Read Online The Lampo Circus by Alexandra Adornetto - Free Book Online
Authors: Alexandra Adornetto
Tags: Fiction
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precisely ten o’clock there will be an inspection of the troops. I expect you to make a favourable impression. When the officious [official]…party arrives, be sure to stand to attention and do not speak unless spoken to. Your real training will begin after this. Now, displace [disperse]!’
The children cleared tables, swept floors and washed undergarments by pounding them with a stone in one of the troughs. Then came a disorderly session of formal marching. Oslo put them through a series of routines that required them to straighten their shoulders and lift their knees until they were almost level with their chests. They were required to lie on their backs and kick their legs from side to side as an exercise fordeveloping ‘burly buttocks’. Eighty star jumps were performed for ‘steely sinews’; sixty push-ups for ‘formidable forearms’; and one hundred and twenty sit-ups for ‘murderous midriffs’. They were then required to spin around in circles for apparently no purpose at all until Oslo made some reference to the importance of balance on the battlefield.
Oslo himself spent the entire time on horseback, hurling invectives rather than incentives at them. It is not easy to achieve optimum performance with your trainer addressing you as: puny slugs, puking midgets, bumbling sparrows, cream puffs, prissy princesses, candy-sucking ballerinas, mollycoddled measles or dimwits in diapers.
It was close to ten when the warm-up and abuse were finally over. Most of the children collapsed to the ground, only to be ordered up again by an unsympathetic Oslo and made to assemble in rows for the formal inspection.
‘Feet together, shoulders back, tidy that hair, straighten your tunics!’
If Milli wasn’t mistaken, Oslo seemed a little agitated. Obviously his reputation rested on the impression they created.
When the official party arrived, the children recognised two figures they now knew to completely mistrust. Federico Lampo, in full ringmaster uniform and still holding his whip, strode past them accompanied by a huge woman at least a foot taller than him and possibly ten years his senior. Her detestation of children was so palpable in her expression that it made their skin prickle just to lay eyes on her. This woman, I am sorry to inform you, was the sort of female who if you were a Nubian goat would make you want to chomp your way through an entire fence in order to avoid her, if you were a panther to climb the highest tree to literally save your skin, and if you were a caterpillar to do your darndest to transform prematurely into a butterfly so as to flutter as far away from her as possible. Alas, she was the Contessa Augusta Bombasta, the personage Lampo had introduced at the start of the ill-fated matinee performance.
The Contessa sneered down at the children. The miniature dog in the crook of her arm gnashed its tiny teeth and the little fur that was left on its shorn body stood on end. Bombasta’s pooch was as pink as a piglet except for the bits of fur left asbooties on its feet and the pom-pom on its tail. With its narrow snout and spindly legs, it looked more like an oversized rat than any canine species. Its toenails had been French manicured and the name Muffy-Boo was spelt out in diamantes on a purple collar around its neck. The Contessa sang to the pooch in sugary tones:
Muffy-Boo, don’t feel blue
Mama will find you things to chew.
Muffy-Boo, where are you?
Fancy a game of peekaboo?
Perhaps it was as a result of this kind of pampering that Muffy-Boo had become delusional about both his size and ferocity. He seemed to think he possessed the same capabilities as a guard dog and instead of scolding him when he growled (as any responsible pet owner would do) Bombasta did everything to encourage and incite hostility in the creature.
‘That’s the way, mash them to a pulp, Muffy-Boo,’ she cooed. ‘Go for the jugular.’
With Lampo trotting effeminately beside her, Bombasta conducted
The children cleared tables, swept floors and washed undergarments by pounding them with a stone in one of the troughs. Then came a disorderly session of formal marching. Oslo put them through a series of routines that required them to straighten their shoulders and lift their knees until they were almost level with their chests. They were required to lie on their backs and kick their legs from side to side as an exercise fordeveloping ‘burly buttocks’. Eighty star jumps were performed for ‘steely sinews’; sixty push-ups for ‘formidable forearms’; and one hundred and twenty sit-ups for ‘murderous midriffs’. They were then required to spin around in circles for apparently no purpose at all until Oslo made some reference to the importance of balance on the battlefield.
Oslo himself spent the entire time on horseback, hurling invectives rather than incentives at them. It is not easy to achieve optimum performance with your trainer addressing you as: puny slugs, puking midgets, bumbling sparrows, cream puffs, prissy princesses, candy-sucking ballerinas, mollycoddled measles or dimwits in diapers.
It was close to ten when the warm-up and abuse were finally over. Most of the children collapsed to the ground, only to be ordered up again by an unsympathetic Oslo and made to assemble in rows for the formal inspection.
‘Feet together, shoulders back, tidy that hair, straighten your tunics!’
If Milli wasn’t mistaken, Oslo seemed a little agitated. Obviously his reputation rested on the impression they created.
When the official party arrived, the children recognised two figures they now knew to completely mistrust. Federico Lampo, in full ringmaster uniform and still holding his whip, strode past them accompanied by a huge woman at least a foot taller than him and possibly ten years his senior. Her detestation of children was so palpable in her expression that it made their skin prickle just to lay eyes on her. This woman, I am sorry to inform you, was the sort of female who if you were a Nubian goat would make you want to chomp your way through an entire fence in order to avoid her, if you were a panther to climb the highest tree to literally save your skin, and if you were a caterpillar to do your darndest to transform prematurely into a butterfly so as to flutter as far away from her as possible. Alas, she was the Contessa Augusta Bombasta, the personage Lampo had introduced at the start of the ill-fated matinee performance.
The Contessa sneered down at the children. The miniature dog in the crook of her arm gnashed its tiny teeth and the little fur that was left on its shorn body stood on end. Bombasta’s pooch was as pink as a piglet except for the bits of fur left asbooties on its feet and the pom-pom on its tail. With its narrow snout and spindly legs, it looked more like an oversized rat than any canine species. Its toenails had been French manicured and the name Muffy-Boo was spelt out in diamantes on a purple collar around its neck. The Contessa sang to the pooch in sugary tones:
Muffy-Boo, don’t feel blue
Mama will find you things to chew.
Muffy-Boo, where are you?
Fancy a game of peekaboo?
Perhaps it was as a result of this kind of pampering that Muffy-Boo had become delusional about both his size and ferocity. He seemed to think he possessed the same capabilities as a guard dog and instead of scolding him when he growled (as any responsible pet owner would do) Bombasta did everything to encourage and incite hostility in the creature.
‘That’s the way, mash them to a pulp, Muffy-Boo,’ she cooed. ‘Go for the jugular.’
With Lampo trotting effeminately beside her, Bombasta conducted
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