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The police came around, asking questions about a fight between two men in the park. Fear sparked in Yusuf when one of the officers closed in on him, and he found himself retreating from the common room, leaving it to Doris to smooth things over. He couldn’t be sure of the police agenda, or how Karl might have twisted the story of that afternoon, so his lips remained sealed about Karl’s repeated provocations.
Terrors began to fill his sleep once more. He couldn’t decide what the trigger had been: Simeon’s stabbing, the clashes at the circus, the argument with Ellie, or his growing suspicion that perhaps the Interior Minister wasn’t a friend to refugees after all. Fragments of Silberling’s television interview had filtered through to the circus folk, unsettling them, revealing the fragile footing they stood on in this new home of theirs.
If only he could reel back time. If only Selim hadn’t died. If only the war hadn’t started. If only his mother was there to believe in him when he didn’t believe in himself. If only he hadn’t come to this place. Why did everything good in his life crumble to dust?
He’d been unable to sit still since his argument with Ellie. Once he’d dressed, he headed to the circus tent to practice his skills, hoping the physical exertion would dull the whirr of thoughts in his head. The midnight blue and bronze tent quivered in the wind, as if it was a real, breathing person. Yusuf followed the tunnel into the ring and inhaled the scent of circus life: the sawdust that grounded him; the sweat of the performers; the lingering salty musk of popcorn.
He longed to practice alone, but an air of concentration pervaded the tent. A handful of performers toiled, deep in the throes of their routines, despite the early hour. Only repetition and rehearsal kept them sharp; rusty skills formed the surest route to injury. Witnessing their exertions brought him no pleasure this morning. He wasn’t himself. He recognised the patterns that revealed inner turmoil. Zul clowning about on the trampoline made him cringe rather than laugh. He squeezed his eyes shut in response to Aischa’s clumsy dismount from her galloping steed. Time and again, he’d observed variations of the acts, but his mental arithmetic of the timing of jumps or the crescendo of a set piece seemed off, as if his judgement was impaired.
As if he couldn’t trust himself.
He crossed his arms across his chest and retreated to the stands to wait. More performers arrived, skipping into the ring, calling out hello. Being here, surrounded by people, made Yusuf feel more alone than if he’d stayed cooped up in his flat. He pressed his lips together and scrubbed a hand over his face in frustration, restless, eager for his own turn.
Ellie lingered in his mind: her downturned lips, tearful eyes and the voice that sought to soothe him but fell short. He’d ruined everything. Even his friends in the circus couldn’t scale the walls he’d erected around himself.
Leyla approached, a cotton headscarf framing her sweaty face, an apron tied around her plump middle. “You look pale. You need one of my pastries to give you strength.”
Whatever the ailment, food was Leyla’s answer. She’d offer treats to a man on his deathbed, long after he’d given up physical nourishment.
“No thank you,” said Yusuf, dull-eyed and cold.
The pastries glimmered with egg-white. She leant forward with the tray, and he resisted the urge to up-end it. “Take one. I promise, it will help.”
She irritated him for an instant, the way she smelled of the kitchen and her exertions, the powder crusting her fingers, her eagerness to serve him. He couldn’t bear any more attempts to cheer him up, the innocent queries after his well-being. “I said no.”
She moved away, surprised and downcast. Remorse hit Yusuf, a plummeting of his stomach, knowing he’d hurt her. He was as bad as Najib. A word of encouragement wouldn’t have harmed him. Instead, he’d caused offence with his disinterest, his monosyllabic refusal. He should have learned his lesson from how he’d lashed out at Ellie. No amount of backtracking could undo words uttered in haste.
What was happening to him?
His breath came in rasps.
Tremors rocked his body.
In the corner of his eye, his dead brother loomed, but when he turned, he saw only a stuffed bear in a top hat and bowtie marked up as a raffle prize.
