LAURA VAN DEN BERG’S ORIGINAL:

ACROBAT

The day my husband left me, I followed a trio of acrobats around the city of Paris. The whole time my husband had been talking—telling me, presumably, why he was leaving—I was watching these acrobats do backflips and handstands in synchrony, an open violin case at their feet. They wore black masks over their eyes and white face paint. The little gold bells that hung from the sleeves of their red silk jumpsuits jingled like wind chimes. My husband and I were in the Jardin des Tuileries, sitting on a bench underneath a tree. We had come to Paris for the weekend, to revive our marriage. It was what the books and the couples counselor had recommended. The day he left was our last day there. We were, in fact, supposed to fly home that evening. We’d risen early to go to the Louvre and had gotten into a fight because he didn’t want to wait in line to see the Mona Lisa.

“You have patience for things that I don’t,” he said while we were on the bench. “That’s just the truth.”

He said other things, too, but I was busy watching the acrobats perform in front of a fountain. They made a tower by standing on each other’s shoulders and then leapt down, landing en pointe like dancers, their ballet slippers barely making a sound when they hit the pale dirt. Now that’s teamwork, I thought.

When I looked over at my husband, he wasn’t sitting next to me. He was standing, his hands filling his pockets.

“So I guess that’s that,” he said.

“I guess so,” I said. It was dawning on me that I might have missed something important.

“I’m going now.”

“Wait a second,” I said. “Surely we can still fly home together. Surely we’re not that bad off.” I checked my watch. It was noon. Our flight was only six hours away. Our luggage was packed and awaiting us in our hotel room and I was pretty sure I’d put my toiletries bag in my husband’s suitcase. He told me he’d already cancelled my ticket and left an envelope of money in our room to pay for a new one.

“It’ll be better if we find our own way home,” he said. “I explained that to you already.”

“You said that just now?”

“Yes.” He sighed. “Just now.”

From the bench, I watched my husband disappear into a gaggle of French teenagers with backpacks sagging from their shoulders. I’d known this was coming. That the books and the counseling and the trip to Paris were all just passing time. But I hadn’t expected it to happen right then, in the most romantic park in the most romantic city in all the world, or with so little drama.

I went back to the acrobats. When they folded up the violin case and marched out of the Jardin des Tuileries in a single-file line, I followed them. They wound expertly around clumps of pedestrians, never breaking formation, like ghosts walking among the living.

They went into the streets, past the Concorde, and down the Champs-Élysées. On the way, they stopped at a café and sat outside, smoking cigarettes and drinking espresso. They were there for over an hour. It was July. I imagined the acrobats were hot in their silk suits and face paint. I watched from a nearby food stand, eating a ham and cheese croissant. For once, I was grateful for my nonexistent sense of style. My clothes couldn’t have been plainer, a pale yellow sundress and black Teva sandals. A man in running shorts came up to me and said something in French that I could not understand. I shooed him away by flapping the wax paper my croissant had been wrapped in. Finally one of the acrobats slipped Euros underneath his saucer and then they all stood, dropped their white linen napkins onto their chairs, and filed out of the restaurant. The same acrobat who paid for the espressos was at the head of the line. He also carried the violin case.

We went down the Champs-Élysées, past Louis Vuitton and Cartier and Ladurée, where I was momentarily distracted by a tower of yellow, pink, and purple macaroons in the front window. A million different languages buzzed around me like radio static. My husband had refused to go to the Champs-Élysées because he said he would be revolted by the gross display of materialism. I looked at the shopping bags swinging from slender wrists and the mannequins posing in store windows and felt glad to be doing something that he would not. So there, I thought. Life goes on.

At the Arc de Triomphe, the lead acrobat stopped and opened the violin case. I watched them do the human tower trick again and then the leader pulled blue plastic balls from the case and they juggled. A couple had their picture taken with the two non-lead acrobats. The tourists were pale-haired, inelegant. They looked American, meaning: they could have been my husband and me. The couple dropped coins into the violin case before leaving. The acrobats snapped up the case and moved along.

