They shot the Indian
elephants first, those creatures that had never felt the Gandhi sun. Looked
into their small eyes, saw the strange language there, before pointing their
automatic rifles. They had to show they meant business so they shot the four
elephants first.
Pepe,
the clown who used to drag reluctant people from the audience to join in the
act, was unwillingly hauled from his bed, where he dreamt of his boyhood in Seville. They held his
head in the bucket, the one he filled with torn up silver paper, but real water
this time. Held his head till his tiny feet stopped kicking, till the thick
makeup was washed from his face. His gigantic shoes taken and used to house
chicken eggs, when their mothers had already been slaughtered.
They
found Luigi in the bed of his brother’s wife,
Angelina, awake and aware, knowing already his elephants were dead. They
laughed then, laughed at the sequinned dress Angelina had worn for
performances, beautiful under the circus ring lights, cheap and lifeless in the
darkness. They forced him to watch while they took their pleasures, their
enjoyment before they dragged her to her slavery, a lifetime in the big
kitchens, which freedom had deserted. Forced their hands around her legs,
coarse like the trunk where the elephant had lifted her above its head. Coarse.
All broken then, he waited without struggle, watching in silence as they
splashed the fuel around the bright wooden caravan, home of his roaming
dynasty. The match falling gentle-like to the boards, the curling soft smoke
hand round his neck tighter till unconsciousness broke through.
Mario, sliding between the sheets of Rosa,
the other elephant girl, didn’t watch his
brother’s death, lost in the steps of his dance, the
flickering of flame against the low cloud unnoticed, but when their heavy boots
broke through the door he fought, brief and brave. They shot him where he
stood. Still breathing as he watched, again their pleasures taken with the
girl, stretching out his useless hand, mouthing soundless from his desperate
mouth. To captivity with her too, beauty and youth saving her from domestic
servitude, placed a collar round her neck stating ‘Caesar’s am I’, a concubine to be.
They
made Calypso, the girl who swung on the thick twisted rope by the neck,
perform, caught awake as she entertained her insomnia. Laughed and jeered as
tears ran down her face, not painted at this late hour, the truth of the years
etched there, the ringing of gunfire echoing through the empty big top, around
the deserted benches. Spun till she grew tired, the twisted twine cutting in.
Made her stand then on the bucket that Pepe, the Spaniard once owned, traces of
his too large smile still smeared there from his drowning. Made her stand till
they could laugh no more, then kicked Pepe’s pail away. She hung there till they struck the tent,
a marquee for some secret Maharaja’s garden
parties.
The
great white performing horses struggled in the stalls, rearing high their
manicured hooves. The invaders, not prepared for that, hadn’t brought a horse charmer to break their stubborn
spirits, held their steel toe caps brief-like, unsure, knowing no bullets were
meant for the kin of Pegasus. Exhaustion, eventual, claming their screaming
spirits, sweat soaked sides rose and fell with the pulsing of the flames. Then
chained they were, high heads of Trojan pride shackled, bent and penitential,
failing in their duty, the circus lost, no defenders left, lead away to be
steeds of yet unborn dictators as they marched the boulevards of bright
birthday military parades, failing memories of children’s smiling faces, watching them dance, erasing in their
eye.
Watching
the fall of their mightier cousins, the small black ponies quick-like lost
their faith. No rescue, no Dunkirk
here, shining coats the master groomed, legs to short for riding, cut them
stunted. Witnessed whimpering the noble horses taken in chains. Sniffed
briefest at the sawdust of their home, prodded forth into the bitter night,
turning dim eyes skyward, glimpses of the hidden moon peeping through the grey,
the sharp grass beneath their small limbs, before the great dust mines of the
north consumed them, pulling carts till death’s release through endless, starless darkness.
The
tight rope walker, the man with no name, in the past had claimed he was from Mexico, had
seen this scene before, faceless men arriving in the night. Heard it all
through the too thin walls, of Buenos
Aires, when they came calling for coffee on the
disappeared. Had hid his face in mother’s lap till the shouting stopped, but too old now,
running too long, sipped a small sherry to calm the questions tumbling, prayed
to a virgin that had ignored thousands more qualified than he, hummed soft old
tunes to himself, practising his new routine in his mind and waited for them to
arrive.
Grazing,
in the outdoors, the camels kept their now familiar detachment. Grunted in
unison, pulling on their short chains to scrap another mouthful with tongues
dry as ever. Had all been lost before, taken from them in a small bazaar
outside Cairo.
Longed, through long lost nights of twisted children’s screamings, for the sand of their desert. Closed
their large eyes and listened for the water washing, the Falukas of the Nile. Never had been given names, kept that hidden in
their heart. No resistance as they followed, pony and mare ahead, to the
menageries of wealth bankers, one captivity exchanged.
Till
finally only two brothers, four and five, hugged themselves against the dying
elephant’s still breathing side, tears at their eyes. The
secret signals useless now, the great mammals paralysed by men’s arms, powerless to play. The children drew shallow
breath, in their fragility almost forgotten, discovered by an eager soul, an
invader with advancement ahead, his executioner’s Abraham hand stayed by wiser council, still use for
ones so young. Away, in bondage with the other prizes, to the pencil factories
of the multinationals to attach erasers to the end. Then they burnt it to the
ground.
She
took her thirty pieces, the betrayer, the girl hired to make the performances
introductions, English too cryptic for the others’ gypsy tongues. She led them there, the dead of night,
to have their evil way, and rewarded for her work. Wondered had she done wrong,
the full flight flames in jigs, told to leave, now the deal was done, but they
had shot the Indian elephants first, those creatures that had never felt the
Gandhi sun. Looked into their small eyes, saw the strange language there,
before pointing their automatic rifles. They had to show they meant business so
they shot the elephants first.
First Published in Southword 8 December 2004
First Published in Southword 8 December 2004