He stared at his feet, throat thick with tears, overwhelmed by the instinct to hide away like an animal in a burrow. Just until he’d regained his composure and control. His seat clattered shut as he rose to his feet. On the way out of the tent, he forced himself to make eye contact with Emir, wave goodbye to Leyla and shower encouragement on Esme–who blushed at his attention–teaching her doves a new trick. He acted on autopilot. His mind had already shuttered.
In his apartment, he crawled underneath the covers, seeking refuge in the arms of sleep.
“Roll up! Roll up! Get your tickets here. Witness the skills of far away continents right here on your doorstep!” said Emir into the megaphone, a gleam in his eye.
You couldn’t keep a good man down. Far from despairing about the racism they had encountered, Emir had been energised since the protest, buoyed by the support of Imam Saeed, and even more so by the kindness of individuals in the community.
The day after the protest had seen letters of support arriving in great big sacs. Even Dawud had been delighted by the pictures children had drawn. They’d offered their drawings to their favourites: Esme had been reimagined as a princess; Osman as a friendly giant; the horses as unicorns underneath a pyramid of girls. Dawud received a superhero cake from a chattering girl in pigtails. Neighbours brought typical German foods to share with the circus folk, much to Leyla’s joy. There’d been hot plates of strudel, tiny halal sausages with curried ketchup and great balls of potatoes with a lingering papery taste.
Even today, though the crowds didn’t reach capacity, a palpable sense of good will filled the air. Children skipped and squealed in excitement. The dissenters, too, seemed to have stayed away. They couldn’t count on it, of course: this could be the calm before the storm. In fact, Doris had raised the question of whether the circus required security, but Emir had pooh-poohed her. Why should they change arrangements? Wouldn’t that be a victory for the thugs? There could be no reason for the performers to travel to and from the residences in pairs. Any incidences had been mere flashes in the pan. Everything would settle down. The circus folk just had to believe.
Yusuf harboured doubts but his voice remained in the minority. Only Zul backed him up.
“There is naivety and there is stupidity,” said Zul in hushed tones as they tidied flyers in racks at the entrance to the tent.
“What can we do? Parole the grounds ourselves?” said Yusuf, shaking his head.
Zul nodded. “You had good form the other day against Karl. I know I’m not the strongest, but maybe you can teach me to defend myself better.”
Yusuf waved off the compliment with a flick of his hand. “I love you, man, but you’re not a fighter. And I was lucky. We don’t want our own mini-war here, with rival groups squaring up against each other. We need to put an end to this once and for all.”
Zul dug his hands into the pockets of his billowing clown trousers, dejected. “Maybe we should speak to Doris.”
“She’s as helpless as us. She’s our friend but she doesn’t have the authority to make real change,” said Yusuf.
“How about Silberling?” said Zul, gnawing on his fingers in mock terror. “His assistant is here tonight. The one with the crazy curly hair. We should speak to her, suggest putting a council together. We could come up with ideas on how to impress Berliners more, to win a place in their hearts.”
A vein throbbed in Yusuf’s neck. “His assistant is here tonight?”
Zul nodded. “The usual seat.”
“I don’t think she’ll help. The last time Silberling was here, he told us to sort ourselves out. Like it was our problem, not his. This is their project. No one from the ministry has even visited Simeon in hospital. You’re clutching at straws, my friend.” Yusuf stacked the last batch of leaflets and straightened his costume. Ten minutes until showtime. “I’ll think of something.”
“Like that Western film my son used to like. What’s it called?” Zul fumbled to grasp the name from the buried memories of his son. He smiled. “The Lone Rider?”
Yusuf poked him in the ribs. “Very funny. The Lone Ranger.” His brother had loved that film too, one of the old American exports they’d become aware of on a time lag.
In the ring, Old Sayid’s band swung into its final song before Emir took to the ring to warm up the audience. The beat of the drum and jangle of the tambourine instilled a sense of urgency in the two men. They knew their cue.
“Break a leg,” said Zul.
“Yeah, and you.”