I followed them all the way to Palais de Chaillot—where they preformed briefly, unable to distract people from cuffing their pants and wading into the huge oblong fountain—and then the Eiffel Tower. If I lost sight of the acrobats for a moment, it was easy to find them in the crowd; all I had to do was listen for the sing-song of the bells. By that time, I was tired from the walking. As I watched the acrobats do backflips and frontflips, I realized I didn’t have a hotel reservation for the night. I had my passport, wallet, and guidebook in the satchel I was carrying. That was all. I sat down on a bench. A part of me was hoping that all this time, my husband had been following me around the arrondissements too. That, when I was least expecting it, he would sit down next to me. Or jump out from behind a tree and say, “Surprise!” That together we would still watch the lights of Paris grow smaller and smaller from the departing plane. I checked my wristwatch. It was five o’clock. Our flight—his flight—was an hour away. Soon my husband would be boarding, lifting his carry-on into the overhead compartment. He liked aisle seats. I hoped he didn’t get one.

By the time the acrobats left the Eiffel Tower, dusk was falling, and I had become less concerned with being cautious. I followed close enough to see where sweat had seeped through their silk jumpsuits like Rosarch blots. They went to a small restaurant with a yellow awning called Florimond’s, where they got a table inside. In my broken French, I asked the maître d’ for a table in the same section. Both the acrobats and I sat facing the restaurant’s front patio and the street. Two empty tables stood between us. I pretended to study the menu. I felt my knee and noticed that my dress was missing a button. When I stole glances at the acrobats, they were all looking at menus and smoking.

I decided to order a big meal. I decided to eat until I felt like bursting. I requested a beef crêpe and my own bottle of wine. As I sipped my first glass of wine, I felt something in the room change, like all the electrical currents had been moving in one direction and then suddenly started going in another. Or, as my husband would say, the “emotional weather” was different. He was always accusing my emotional weather of changing without warning. The forecast had predicted clear skies and then, out of nowhere, here came the rainclouds. Time after time, I tried to explain that I didn’t have much control over my emotional weather, and viewed the local weatherman with newfound empathy whenever I saw him on the evening news. I stared at my hands as I thought of these things. These moments that pass for a life.

I heard a jingling and when I looked up, the lead acrobat was sitting across from me. I gasped and knocked over my wine glass. Fortunately there wasn’t much wine left, just a little red stream dribbling across the table. The acrobat righted the glass and mopped up the wine with a napkin.

“Merci,” I said. I could see his dark eyes through the holes in the mask, which, up close, reminded me of the one Zorro wore in the movies. The white paint on his mouth had flaked off, and I noticed the pinkish color of his lips.

“Pourquoi nous suivez-vous?” the acrobat said.

“Une minute.” I took my travel guide out of my satchel and flipped to the French-to-English translation section.

“Why didn’t you say so?” the acrobat said when he saw what I was doing. “We all speak English.”

“I didn’t want to assume,” I said, by which I meant, I didn’t want to seem like some dumb American.

“I’ll start over,” the acrobat said. “Why are you following us?”

Naturally, I was at a loss for what to say.

“Don’t get me wrong,” he continued. “We’re quite flattered. We’ve never had such a loyal fan before. But still we have to ask.”

I glanced over at the other acrobats. They were huddled together, staring, and then, after they caught my eye, pretending not to stare. It was my habit to lie to strangers, because how would they know the difference? On the flight over, my husband and I ended up in different rows and I told the man sitting next to me that I was a geologist. Talking to someone who didn’t know me, who couldn’t separate the truth from the lie, always gave me the most ruthless sense of freedom. But today was a different kind of day.

“To tell you the truth, I was watching you perform while my husband was telling me something important and I missed what he was saying,” I said. “That’s the best answer I can give.”

“Can’t you just ask your husband to repeat himself?”

“Not exactly,” I said. “I think he went home without me.”

“And where’s home?”

“America,” I said. “Connecticut.”

