Chapter 10
CHAPTER 10
E ight weeks into working with his duo, Ilya finally felt hopeful that Patrick had been the right choice to partner Mario. He’d driven both young men hard, and he wasn’t ready to say that the path was clear just yet, but Ilya had enough experience to see that if things continued to progress as they had been, the hard work and long hours would pay off handsomely.
For a time he hadn’t been as confident, since it had appeared for about a week or that his potential new star performer wasn’t nearly as keen on the job as he’d been at first.
Ilya had gone through more than a few moments of doubt after his talk with Mario in the wake of his collapse at the party. It had been rough for a week or so, as Mario had seemed lost in thought, drawing in on himself and sometimes only appearing to go through the motions. It was only the fact that Mario was as talented as he was that Ilya didn’t have sterner words with the young man, but after a few days, he’d seemed to come back to himself — mostly. His smile wasn’t quite as ready, nor had his exuberance completely returned, but he seemed better. It was enough for Ilya to hold his tongue and not insist that Mario go to one of the Circo counselors to discuss his issues.
Mario might have gone on his own, and it was really none of Ilya’s business, so long as Mario did his job. Ilya wondered if it was homesickness or if he had received bad news from his family, but Mario never volunteered any insights, not even by an inadvertent comment. Strangely, though, his partner’s lack of enthusiasm had had a galvanizing effect on Patrick, who seemed to work all the harder, as though he feared Mario was having second thoughts and might leave the show — which Patrick knew would likely destroy his own ambitions on the straps, at least for Capriccio. Indeed, the two young men seemed to have become good friends, which relieved Ilya of a vague concern that Patrick might resent Mario for his natural ability. It was possible that Patrick’s determination was part of what made Mario settle back into a demeanor closer to his initial enthusiasm. After a little time everything seemed mostly back to normal.
Except Mario never again asked Ilya to spot him for an after-hours flight.
At first, Ilya wondered if Mario had found someone else to do it or if he’d broken his promise and sneaked in another solo flight. But there were security cameras all over, and Ilya had seen no evidence of Mario going back on his word. Which made Ilya wonder why Mario seemed to have given up on wanting to fly solo when he’d seemed so eager at first. Ilya couldn’t think of anything that he might have said or done that would have indicated he was unwilling to help. Surely embarrassment from the party wouldn’t have caused it, and while his inability to fathom what was going on with Mario irritated him, there was only so much he could do without pushing boundaries that might cause Mario to walk away.
It was a sobering thought that he wanted to do more, but he was constrained by their positions from offering more than he had already. And the reason he wanted to do more didn’t bear thinking about at all. Especially since his dreams at night of flying on the straps had changed a bit, and sometimes the partner whose hand he reached for was no longer blond, but had hair as dark as a raven’s wing.
He had the dream again the night before the start of their ninth week, and this time he’d startled awake when he’d actually grasped the hand stretched out for his own. That small contact had seemed so real that it had jolted him awake, and he hadn’t been able to fall back to sleep for a long time afterward.
Short on sleep, he found himself a bit irritated as he entered the Circo building. His mood wasn’t helped when turned toward his office, only to run into Gordon Everley walking down the hall. He was dressed in his typical business suit, which always annoyed Ilya. Perhaps because there was no need for it in the far more casual atmosphere of the building, where almost everyone went around in athletic wear. It seemed like an affectation.
“Ah, Ilya,” Gordon said. “How is your new act progressing?”
“Fine,” he replied. “Didn’t you read my weekly status report?” All coaches had to give updates on the progress of their acts, in order to make sure everyone would be ready once full scale rehearsals started six weeks before the show.
Gordon waved a hand. “Of course, but reports can be so dry. We gave your wunderkind a very lucrative contract. I just want to make sure he is earning his princely salary.”
“If he wasn’t, I’d find a replacement for him,” Ilya replied, keeping a check on his temper.
“Hmm.” It was an acknowledgment, but hardly a vote of confidence in Ilya’s judgment. “Well, I won’t keep you from your duties. Have a good day.” With that, Gordon continued on his way. Ilya glared at his retreating back before making his way to his own office.