They dashed to the ring and Yusuf glanced at the audience. Sure enough, Silberling’s assistant, the nervous woman with the yellow corkscrew curls, watched morosely from the front row. Emir stood centre stage, beckoning the audience to move forward, making for a more intimate experience. Zul jumped into action, borrowing Osman’s most docile goat, as they had practiced in rehearsals, pretending to chase it across the ring as the crowd howled with laughter, and Emir shushed him. The goat ran circles around Zul, and he fell repeatedly, transformed from the worried man he’d been just minutes before, his energy electrifying the audience.
Once Emir had chased Zul off the stage, who in turn was hot on the heels of the goat, he returned to tip his top hat to the band. Old Sayid, playing the trombone, riffed for a delicious few minutes, then laid down his instrument.
Quiet reigned in the tent. Only a medley of coughing pierced the silence. Yusuf snuck a glance at the front row, and his nerves ratcheted up as he took in the boredom evident on Silberling’s assistant’s face.
Emir’s voice filled the tent. “Now, ladies and gentleman, I have a rare treat for you tonight. Esme’s doves are ready to debut their ring of fire trick. She’ll be guiding them through ever smaller rings. Such is their trust for their mistress, they will subvert their fear to obey her. Rest assured, no animals are harmed here at the Treptow Circus. Not one feather on these dear birds will be singed in this performance - however much you enjoy chicken wings!” He tossed his top hat into the air and a chalky substance flew out, which transformed into seven doves hovering in a semi-circle about his head. The audience pointed in delight.
Zul relinquished the spotlight to Esme and Osman, who assisted her in this trick. The two performers worked in harmony, little and large. Esme with her doves, he with the rings looped around his arm. The rings had been coated in flammable liquid, and Osman hung them from a simple skeletal frame, suspended above their heads. The band struck up a thrilling beat, and he lit the rings one by one. The rings flared to life, and the audience, up close to the action, instinctively moved back.
Fire burned.
The flames danced and transported Yusuf back to the bombs.
To the woman who couldn’t bear the loss of her child in a chemical attack, who set herself alight, an enflamed ghoul.
To Selim, the explosion of light and fuel that left him as blood and gore on the street.
To his mother, burning incense at the graves he’d left behind.
Waiting in the wings, Yusuf didn’t see Esme’s act. His memories trapped him. He pressed his fists to the side of his head, but they wouldn’t stop. The fire roared. The sound of it swelled in his ears and became a primal scream. He dug his nails into his palms, whimpering as he drew blood. The applause sounded far away.
Zul’s face loomed near, ghastly white. “Aren’t you in the wrong place? You’re up next.”
Yusuf jerked away, disoriented. The lights seemed garish, like a technicolour alternate reality, not the circus he knew.
Zul cocked his head. “Are you okay?”
A clammy sheen coated Yusuf’s skin. “On my way,” he said.
He darted towards the rigging that served his trapeze. His hands burned where he had clawed them.
Emir announced his ascent and the speakers boomed, too loud for Yusuf’s ears. “Here comes our flying man, the extraordinary, über-talented, fiendishly handsome man himself, our resident acrobat, Herr Yusuf Alam! Let’s clap him, shall we?”
The clapping echoed like thunder through his head, corresponding to each step he climbed. Yusuf bit his lip and focused on the task at hand, willing the images that haunted him to stay away. The metal rigging cooled his palms. He exhaled as he reached the top, then stretched out his feet and ran across the tightrope before his thoughts could catch up with him.
At the end of the tightrope, he steadied himself, then leapt like he’d done a thousand times before. He aimed for the bar but instead of joy, fear pulsed through him. Somehow, he miscalculated the space, or his body did, and he dropped like a stone in a well. He closed his eyes, and Selim’s face seared the pink of his eyelids.
Far away, on the periphery of his consciousness, Emir’s voice rang out, a cry of terror.
The crowd gasped as he crashed against a pole.
Funny, he wasn’t scared anymore. He twisted, like a broken bird, ricocheting through the air, and falling too fast for it to end any other way.
Silk caressed his cheek–his mother’s touch, perhaps–then darkness enveloped him.