“I see,” said the acrobat. He looked over at his comrades, then back at me. He said his name was Jean-Paul and invited me to sit at their table. I accepted. Jean-Paul informed the maître d’ and carried over my wine bottle. He introduced me to the other acrobats, Alain and Dominique. They moved their chairs to make room, pushed their glasses together. With the face paint and the masks, I couldn’t really tell the difference between Alain and Dominique. Both had light brown hair and greenish eyes. Jean-Paul I could distinguish because he was the tallest, with dark hair and dark eyes.

“This woman is alone in the city,” Jean-Paul said once we were settled. The table was in a corner and I was sitting next to Jean-Paul, facing the street, Alain and Dominique across from us.

“Not anymore,” Alain—or Dominique?—said. “Acrobats know how to treat their fans.”

“There’s so much competition now,” Dominique—or Alain?—said. “Musicians, puppet shows, mimes. You practically have to set yourself on fire to get noticed.”

“I love acrobats,” I said, unsure if that was even really true. “I’ve loved acrobats ever since I was a child.”

Our food arrived. All three of the acrobats had ordered sole meunière. We ate quickly and in silence. I was relieved that I wasn’t the only one too hungry for polite conversation. After our plates had been cleared, Jean-Paul presented me with an open cigarette pack. I took one. It was slender and white. I’d never had a cigarette before. My husband was an environmental enthusiast and thought smokers were the scourge of the earth. He had actually used that word, “scourge.” I inhaled deeply and didn’t cough. I felt the smoke move through my chest like something alive.

“Would you like to go to a party tonight?” Jean-Paul asked.

“It’s an acrobat party,” Alain/Dominique added.

“We’d have to get you a costume,” Jean-Paul said. “Or at least some face paint and a mask.”

“I didn’t know acrobats had their own parties,” I said.

Jean-Paul explained that most acrobats in Paris were the children of acrobats, that it was a time-honored vocation. “We have our own networks,” he said. “Our own social clubs.”

I tried to imagine a crowd of people with painted faces and masks. “This isn’t some kind of sex thing, is it?”

“Not at all,” Jean-Paul said. “Or at least not usually.”

I told them I was in. The acrobats clapped, their bells chiming. All the wine was gone. When the check came, I took out my Visa and slapped it down on the table. My card had a twenty thousand dollar limit. I always told my husband that I didn’t need a card with such a high limit, but he said it was good for our credit to have so much power and to use it responsibly and, in any case, there might be an emergency. My husband had been right about that. I was having an emergency. I was the emergency. And I was glad to have power to burn.

After the bill had been settled, Jean-Paul took out a tube of white face paint and a tiny makeup brush. He moved his chair closer to mine, then leaned toward me and asked me to close my eyes. Without sight, noises were magnified: the soft hiss of a match being lit, dishes clattering, the distant, lilting wail of a siren. He used his fingers to paste the paint onto my face, over my eyelids and down the bridge of my nose. The paint felt like cold mud. He pressed my cheekbones as he swirled the paint upwards, gingerly applied it between my eyebrows and across my forehead. I imagined a white line of paint moving up the center of my forehead and then fanning out like a breaking wave. I could not remember the last time my husband had touched my face. Before finishing, he evened out the job with the makeup brush, its bristles pricking my nostrils and the edges of my mouth.

He told me to open my eyes. I gazed into the compact mirror Jean-Paul held in front of me. Everything was white except for my eyelashes and eyebrows and pupils. When I grinned, my teeth looked yellow against my painted skin.

“Voilà!” Jean-Paul said.

At the table, the acrobats used the makeup brush and the compact mirror to touch up their own faces. Then we went to a costume store on Rue Eblé. Inside the acrobats picked out a black masquerade mask lined with silver glitter and a black silk robe. I charged the costume on my Visa. Outside, in an alley, Jean-Paul helped slip the mask over my face and then tied the silk sash of the robe around my waist. His fingers were nimble, slender.

The party was in the Marais District. We took the metro. We sat in a row, in our face paint and masks. People didn’t stare as much as I had expected, as I had hoped. The only ones who really gave us a second look were children. The overhead lights flickered and hummed. When our stop came and we stood, I realized gum was stuck to the bottom of my sandal.