After checking his email, he headed out toward the practice area where Mario and Patrick were finishing their warm-ups, intending to go over the sequence they’d been practicing the week before. As expected, the two of them were working on their synchronized moves. He watched in satisfaction as they executed a slow series of transitions from handstands, to planche, then into a controlled tip roll, their heads pointed toward the ground. Then they mirrored one another into a side planche, their legs tilted toward each other. Finally, they straightened and swung on the straps, executing a somersaulting dismount, with Mario landing a half breath behind Patrick.
“Need to work on that release, Patrick, you were just a fraction early,” Ilya spoke up. Overall, however, he was pleased.
They turned toward him, Patrick with a welcoming smile, obviously pleased with what he’d done despite Ilya’s critique. “Got it,” he acknowledged. “How was it other than that?”
“Good.” Ilya knew he was sparing with praise, but Patrick’s grin grew wider. “Let’s try it again at the proper tempo. I’ll count out the beats.”
Ilya led them through the short routine another dozen times until he believed they were performing it almost flawlessly. He released them to rehydrate, satisfied they were ready to continue.
“Are you both ready to go over the dual sequence from last week?” He looked at Mario as he asked.
The odd reserve Mario showed toward him for weeks now was still in place, as he answered with a brief, “of course.” The words were neither clipped nor disrespectful, simply a polite acknowledgment, but they still grated a bit on Ilya’s already raw nerves.
Taking a deep breath, Ilya clamped down on his irritation as he walked over to get the remote for the aerial crane, as Mario and Patrick took their positions.
This was the first of the truly challenging sequences he’d given them. Mario sat on the floor, slipping his feet into the straps, with Patrick behind him. Mario looked at Ilya as he gripped the straps and gave a nod to signify his readiness. Ilya gave a countdown from three before using the crane to lift Mario from the floor, then counted the timing of the movements. Mario settled easily into a suspended middle split, then a push from Patrick sent him swinging in a graceful arc.
At the top of the swing, Mario rolled forward, still maintaining the split as his feet rotated in the loops of the straps. On the backswing, he pulled himself up to stand in the straps, moving his hands upward to give himself slack. His legs parted again, and this time when he rolled forward, the fabric of the straps twisted around his legs near his groin. He released the straps then, swinging upside down, arms dangling as he flew suspended only by the wrapping of the straps around his legs.
Patrick had not been idle during Mario's movement. He did a forward roll toward where Mario was at the point when Mario reached the top of his second swing. As Patrick came up from the roll, he reached upward, and Mario caught his arms, lifting him into the air.
Patrick laid backwards, and Ilya pressed a button that started the crane rotating even as the rigging still swung. Patrick tucked his legs, rotating through the opening of their joined arms until he hung suspended in a planche. On Ilya’s count, he rotated back through to his original position.
“Release!” Ilya ordered, and Mario released Patrick’s left hand with his right one, leaving Patrick soaring beneath him one handed.
“And side!”
They were less than five feet off the ground, their hands still joined. Patrick rolled up into a side planche, the same maneuver they had been practicing in synchrony, the same move Patrick had done the previous week about a hundred times with no difficulty. Only this time, when he rolled toward the side, taking his weight on his shoulder, he cried out in pain. Ilya almost imagined he heard a pop. Thankfully, their swing was at their closest approach to the floor, and Mario grabbed Patri c k’s left hand and let go of his injured right arm as he lowered Patrick to the mat, releasing him as gently as possible before his momentum carried him away once more.
Ilya was already running to Patrick, but Mario dismounted in some twisting maneuver Ilya caught from the corner of his eye, and he reached Patrick a moment before Ilya did. Ilya didn’t even have to ask what had happened. It was clear enough from the way Patrick was hunched forward, left hand gripping his right shoulder as he hissed. It was a dislocation, and Ilya wouldn’t be surprised if it had torn Patrick’s rotator cuff as well.
Fortunately, Circo was prepared for injuries, and someone had already called for the medics they kept on staff.
“It’ll be all right.” Mario rested a supportive hand on Patrick’s back. His tone was soothing, but when his green eyes met Ilya’s, they were filled with horror - undoubtedly of what had happened and by what an injury like this likely meant for Patrick.
