Chapter 2
CHAPTER 2
I lya woke that morning from a dream of being on the straps, circling high above an unseen audience in a darkened space he didn’t recognize. It was a dream he’d had more than a few times in the two years since Derek had died, one that made him ache with longing, as he reached for a hand that he could no longer grasp, trying to form a connection that was broken and couldn’t be remade. The frequency of the dream had fortunately lessened over time, but every time he had it, he was left with fresh grief.
Strangely, however, this time, the dream had been a little different. The gulf had narrowed, and the hand he had reached for had been closer, so close that their fingertips had brushed. Ilya had felt a presence so near and real that he was startled awake, blinking in confusion. In place of the usual choking sense of loss he had felt before, he had instead woken with an odd sort of anticipation. It felt as though something was coming toward him, but what it could be, he couldn’t fathom.
Certainly there was no reason to think that anything in his life was going to change, at least not at this point. After almost a decade of partnership, it had been impossible to find the desire to perform without the man who had been the other half of both his life and his heart. He felt he’d never be able to soar again, not without the man who had made it all worth doing.
Pushing away the covers, Ilya rose from the bed. He was careful to not look at the other side, where Derek should have been sleeping, blond hair tousled on the pillow and a flush on his cheeks. He went about his morning routine almost by rote, glancing into the mirror as he shaved but not really seeing himself. He was all too aware of the lines that were inexorably creeping into his face, so he didn’t need a constant reminder that every day that passed meant his life without Derek was still going on. Either the pain had lessened from the agony of those first months, or, more likely, Ilya had grown used to its familiar presence, and could shove it to the back of his mind when necessary. He could still feel it there, an empty ache that could often come roaring back to life at unexpected moments.
He was fortunate that his employers at Circo had been so understanding, and they’d stepped up to help when Derek had become ill. Ilya had been given a leave of absence, and the medical bills had been covered by insurance. But there had been nothing the doctors could do; the tumor had been in Derek’s brain for years, inoperable but dormant, and then it grew quickly and fatally. If there was one blessing in the entire matter, it was that Derek had not suffered for long; the time from his first headache to when he was gone had spanned less than six months, and pain killers had given him blessed relief from his physical suffering. Derek had told Ilya he was glad they had found each other and he’d lived long enough to know true happiness — his only regret was that they didn’t have more time together. He’d done everything in his power to keep Derek’s spirits up until the end, and he knew Derek had appreciated him spending every moment by his side.
Ilya had borne everything with his vaunted Slavic stoicism, being there for Derek, holding his hand and taking care of him as he’d slowly but steadily slipped away. In the end, there’d been no pain, and they had gotten to say goodbye, leaving nothing unspoken of their love and devotion for one another. He’d only fallen apart after Derek’s funeral, when he’d returned to the empty house they’d shared and realized it would never be full again. Never one for sudden, rash decisions, he’d fought his almost overwhelming urge to sell the house, run away, and hide from the world. It was hard to face the sympathy in the eyes of both strangers and his found family among the performers, much less to look at a place that was now empty to him even when filled with people. His heart was no longer in it, and that was why he’d retired from performing, and now he flew only in his lonely dreams.
Once again, the owners and managers of Circo had understood, and rather than telling him to move on, they’d slotted him into a management position. It was a fortunate decision both for him and for them when the man who’d coached and choreographed for the aerialists for years, Jacques Marquette, retired. Ilya slipped easily into his place, and life went on, even if it was much different now.
“I really am getting old,” he muttered, realizing he’d been staring into the mirror, unseeing, for some time when his watch beeped a warning that it was almost time to leave. He hastened to finish dressing, and then he made his way out into the bright sunlight of the summer morning. The drive to work was mercifully short, since Ilya loathed Las Vegas traffic, which was full of gawking tourists and aggressive taxis which did nothing to help anyone arrive with a positive attitude.
A short time later, he watched as the first group of hopefuls entered the practice space, marveling at how they all seemed so impossibly young and full of hope. Of course, he’d been their age when he’d started out, but that seemed ages ago.
Auditions were being held in the warehouse that Circo del Arte’s management had converted into well-equipped training and performance spaces. Although it had been painted with bright colors that reflected the show’s aesthetic, it still had an industrial feel, lacking the magic of props and lighting for which the Circo’s performance venue was justifiably famous. The main gym, however, was enormous, with plenty of floor space and a three story high ceiling, and while the place had updated heat and AC, it was impossible to keep such a big space cool, especially during a Nevada summer. Ilya had dressed for business casual comfort in khaki pants and a Circo polo-style shirt, but he could still feel his lower back growing damp.
With him were some of the other choreographers and trainers who were looking to fill spaces in their acts or to scout out new talent, and he was aware, off to one side, of the cold, aloof presence of Gordon Everley, who was upper management’s representative on site. Everly would have to sign off before anyone could be made an offer, but Ilya was in charge of keeping the auditions moving along because of his seniority among Circo performers. Thus, when the cluster of eight fidgeting performers gathered in the middle of the room, Ilya was the one who approached and gave them the usual welcome and explanation of the audition process.