Above ground, I followed the acrobats down Rue Saint Sebastian. There were restaurants with outdoor patios and boutique hotels and nightclubs with neon signs nestled in the windows. The streets were made of beautiful stone. We walked single-file. I was at the end of the line. Once I got distracted by a couple eating on a restaurant patio, another pale and inelegant pair, but I only had to listen for the bells to find the acrobats in the crowd. We turned onto a cobblestone side street. The stones looked wet even though it hadn’t rained. We stopped outside a gray building with a little blue awning. We rang the buzzer and went inside.

When the elevator doors opened onto the sixth floor, we found the corner apartment open and people spilling into the hallway. They all had on white face paint too, but some had blue stars around their eyes or a red joker’s smile or yellow comets on their cheeks. Some wore jumpsuits like my acrobats; others wore tights and tunics. A woman in a turquoise one-piece bathing suit, a beaded dolphin covering her stomach, walked by. Some people wore floppy jesters hats with bells on the ends. Everywhere was the sound of bells.

“This is the party,” Jean-Paul said, setting the violin case down by the door. I followed him inside.

The apartment was bright and full. French pop music played on the stereo. The living room floors were gleaming hardwood. At the other end of the room, a bay window looked out onto the street. People were standing elbow to elbow, shoulder to shoulder, knee to knee. There were so many people I couldn’t get a good look at the apartment’s layout and décor. It had been overrun by acrobats and their followers.

Jean-Paul, Alain, and Dominique spread out, shaking hands and slapping backs and waving to masked figures across the room. Right away, my Teva sandals made me feel like an impostor. I needed high heels or ballet slippers or even bare feet with crimson toenails. I wandered into the kitchen. Glass bowls filled with punch sat on granite counters, alongside champagne glasses and cocktail napkins. Tiny charms in the shape of acrobats dangled from the stems of the glasses. Costumed partygoers leaned against doorjambs, propped elbows on counters, talked in rapid-fire French. I had expected this party to be unique, a once-in-a-lifetime event, but it was the same as any other party, really, except everyone was masked and speaking a language I couldn’t understand. I ladled some punch into a champagne glass and drank it. Then I wandered around with the empty glass in my hand.

I walked over to a fish tank in the living room. The tank was black and had florescent lights, but there was nothing inside except water and silver pebbles. I studied the spines of the books in a bookcase: there were titles on deep space organisms and intergalactic travel and black holes. I wondered if the person who owned this apartment dreamed of traveling to space. A woman with crystals glued to her cheek in the shape of a heart tried to talk to me, but I couldn’t follow what she was saying. I just nodded and nodded until my neck hurt and the apartment felt airless. I pushed past a group of people wearing masks adorned with feathers and back into the kitchen. I filled my champagne glass and went out onto a small balcony with iron railings. It faced the same street as the bay window. Below I saw the tops of heads and garbage can lids and slick stone streets. The air felt good against my painted face. No one else was on the balcony and I couldn’t talk to the people indoors. I hadn’t seen Jean-Paul, Alain, or Dominique since we entered the party, and I was feeling lonely for home. I went inside and slipped into a bedroom.

I sat on the edge of the bed. The comforter’s pinkish color reminded me of the inside of a seashell. I stared at the black phone on the bedside table. It was an old-fashioned rotary, an antique possibly. I dialed my husband’s international cell. I was surprised when he answered after the first ring.

“Hello,” I said. “I didn’t think you’d pick up.”

“I’m in Amsterdam,” he said. “My connection was delayed.”

“Are you going back to Hartford? Back to the house?”

“Where else did you think I’d go?”

“I don’t know.” He had a brother who lived in upstate New York, a friend from college in Des Moines. “Someplace I wouldn’t come back to.” I’d left the door cracked open and noise from the party seeped into the room.

“Where are you?” my husband asked.

“A party,” I said. “I met some people after you left.”

“Oh,” he said.

“So do you think you should get the house?”

