three they would have the money in dollars as she had requested. Ruda smiled, and shrugged, then said she'd changed her mind. She was smarting with the thought that she needed Grimaldi's signature for an advance on her own wages.
Ruda fixed herself a salad in the trailer, and then changed into her practice clothes. She was just about to leave when Luis returned. He shook his head, his hair soaked. "It's really coming down, maybe going to be a storm. The forecast isn't good."
"Did you try and sort out the pedestals?"
Luis had totally forgotten. He nodded, and then lied, saying he expected a return call at the main box office. She watched him in moody silence as he unlocked the wooden bench seat and checked over his guns; he rarely had a gun when watching out for her, but it was a habit from the past when his watchers had always been armed. Out of habit he checked his rifles, but never took them out of the box.
"I'll need you in the arena. Can you get the boys ready? We're due to start in an hour."
Luis sat on the bench, picked up the towel Ruda had used to dry her hair and rubbed his head. "Ruda, we need to talk, maybe after rehearsal."
Ruda was already at the trailer door.
"Which tart was it today?"
Luis laughed, tossing the towel aside. "It's been the same one for months and you know it—it's Tina, she's one of the bareback riders."
"You'll be screwing them in their diapers soon, you old goat."
Luis laughed again; he had a lovely rumbling laugh, and it relieved her: Maybe it wasn't as serious as she had thought.
"See you in the ring then! After, we can go out for dinner someplace."
Ruda paused by the door. "Maybe, but I've got a lot to do, we'll see."
He gave a rueful smile. "I'm sorry about the mixup with the plinths, I'll get onto them and see you in the ring."
The door clicked shut after her, and Luis lifted his feet up onto the bench, his elbows behind his head, and stared at the photographs along the top of the wall. Some of them were brown with age. They were of him in his prime, standing with his lions, smiling to the camera; there was such a powerful look to him, such youthfulness…Slowly his eyes drifted down, he watched himself age from one poster to the next; it was as if his entire life was pasted up in front of him. He stared at the central poster, Ruda's face where his had always been. The side wall was filled with Ruda. He eased his feet down and stood, slowly moving toward the pictures that showed he was a has-been.
He opened a bottle of scotch, drank from the bottle, and looked at a photograph brown and curling with age. The Grimaldi family. There was the old man, the grandfather, his own father, with Luis beside him no more than ten years old. Luis's father had taught him everything he knew, just as his father had done before him. Three generations of big game trainers.
Luis downed more scotch as he stripped to shower. He bent to look at himself in the bathroom mirror, staring at the scars across his arms—warrior scars his papa used to call them—scars from breaking up the tiger fights. But there was one, deeper than the others, a jagged line from the nape of his neck to his groin. His fingers traced it, and he started to sweat, as his mouth dried up. He could never go back into the ring. She had done that to him. Ruda had made him feel inadequate, but it had been Mamon, her favorite baby, that had almost killed him.
The cold shower eased the feverish sweats, and he soaped his chest. He had been mauled so many times; how often had he stepped between two massive tigers, more afraid they would hurt themselves than him? Only the terrible scar on his chest made the fear rise up from his belly.
Mamon had lunged at him, dragged him like a rag doll around the practice ring, and Luis had been overcome with a terror he had not believed himself capable of. It had frozen him. He had no memory of how he had been dragged from the arena, no memory of anything until he woke in the hospital, with the
Ruda fixed herself a salad in the trailer, and then changed into her practice clothes. She was just about to leave when Luis returned. He shook his head, his hair soaked. "It's really coming down, maybe going to be a storm. The forecast isn't good."
"Did you try and sort out the pedestals?"
Luis had totally forgotten. He nodded, and then lied, saying he expected a return call at the main box office. She watched him in moody silence as he unlocked the wooden bench seat and checked over his guns; he rarely had a gun when watching out for her, but it was a habit from the past when his watchers had always been armed. Out of habit he checked his rifles, but never took them out of the box.
"I'll need you in the arena. Can you get the boys ready? We're due to start in an hour."
Luis sat on the bench, picked up the towel Ruda had used to dry her hair and rubbed his head. "Ruda, we need to talk, maybe after rehearsal."
Ruda was already at the trailer door.
"Which tart was it today?"
Luis laughed, tossing the towel aside. "It's been the same one for months and you know it—it's Tina, she's one of the bareback riders."
"You'll be screwing them in their diapers soon, you old goat."
Luis laughed again; he had a lovely rumbling laugh, and it relieved her: Maybe it wasn't as serious as she had thought.
"See you in the ring then! After, we can go out for dinner someplace."
Ruda paused by the door. "Maybe, but I've got a lot to do, we'll see."
He gave a rueful smile. "I'm sorry about the mixup with the plinths, I'll get onto them and see you in the ring."
The door clicked shut after her, and Luis lifted his feet up onto the bench, his elbows behind his head, and stared at the photographs along the top of the wall. Some of them were brown with age. They were of him in his prime, standing with his lions, smiling to the camera; there was such a powerful look to him, such youthfulness…Slowly his eyes drifted down, he watched himself age from one poster to the next; it was as if his entire life was pasted up in front of him. He stared at the central poster, Ruda's face where his had always been. The side wall was filled with Ruda. He eased his feet down and stood, slowly moving toward the pictures that showed he was a has-been.
He opened a bottle of scotch, drank from the bottle, and looked at a photograph brown and curling with age. The Grimaldi family. There was the old man, the grandfather, his own father, with Luis beside him no more than ten years old. Luis's father had taught him everything he knew, just as his father had done before him. Three generations of big game trainers.
Luis downed more scotch as he stripped to shower. He bent to look at himself in the bathroom mirror, staring at the scars across his arms—warrior scars his papa used to call them—scars from breaking up the tiger fights. But there was one, deeper than the others, a jagged line from the nape of his neck to his groin. His fingers traced it, and he started to sweat, as his mouth dried up. He could never go back into the ring. She had done that to him. Ruda had made him feel inadequate, but it had been Mamon, her favorite baby, that had almost killed him.
The cold shower eased the feverish sweats, and he soaped his chest. He had been mauled so many times; how often had he stepped between two massive tigers, more afraid they would hurt themselves than him? Only the terrible scar on his chest made the fear rise up from his belly.
Mamon had lunged at him, dragged him like a rag doll around the practice ring, and Luis had been overcome with a terror he had not believed himself capable of. It had frozen him. He had no memory of how he had been dragged from the arena, no memory of anything until he woke in the hospital, with the
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