The medics came quickly and whisked Patrick off to assess his injury. That left Mario and Ilya together, with Mario staring after their retreating figures while Ilya watched Mario. He knew how an injury to a partner could be almost as traumatizing as being injured oneself. For a moment, Mario continued to gaze at the exit, and then he turned to Ilya, his green eyes full of pain and worry.
“Will he be okay?” he asked, sounding young and unsure. “I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t make it worse, did I, by putting him down that way?”
A part of Ilya resonated with Mario’s self doubt, and a small part — one he wasn’t about t o acknowledge — wanted to offer Mario an embrace. “No, you did exactly right. It was what I would have done too,” he said reassuringly. Then he raked his fingers through his hair. “But it doesn’t look like a simple injury like a sprain. He could be out for weeks of healing, then weeks more of rehabilitation.”
Mario’s eyes widened. “But isn’t there a—” He stopped, looking frustrated. “Isn’t there anything on this backward world that can help him? He shouldn’t have to go through all that!” He threw his hands up in the air. “It isn’t right!”
Ilya frowned, confused at Mario’s reaction. Were Patrick and Mario involved? The thought gave Ilya a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach, and he pushed quickly past it. Instead, he pulled Mario over to one side of the room, away from the groups of people who were scattered about, their own practices interrupted by the rush of the medics. He didn’t want Mario to have a public meltdown, especially not since Ilya had noticed Gordon Everley standing off to one side, watching everything like some hovering vulture.
“You must have seen injuries before, Mario. Surely you’ve been injured yourself. I don’t know any aerialists who haven’t. It’s hard when it’s your friend, I get that, but you know there isn’t a magic pill to make it all go away!”
His words seem to bring Mario up short, and Mario’s eyes grew wide for a moment, before he closed them briefly. He seemed to pull himself together, and when he opened his eyes again, they were no longer stormy. “No magic pill. I wish there were.”
“I know.” Ilya drew in a deep breath of his own, relieved that Mario seemed to be calmer. “I promise you did nothing wrong, and you probably saved him from a worse injury with how fast you acted. Taking his other arm was quick thinking. I honestly don’t know if I could have done as well, and I have years more experience than you do.”
Mario wrapped his arms around himself. “Sorry. I just… I’ve never had anything like that happen before. Poor Patrick. Can I go see how he is? Will they take him to the hospital?”
“No doubt he’ll be on his way soon, if he isn’t already,” Ilya said. “You won’t be able to see him. They’ll be running him through MRIs and possibly taking him into surgery, depending on how bad it is.”
Mario seemed to deflate, and his air of helplessness was something Ilya understood all too well.
“Look, why don’t you go home for the day? There isn’t anything you can do here, and I wouldn’t let you back on the straps right now, even if you begged me.” He didn’t know w hat else to offer. That was when he noticed a dark-haired girl standing off to one side, watching them anxiously. He recognized her as an acrobat, and once again, he felt a stab of something that he didn’t want to think of as jealousy. “Is that a friend of yours?”
Mario had been lost in thought, but he looked over when Ilya je r ked his chin in the young woman’s direction.
“Daphne,” Mario said. “She spent some time in the Carnival when I was still a kid. I think she’s appointed herself my big sister.”
“Ah. Well, if you want to talk to her, go ahead. As far as today, you’re free to go. Try to relax, if you can . Nothing that happened is going to reflect badly on you. Tomorrow we’ll know more.”
“Thanks.” With that, Mario walked over toward Daphne.
Ilya wanted to call him back, but what could he say that he hadn’t already? When Mario reached Daphne, she hugged him, and Ilya turned away. Mario would be fine. He had friends.
Now, Ilya needed to see what was happening with Patrick. As a job related injury, Circo handled all the medical bills, and they insisted on their people getting the best possible care. But what Mario hadn’t asked, and what Ilya didn’t know, was the future of the act. It was too bad Ilya didn’t have the ability of Mario’s friend the seer — maybe then he wouldn’t have to fret about things that were now out of his control.