“Isn’t that a little premature?”

“Leaving someone in a foreign country seems pretty final to me.”

“Do you want the house?”

“I never liked that house,” I said. “It was too dark. And the neighborhood was too quiet. It kept me up at night it was so quiet. It short-circuited my nerves it was so quiet.”

“I like quiet.”

“I know,” I said. “I always hated that about you.”

“Let’s figure the house out when you get back.” He paused. “When are you getting back?”

“I’m not sure.” I pressed the receiver against my forehead and shut my eyes. I heard him ask me to not take so long between answers because these international minutes were costing him a fortune. Finally I said I had a question for him. A very important question.

“Shoot,” he said.

“When we were sitting on the bench this morning, you were saying something to me. Something important.”

“I could tell you weren’t paying attention,” he said. “You kept staring at something over my shoulder.”

“That’s true,” I said. “I was distracted.”

“And now you’re wondering what I said?”

“I was hoping you’d repeat it for me.”

“We all have to live with our deficiencies.”

“That’s what you said?”

“No. That’s what I’m saying now.”

“What does that mean? That you’re not repeating it for me?”

“There are consequences for the things we do. That’s what I’m saying.”

“Consequences?”

“Consequences.”

“I don’t believe in consequences,” I said. “There’s just what happens and what doesn’t.”

“I’m glad to hear you still sound just like yourself.”

“Did you say that you loved me?”

“No.”

“That you never really loved me?”

“No.”

“That you’d met someone else?”

“Wrong again.”

“That you’re planning to kill me and collect my life insurance payout?”

“It’s crossed my mind,” he said. “But no.”

I felt like beating my head against the wall until my nose was bloody. I asked why we kept trying for so long, why we even came to Paris, if we both knew we never really stood a chance.

“Because that’s what you’re supposed to do,” he said. “You’re supposed to keep working on your marriage.”

It was awful to me, this idea that keeping a marriage together was like laying pipe or digging a ditch. But he was right. It was what everyone had told us we were supposed to do. We had listened to sentences that contained words like “revive” and “salvage” and “repair” and nodded dumbly, pretending we didn’t know any better. It was an affront to everyone involved.

I leaned against the pillows and the headboard. I breathed in deeply, but when I exhaled, no air seemed to come out, like something inside me had eaten it. “How was the flight out of Paris?”

“Long.”

“Did you miss me?”

“Not as much as I thought I would, to be honest.”

“I don’t miss you that much either.” I waited for him to say something else. I listened to his breath on the line. For a moment, I thought I was on the brink of profound clarity. I silently counted backwards from ten and when I hit zero, I hung up the phone.

I lay on the bed for a while longer, my hands against my chest, my fingers gripping the black silk of my robe. Then all of a sudden darkness replaced the knife-blade of light that had been spilling through the doorway. I wandered into the living room, forgetting my empty champagne glass with its miniature acrobat charm on the comforter. The apartment was dark. The music had been changed to techno, which I hadn’t heard since I took an ill-advised trip to Miami last year. I hadn’t liked it then, but now it sounded okay. It had a numbing effect that suited my mood. Someone activated a mini strobe light set and white beams cut across the room. People were dancing all over the apartment, in their bells and sequins and feathers.

“Henri,” Jean-Paul whispered in my ear. He had appeared behind me, his hands on my shoulders. “He went to the clubs in Monaco one summer and he’s been obsessed with those lights ever since.”

The lights beamed one way, and I saw into the kitchen, where Alain and Dominique were dancing with the woman in the dolphin bathing suit. The glass bowls on the counter looked like they were holding blood. It seemed everyone was smiling. Some of the smiles were painted on, of course, but I wanted to believe that most people were smiling for real. I saw teeth and gums and tongues, just a glimpse here and a glimpse there, never enough to identify what belonged to whom.

“Henri is from America originally,” Jean-Paul continued. “Our favorite American import.”

“I thought I was your favorite American import,” I said, bumping against him. This was the first time I’d tried to flirt with anyone in years.