“You will each be given one minute to introduce yourselves and no more than three minutes to demonstrate your skills,” he said without preamble as he scanned the group for anyone he might want to tap for the straps.
The show’s current strap duo had given notice they were leaving at the end of the run of Phantasma, and Ilya needed to find replacements as quickly as possible because rehearsals for the new show were due to begin in less than a month. He’d been jotting down ideas for new routines for over a year, hopeful of finding a pair with the talent his concept would require. They’d already held one set of auditions, but he hadn’t seen anyone who’d impressed him, although there were one or two who might do in a pinch.
“You will be timed,” he continued, his gaze lingering on a young man who had the arms and upper body of an elite gymnast, if Ilya wasn’t mistaken. He was tall and strong, with dark hair that brushed his shoulders and green eyes that were bright enough to capture attention even at a distance. Like all the others, he was dressed in tightly fitted practice clothes, though his were in gaudier colors than the rest. He also seemed strangely familiar, but Ilya was almost certain they’d never met before. No doubt the young man had seen the show, and that was why he was staring back so intently, his gaze on Ilya seeming almost as direct as a touch. Ilya frowned, dismissing the notion. It didn’t matter, though he’d keep his eye on that one.
“When the timer goes off, you will leave the floor so the next person may begin. Are there any questions?”
The well-muscled young man raised a hand. “Are we allowed to use any equipment we choose?”
“Yes, you may use anything in the room for your demonstration.” Ilya paused, thinking of one of the more common audition mistakes, and added, “Given the time limit, I would suggest sticking to one thing rather than using multiple pieces of equipment and trying to show off everything you can do. We all know what we are looking for, and we recognize it when we see it. We’ll get a much better idea of your abilities through a single long demonstration than a series of short ones.”
The young man nodded, his gaze immediately traveling to a set of still rings in one corner. “All right. Thanks.”
“Are there any other questions?” Ilya waited a moment, but the others were silent, some shifting from foot to foot and others watching him like deer caught in headlights, and he decided it was time to relieve their anxiety and get started. “No? Very well. Let’s begin.”
The first performer was a young woman who went through a tumbling routine that almost had the complexity of a Circo act, which boded well for her given that Anya, the head choreographer for the general performers, was jotting down notes. She was followed by a young man who demonstrated his skills on the high bar. Ilya watched politely, but he wasn’t interested; while the young man was good, he didn’t quite have the polish Ilya was looking for, and unfortunately, he didn’t have time to train someone from scratch. Ilya knew he was exacting, but he still hoped he could find two people who would be worthy successors to the legacy Derek had left.
The next person up was the young man Ilya had been watching, who stepped forward with a confident stride.
“My name is Mario Gallier,” he began, the gaze he turned on Ilya holding a hint of challenge. “I’m… twenty-two.” He spoke with an odd pause, as though he had to calculate. “I’m part of the Flying Galliers in a traveling show called the Carnival of Mysteries, and I’ve been performing since I could walk.” With that, he turned to the tray of chalk and carefully coated his hands.
Ilya frowned. “Are you currently under contract?”
Mario glanced up and shook his head. “It’s a family act, and I’m free to leave if I wish.” Again, that challenge. “It depends on if I’m offered something worth leaving for.”
“That will depend on if you are good enough,” Ilya replied without cracking a smile. He’d seen plenty of young men like Mario before. Either their talent matched their ego, and they were brilliant — if somewhat insufferable to deal with — or their egos outstripped their talent and they flopped. As little as he enjoyed working with cocky children, Ilya was hoping for brilliance. He needed someone as strong as Mario looked to be to fulfill his vision. “We’re ready to be dazzled when you are.”
Mario chuckled good-naturedly, not seeming offended by Ilya’s words or tone. Instead, he inspected his hands, then moved to stand beneath the rings. There was a spotter already waiting, and Mario nodded to the man before turning to face his audience. He gathered himself, then with the spotter’s assistance, he jumped up and grabbed the rings, hanging suspended from them for a moment, biceps bulging with suppressed power, before beginning his routine.
Slowly, with complete control, Mario lifted himself in a straight-arm muscle-up, the movement looking so smooth it almost seemed effortless, the rings he held remaining almost completely still. He paused for a moment at the top of the maneuver, then allowed the rings to drift slightly apart as he lifted his legs out behind himself. He then pulled the rings back parallel to one another — a perfect swallow press into a Maltese. He held the pose for several seconds, demonstrating his strength and control, then kept his body parallel to the ground as he widened his arms and lowered himself, then raised himself back up again, a movement that required upper-body strength few men could achieve.
From there, he swung down and around, halting at the top of the swing in a textbook vertical handstand. Again he swung, stopping this time at the bottom, his body upright and his legs bent upward in a vee — a move called a Molinari. In a smooth, unhurried motion, he somersaulted backwards, then rotated back forward, lifting his body back into a planche, parallel to the ground. It was then, when his arms had to be tiring, that he did what was arguably the most difficult strength movement possible on the rings. He lowered himself again until his body was even with his arms, and then he went lower still, his arms bent back as he kept his body perfectly level with the ground. Then he raised himself back up again into a Maltese; the move was known as a Vangelder, invented by the man who’d been one of the greatest competitors on the still rings.
