Opening Night III: Smoke and Mirrors LONDON, OCTOBER 13 AND 14, 1886
handresh Christophe Lefèvre enters not a single tent on opening night. Instead, he wanders through pathways and concoursesC and walks in loops around the courtyard with Marco in tow, who is taking notes whenever Chandresh nds something to comment upon.
Chandresh watches the crowd, discerning how people decide which tents to enter. He identies signage that needs to be adjusted or elevated to be easier to read, doors that are not visible enough and others that are too predominant, drawing too little attention or too much of a crowd.
But these are minute details, really, extra oil for inaudible squeaking. It could not be better. The people are delighted. The line for tickets snakes around the outside of the fence. The entire circus glistens with excitement.
A few minutes before midnight, Chandresh positions himself by the edge of the courtyard for the lighting of the bonre. He chooses a spot where he can view both the bonre and a good portion of the crowd.
“Everything is ready for the lighting, correct?” he asks.
No one answers him.
He turns to his left and his right, nding only giddy patrons streaming past.
“Marco?” he says, but Marco is nowhere to be found.
One of the Burgess sisters spots Chandresh and approaches him, carefully navigating her way through the crowded courtyard.
“Hello, Chandresh,” she says when she reaches him. “Is something wrong?”
“I seem to have misplaced Marco,” he says. “Strange. But nothing
to worry about, Lainie, dear.”
“Tara,” she corrects.
“You look alike,” Chandresh says, pung on his cigar. “It’s confusing. You should stay together as a set to avoid such faux pas.”
“Really, Chandresh, we’re not even twins.”
“Which of you is older, then?”
“That’s a secret,” Tara says, smiling. “May we declare the evening a success yet?”
“So far it is satisfactory, but the night is relatively young, my dear. How is Mrs. Murray?”
“She is doing ne, I believe, though it’s been an hour or so since I heard any news. It will make for a memorable birthday for the twins, I should think.”
“They might be useful if they’re as indistinguishable as you and your sister. We could put them in matching costumes.”
Tara laughs. “You might wait until they can walk, at least.”
Around the unlit cauldron that will hold the bonre, twelve archers are taking their positions. Tara and Chandresh halt their conversation to watch. Tara observes the archers while Chandresh watches the crowd as their attention is drawn to the display. They turn from crowd to audience as though choreographed along with the archers. Everything proceeding precisely as planned.
The archers let their arrows y, one by one, sending the ames through a rainbow of conagration. The entire circus is doused in color as the clock tolls, twelve deep chimes reverberating through the circus.
On the twelfth knell, the bonre blazes, white and hot. Everything in the courtyard shudders for a moment, scarves uttering despite the lack of any breeze, the fabric of the tents quivering.
The audience bursts into applause. Tara claps along, while beside her Chandresh stumbles, dropping his cigar to the ground.
“Chandresh, are you all right?” Tara asks.
“I feel rather dizzy,” he says. Tara takes Chandresh by the arm to steady him, pulling him closer to the side of the nearest tent, out of
the way of the crowd that has started moving again, spilling out in all directions.
“Did you feel that?” he asks her. His legs are shaking and Tara struggles to support him as they are jostled by passersby.
“Feel what?” she asks, but Chandresh does not reply, still clearly unsteady. “Why did no one think to put benches in the courtyard?”
Tara mutters to herself.
“Is there a problem, Miss Burgess?” a voice asks behind her. She turns to nd Marco hovering behind her, notebook in hand and looking quite concerned.
“Oh, Marco, there you are,” Tara says. “Something is wrong with Chandresh.”
They are beginning to attract stares from the crowd. Marco takes Chandresh’s arm and pulls him into a quieter corner, standing with his back to the courtyard to provide a modicum of privacy.
“Has he been like this long?” Marco asks Tara as he steadies Chandresh.
“No, it came on quite suddenly,” she replies. “I worry he might faint.”
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Marco tells her. “The heat, perhaps. I can handle this, Miss Burgess. It’s nothing to concern yourself with.”
Tara furrows her brow, reluctant to leave.
“It’s nothing,” Marco repeats emphatically.
Chandresh looks at the ground as though he has lost something, not seeming to register the conversation at all.
“If you insist,” Tara relents.
“He’s in perfectly good hands, Miss Burgess,” Marco says, and then he turns before she can say another word, and he and Chandresh walk o into the crowd.
“There you are,” Lainie says, appearing at her sister’s shoulder.
“I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Did you see the lighting?
Wasn’t it spectacular?”
“Indeed,” Tara says, still scanning the crowd.
“Whatever is the matter?” Lainie asks. “Did something happen?”
“How much do you know about Chandresh’s assistant?” Tara asks in response.
“Marco? Not very much,” Lainie says. “He’s worked for Chandresh for a few years, specializes in accounting. Before that he was a scholar of some sort, I believe. I’m not entirely sure what he studied.
Or where, for that matter. He’s not particularly talkative. Why do you ask? Seeking another dark and handsome conquest?”
Tara laughs, despite her distraction.
“No, nothing like that. Only curiosity.” She takes her sister by the arm. “Let us go and seek out other mysteries to explore for the moment.”
Arm in arm they navigate the crowd, circling around the glowing bonre that many patrons are still gazing at, mesmerized by the dancing white ames.