“But of course!” Jean-Paul said. He draped his arms around my neck. Intersecting white lights shot across the apartment like a laser alarm system in a spy movie. I put Jean-Paul’s hands on my hips and we danced. We didn’t dance close. We jumped up and down, left and right, knocking into other people. We held hands and when we let go of each other, it was too dark for me to see if he was dancing with someone else or waiting for me to return, if he too was smiling. I let out a scream and felt a little thrill. I did it again and got the same kind of rush. It was dark and I was masked and no one knew who I was or where I was going next or whether I was losing my mind or finding it.

When the song ended, Jean-Paul took my hand and led me out of the apartment. It was still pitch dark and no one could see that we were escaping. I marveled at all that could be gotten away with in the dark. Someone’s life could fall apart—or together—without anyone noticing a thing. I thought of all the nights I lay beside my husband in bed and agonized about where my life was going, where it had gone, about being thirty-five and having not done much of anything. All those hours in darkness, a shadow life that was never revealed to him. I might as well have been robbing banks on the sly or having an affair.

Outside I touched my cheeks and felt the paint smudge. When I pulled my hand away, there was white on my fingertips. I was sweating beneath my mask and robe. Jean-Paul broke into a light run, still holding my hand, his bells jingling, my sandals slapping the ground like Frankenstein feet.

“Where do you want to go?” Jean-Paul asked as we ran down a street lit by globular streetlamps.

I remembered the first thing I took an interest in when studying a map of Paris on the plane. I read about its history in the guidebook and charted its path on the map with my fingertip.

“To the river!” I said.

By the time we reached the Seine, we had given up on running. We knew better than to feign being young and carefree for very long. The paint was making my face itch. I scratched the side of my nose. I had lost my sash and my robe billowed open. When I looked down at my sundress, it seemed unfamiliar, a stranger’s clothes. The Seine stretched out before us, dark and endless. We took a small set of stairs down to the concrete sidewalk that lined one side of the river. The path was lit by goldish hanging lights. We walked along the river, underneath one of the bridges and past an empty bench. Jean-Paul smoked a cigarette and gave me drags. The concrete wall beside us seemed to insulate us from city sounds. For a long time, the bells were the only noise I heard.

“You forgot your case,” I said when I realized he wasn’t carrying it.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said.

“How did you learn acrobatics?”

“I went to an acrobatics school in Germany,” he said. “I was taught by the same man who taught my father.”

“It seems like it would get tiring, all that performing.”

“I like having a job where I get to wear a mask all day.”

When he asked what I did, I tried my best to explain my job as a forensic accountant. I worked in the offices of a divorce lawyer in Hartford and spent my days examining bank statements and stock portfolios, trying to figure out what really belonged to whom, where money had been hidden or lost or spent. I hoped the office would be understanding when I called to tell them I was extending my vacation.

“So you’ve seen other people’s divorces?”

“Tons,” I said. “Once our office had a case where it came out that the wife had been grinding up tiny amounts of glass and mixing it into her husband’s food for the last year of their marriage.”

“Maybe it’s best your husband left when he did.”

“Maybe so,” I said.

A riverboat, the bottom exploding with blue phosphorescent light, drifted past us; music and voices rolled across the water. When the quiet returned, I stopped walking. Jean-Paul faced me. I touched his shoulder, right where the silk rose into a little peak, with my paint-smudged fingers.

“Take off your mask,” I said.

“Sorry,” he said. “It’s against the code.”

I wondered what his mask was hiding, if he was elaborately scarred. “I’ll take off my mask if you take off yours.”

He smiled. “But I already know what you look like.”

“You don’t know my name. I never told any of you my name.”

“I’ve already made one up for you,” he said. “I do that when I meet people.”

“And?”

“It’s Sabine. What do you think?”

“Not even close.”

I took off my mask and let my bathrobe fall onto the concrete, the black silk pooling at my feet, and undid the straps on my sandals. It looked as though a wizard had evaporated, leaving behind everything but the body. I took one sweeping step toward the edge of the path and jumped into the water cannon-ball style, knees clutched to my chest like a terrified child.

