surprised. Was she being sarcastic? “Dear” was not the kind of word he would apply to that man. “He is our lion tamer. Oh—he doesn’t like us to say tamer. He is our lion trainer. He is African like you.”
He may be African, thought Charlie, but he is not like me. He is like—he is like the feeling you get when your father is angry with you. He is scary, and this calm he carries with him is not a good, relaxed calm; it is the calm of fear. Charlie shivered.
Lion tamer, eh? Well, he certainly seemed to have this group tamed.
Charlie glanced at Pirouette. She was looking at her meal, and seemed not to want to look up.
Maccomo had made Charlie lose his appetite, so he just sat and listened to the gentle conversation that flowed around the cabin as the circus people finished their dinners. One of the Italians was trying to persuade one of the others to get his mandolin and play a song. Mr. Andrews the bear leader had offered part of his newspaper to the Hungarian. Some new people came in, including a large, proud-looking bald man. (“What does he do?” inquired Charlie eagerly, but Madame Barbue just gave him a look, as if to say he should know better than to ask.) There was a small group of wiry Arab boys, and a very tall, elegant, pale man with feathery white hair and exceptionally long hands and feet. Charlie found himself giving Madame Barbue a pleading look, and she relented enough to say: “El Superbe Aero: funambuliste,” which didn’t help Charlie much. Funambuliste, trapeziorista volante . . . he needed a dictionary.
Gazing around the dining room, Charlie thought they looked like a rather large and odd family. He smiled to himself. He liked it here. At least—he would have. If only . . .
After dinner the twins came over and said—both of them: “Hello, we’re the twins. Who are you?”
“I’m Charlie,” said Charlie. “I’m helping with the monkeys.”
The twins looked at each other meaningfully, then continued: “Major Tib always puts people with the monkeys first. He’ll have you doing something else soon. Do you have any chocolate?”
It was amazing the way they talked together. How could they have known to jump from talking about Major Tib to talking about chocolate? If this was a trick for the Show, it was a very good one.
“I do, actually. Would you like some?”
“Yes,” they said, and smiled. They were weird.
Charlie said good night to Pirouette (who had undone her tight hairdo and suddenly looked much nicer) and Madame Barbue, who made him promise to come to breakfast with them the next day, and went off with the twins. Part of him wanted Pirouette to ask him to stay with her rather than go off with the younger girls, but she said nothing, so he went. Also, he wanted to find out if the twins really talked in tandem all the time.
Charlie didn’t quite know his way back to the monkeycabin where he had left his things, but the twins—“We’re Sara and Tara,” they said—were able to show him where it was. Well, they could show him where the cabin was, but where the chocolate was, was another thing, and no secret: The monkeys had been in Charlie’s bag, and they had devoured the chocolate, the remaining crackers and sugar cubes, and the teabags.
“Yuck!” said the twins. “Raw teabags!”
Maybe they’re one person in two bodies, Charlie thought. That would make sense.
Oh, no, it wouldn’t, he thought then. How could one person in two bodies make sense?
Sara and Tara then announced that they had some chocolate in their cabin. He followed them back up to the open deck, along toward the bow, right into the bow, as it seemed. And then suddenly the girls turned and disappeared from view.
“Oi!” called Charlie. “Where are you? Where’ve you gone?”
“We’re here!” the girls called, and their heads popped out from a hole in the wall right by the figurehead. “This is where we stay.”
Their cabin was right inside the figurehead’s chest. It was
He may be African, thought Charlie, but he is not like me. He is like—he is like the feeling you get when your father is angry with you. He is scary, and this calm he carries with him is not a good, relaxed calm; it is the calm of fear. Charlie shivered.
Lion tamer, eh? Well, he certainly seemed to have this group tamed.
Charlie glanced at Pirouette. She was looking at her meal, and seemed not to want to look up.
Maccomo had made Charlie lose his appetite, so he just sat and listened to the gentle conversation that flowed around the cabin as the circus people finished their dinners. One of the Italians was trying to persuade one of the others to get his mandolin and play a song. Mr. Andrews the bear leader had offered part of his newspaper to the Hungarian. Some new people came in, including a large, proud-looking bald man. (“What does he do?” inquired Charlie eagerly, but Madame Barbue just gave him a look, as if to say he should know better than to ask.) There was a small group of wiry Arab boys, and a very tall, elegant, pale man with feathery white hair and exceptionally long hands and feet. Charlie found himself giving Madame Barbue a pleading look, and she relented enough to say: “El Superbe Aero: funambuliste,” which didn’t help Charlie much. Funambuliste, trapeziorista volante . . . he needed a dictionary.
Gazing around the dining room, Charlie thought they looked like a rather large and odd family. He smiled to himself. He liked it here. At least—he would have. If only . . .
After dinner the twins came over and said—both of them: “Hello, we’re the twins. Who are you?”
“I’m Charlie,” said Charlie. “I’m helping with the monkeys.”
The twins looked at each other meaningfully, then continued: “Major Tib always puts people with the monkeys first. He’ll have you doing something else soon. Do you have any chocolate?”
It was amazing the way they talked together. How could they have known to jump from talking about Major Tib to talking about chocolate? If this was a trick for the Show, it was a very good one.
“I do, actually. Would you like some?”
“Yes,” they said, and smiled. They were weird.
Charlie said good night to Pirouette (who had undone her tight hairdo and suddenly looked much nicer) and Madame Barbue, who made him promise to come to breakfast with them the next day, and went off with the twins. Part of him wanted Pirouette to ask him to stay with her rather than go off with the younger girls, but she said nothing, so he went. Also, he wanted to find out if the twins really talked in tandem all the time.
Charlie didn’t quite know his way back to the monkeycabin where he had left his things, but the twins—“We’re Sara and Tara,” they said—were able to show him where it was. Well, they could show him where the cabin was, but where the chocolate was, was another thing, and no secret: The monkeys had been in Charlie’s bag, and they had devoured the chocolate, the remaining crackers and sugar cubes, and the teabags.
“Yuck!” said the twins. “Raw teabags!”
Maybe they’re one person in two bodies, Charlie thought. That would make sense.
Oh, no, it wouldn’t, he thought then. How could one person in two bodies make sense?
Sara and Tara then announced that they had some chocolate in their cabin. He followed them back up to the open deck, along toward the bow, right into the bow, as it seemed. And then suddenly the girls turned and disappeared from view.
“Oi!” called Charlie. “Where are you? Where’ve you gone?”
“We’re here!” the girls called, and their heads popped out from a hole in the wall right by the figurehead. “This is where we stay.”
Their cabin was right inside the figurehead’s chest. It was
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