After that, Mario did more swings, and an L-sit, then swung himself around fast, preparing for his dismount. When he released the rings, he flipped himself backward in a double somersault with two and a half twists, both feet hitting the ground with almost impossible lightness, his knees barely flexing as he stuck the landing.
Applause erupted from the other performers and Ilya’s colleagues, and Ilya joined in. The boy was cocky, but damn if he didn’t have the talent to back it up. Ilya was almost ready to hire him on the spot.
“Don’t any of you even think about sniping that one,” he said, keeping his voice low so the performers wouldn’t hear his warning to his colleagues. “I need him for the straps.”
Mario walked back over to the other hopefuls, dusting his hands off and smiling as he accepted their congratulations. He glanced over at Ilya, raising a brow and then giving him a saucy wink. Ilya had been doing this too long to be amused or charmed by the boy’s antics, and he gazed back with his best stony stare. He was going to offer a job, but Mario didn’t need to know that just yet. Ilya was fine with letting Mario sweat and worry a while longer.
He turned his attention to the rest of the group, ready to move on. “Next!”
Ilya didn’t bother looking at Mario again, even when his group left the gym. Their paths would cross again shortly, and Ilya hoped he could find a partner equal to Mario’s strength and talent.
While auditions were definitely interesting and often entertaining, the next day was anything but. The various coaches gathered in one of the meeting rooms in order to discuss the merits of the applicants and to argue amongst themselves over the right to the more diversely talented ones for their specialty. Unfortunately for Ilya, while there had been some excellent acrobats and even a few aerialists who might make good silks performers, there was no one else besides Mario Gallier whom he thought could handle the straps without a great deal of time and work. And time was a precious commodity in the entertainment industry.
The following few hours were tedious, as each resume and audition was gone over in detail, and merits and flaws were picked apart among the group. Fortunately, there weren’t too many squabbles this time, but Ilya was annoyed by the attendance, once again, of Gordon. Normally, management rubber stamped the selections made by the coaches, only bothering to really argue when it came to any salary offers that were significantly higher than the scale Circo used as a general guideline. But Gordon’s presence, as he sat in one corner watching them, was something none of the coaches could really ignore. Not that the fifty-year-old, distinguished-looking man with carefully cultivated silver at his temples was actually intimidating, but everyone in the room knew that he wielded a great deal of influence with the owners.
Gordon only spoke up once, when Soira Allen was in favor of passing over one candidate for her group of clowns. Soira didn’t think the young woman had brought enough energy to the audition, and Soira was close enough to her hiring goal to feel comfortable not offering any more positions. But Gordon interjected just before the team was about to move on to the next candidate.
“Perhaps you should rethink that, Ms. Allen,” he said softly. “You have a vacancy, and given the turnover rate among the clowns, it might be better to have a trainable stand-in, just in case.”
Soira, who Ilya had known for several years, looked annoyed, but she nodded in acquiescence, although she argued for a somewhat lowball starting salary. Nepotism was frowned upon, but if the girl was, as Ilya suspected, a relative of one of the higher ups, it was best to give in. Ilya relaxed slightly, assuming the young woman in question explained Gordon’s presence at the meeting, although Gordon didn’t immediately excuse himself once the matter was settled.
Finally, they reached Mario Gallier, and Ilya immediately spoke up. “I need him. If there is to be a strap routine in Capriccio, I need him yesterday.”
Martin Duchense, who was the coach for trapeze, laughed at Ilya’s firm tone. “Fine, fine. If you didn’t want him so badly, I was more than ready to take him based on his resume alone. But you may have him — although you’re going to need a good partner for him, Ilya. If you can’t come up with one in time, I’ll make sure all that impressive talent doesn’t go to waste.”
“Stop salivating. I’ll find one.” Ilya retorted, but he and Martin were good enough friends that Ilya knew he’d been teasing. Mostly. “Now, as for salary, I want to offer him top scale.”
There was some protest from the other coaches who hadn’t been green-lit for such largesse for their own favorites, but Ilya decided he might as well use their interloper to full advantage. He looked at Gordon, raising a brow. It was a challenge of sorts, since Ilya knew Gordon didn’t like him, and the feeling was entirely mutual.
Gordon looked back at him calmly, and Ilya half-imagined the man was going to hold this over his head at some point. But Ilya was willing to deal with that when the time came. “Agreed,” he responded, and Ilya hid a smile of satisfaction. “We’d be foolish to let him slip by over something like money. The board wants this show to top all others, no matter the cost.”
Relieved that upper management seemed aware of Ilya’s need for the best talent he could get, he turned back to his fellow coaches. “Shall we continue?”
Now Ilya just needed to get Mario to take the job — though there were a couple of things about the young man he wanted to clear up first, for his own peace of mind. If that all worked out, then he would have to find or train a partner worthy of Mario Gallier’s ability. If he could manage it, Circo would have a powerful aerial straps act, one more talented than any other in Vegas. One potentially even better than even Ilya and Derek had ever been.