I plunged beneath the water. I didn’t open my eyes as I considered what might be resting under me: dead bodies with gnawed fingers and peeling skin, bottles, disposed of murder weapons, coins, disintegrating love letters. I felt the gentle pressure of the current, the fabric of my dress sticking to my skin.

After I surfaced, I opened my eyes and slicked back my hair. I wiped my face and looked at the white paint bleeding across my hands. Jean-Paul was standing on the bank in his underwear and mask, his red jumpsuit and ballet slippers heaped on the concrete. He slipped into the river tentatively, as though the water was causing him pain.

When he reached me, he put his hand on the back of my head. I looked at his lips and nose and ears. His mask had slipped to the side and I saw one of his eyes. Whiteness had collected in the corner of it. I rubbed the remaining paint from his face with my fingertips. His mask and black hair made me think again of Zorro. I traced a “Z” on his bare stomach. I hoped another riverboat didn’t pass through.

“Did anyone ever tell you that you look like Zorro?”

“What is Zorro?”

“It’s not important.”

“Do you have a place to stay tonight?”

“I want to take a train south. To the beaches. I want to see things.”

“But you’ll need a place to dry off, change clothes, get some sleep.”

“I could do that anywhere.”

Jean-Paul gripped my waist and hoisted me out of the water; I made a “V” with my arms and he spun me around, his hands moving over my stomach and the small of my back. I saw the gray walls of the Seine and the cars and a person crossing a bridge. All the lit-up windows and the glowing peak of the Eiffel Tower. I tipped my head back and saw the red blink of a plane in the sky. And then be brought me back down.

Laura van den Berg’s “Acrobat” first appeared in American Short Fiction

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THE REMIX:

A COOL BLOOD

The streets were made of beautiful stone. Pale dirt and streaked with blood. Like things alive, acrobats do back flips and front flips, dark eyes through the holes in their masks, the white paint on their mouths flaked off, the pinkish color of their lips “Why are you following us?” They make towers by standing on each other’s shoulders and then leap down. They huddle together, staring, and then after they catch my eye, they pretend not to stare. A ruthless dusk is falling. Acrobats all look at menus and smoke across from me. Through the haze, blue and gray, I see real teeth and gums and tongues. Some of the smiles are painted over the white face paint, white face paint gone old, gone mildewed and aged in the smoke.

Now these pale yellow ghosts juggling and flipping and gesturing among the living. These acrobats hot in their silk and white face paint. Their rotten sweat. Their aged heat.

They move their chairs to make noise, to cut the tile into moans. They push their glasses together and these spill to shards, to black-red pools of wine and blood. They moved their chairs closer, they leaned toward me, the jaundice and blood of their eyes, and with gloved finger tips they slid shut my lids. In the darkness, I am a child. Slender and white. In the darkness, I was a child. Scourge of the earth. Without sight, noises are magnified: the soft hiss of a match being lit, the distant lilting wail of a man trapped within their gestures. They paste the paint onto my face, over my eyelids, and down the bridge of my nose. The paint feels like cold blood.

All those hours in darkness, a shadow life that was never revealed. All those hours in the cool blood of the acrobats, as they made me into something new.

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Remixer’s process: My first remix was of a Laura van den Berg story. In that case, I so admired the language of her original that I was compelled to reshape it. So, this mix brings a bit of nostalgia. My process for this mix was exactly the same as the first remix: I went through “Acrobat” with a pen, underlining phrases, sentences, words that particularly appealed to me. The composition process must already begin taking place during the underlining, the first words underlined must somehow determine the next words and the next, although I put no calculation into the process. As with the first mix, the pieces fit together immediately. The new story was shaped as I typed the words and phrases (with a few new phrases/repetitions thrown in to accentuate the tone) into the Word doc. How interesting, to me at least, that 400 words taken from 5,000 words, seemingly at random, may be typed, immediately, into a story that is, in many ways, entirely different than the original. How many different versions may be written, how many different people could cobble from this same stone some new story in some new image?