her eyes are on yours and you see the decades there, but her face is years younger than those piercing grey eyes.
“This is Petar, master of the horse, but as we have no horses at the moment, he is the master of the llamas and camels. And this is Ivan, Europe’s smallest clown and fearless human cannonball.”
The two men give dramatic bows, one very tall, the other very short. Ivan winks at you and it makes you laugh aloud.
“And this, this is Martina. She is lighter than the air itself, defying gravity from the heights of her trapeze. When she is not weightless, her needle repairs all of our costumes.”
The woman is young, but older than you are. She does not curtsey, and she does not bow. She gives you only a nod; without a smile, yet not with a frown. She is not pretty, but she is so beautiful you cannot breathe and when her dark eyes do not waver you drop yours because you must. Even with your head bowed, you feel those eyes like a pinprick that will not yield.
You know that they have all seen you, but there is nothing you can do. It is Josip who rescues you.
“Ivan, coffee for our guest, if you please. And Petar, if you would be so kind, a round of Rakia for everyone.”
He nudges you with an elbow like a battering ram and his stage whisper is loud as a shout.
“One small one won’t hurt anything, and we won’t mention it to your father.”
You are herded to a chair. Ivan bustles coffee around the table and Petar pours clear firewater into heavy shot glasses. The flared glasses sit in a battered tray and he fills each to overflowing. The tray goes round and then the Rakia is in your hand. Icy trickles slide down your thumb and forefinger.
“Günter, his father, and their generosity!”
They repeat Josip’s toast and throw back their shots in one go, so you must do the same and the ice turns to fire in your throat. Glasses are spun upside down and click to the table and yours follows.
Then everyone is talking at once and there is much laughter and you are happy just to be sitting here at this table. Ivan asks you about your farm, but you have little to answer. Yes, you say, my father and me and our farm and no one else. You feel a moment, a stillness, and then Petar is telling a story about Ivan being squashed beneath a fat woman who fell into the circus ring during a show in Salzburg. Everyone is laughing again, and you are glad of it.
You look across the table and Martina’s eyes catch yours and pin you where you sit. She is laughing with the others, but her eyes gleam with something other than laughter. You drop your head to your coffee while Ivan retaliates with a story of Petar falling from his horse. You laugh with the others and are more careful with your eyes.
The talk goes around the table, and with it more waves of laughter. You listen and laugh and drink your coffee. Your cup is empty, refilled, then emptied again. You are happy just to listen to their words, even knowing that your father is waiting and there is work to be done.
As if reading your thoughts, Josip slaps his hands against his massive thighs.
“Well, my friends, we must not keep our young man from his father. We would not wish to cause him worry.”
He pushes himself up from the table and the others do the same. Hands reach out to you and you take each one in turn. The last hand is Martina’s and the touch of it scorches you like the Rakia that burned in your throat. Then her fingers are gone from your flesh, but the fire remains.
Josip leads you away amidst the chorus of their farewells. You follow the giant as he threads the way back through the maze of caravans. He stops beside the van and you stop as well. The big man is smiling down at you, one hairy hand extended. Your hand disappears into his as you shake it.
“Günter, my friend, you are always welcome at Circus Horvat, whether you bring gifts or no. You understand this, yes?”
You nod your head and manage to murmur a goodbye. You climb into the van and shut the heavy door. The air inside is damp and vegetal and the smell of it surrounds you. You turn the key and the engine rumbles to life.
Josip is standing at the open gate as you drive through it. The big man steps back and raises a hand. You return his wave.
The two camels stand at the fence, but they are not watching the passing traffic. Their stoic eyes are on you, and you alone, as if committing you to memory. They know they will see you again.
Marco Etheridge lives and writes in Vienna, Austria. His work has been published in Canada, The UK, and the USA. His mantra is write, travel, repeat. All of his credits and other fine stuff is available at his website: https://www.marcoetheridgefiction.com/