Secret Heart Read Free Page B

tent, so beautiful. He started to walk up the slope toward it.
    “And where you going?” said Stanny.
    Joe peered back.
    “Just th-there.” He pointed. “Just to the tent, Stanny.”
    Stanny clenched his fists.
    “The tent! For what?”
    Joe searched for words to explain how it drew him toward it.
    “Sometimes you're hopeless,” said Stanny. “It's time you bloody toughened up, Joe.”
    Joe turned away, walked on.
    “Five o'clock tomorrow morning,” Stanny said. “Be there. Let Joff get working on you.”

Seven
    Up he went beneath the larks and through the breeze. The roofs of Helmouth appeared. The great sloped circular wall of the tent filled more and more of the sky. The arm-thick guy ropes creaked. On this side were the caravans and trailers of the circus people. Close to, he saw that they were ancient things. The frames were twisted, the tires were treadless, the chrome was cracked.
    An old man stared into the sky from a caravan window. His head rested on his hand. He broke into laughter as Joe passed by. He knocked on the window and pressed his face joyously against the glass.
    “Tomasso!” he called. “Tomasso! Tomasso! Oh, it's you! Isn't it? It's you!”
    Joe hurried on. He shook his head violently.
    “No,” he mouthed, “no. M-my name is Joe!”
    He chewed his lips in confusion.
    “Tomasso!” called the man. “Tomasso! Tomasso!Tomasso…” Until his lips were still and he looked to the sky again.
    Half-naked children scampered here. A pair of little gray dogs in pink frocks trotted for a few seconds on their hind legs at Joe's side. He circled the tent, toward the billboards, a twisted ticket booth, the canvas door. A white-faced clown practiced juggling, throwing up sticks and stones and rubbish he lifted from the ground. Then Joe saw her, the girl from the tent door. She sat on a little stool with some village kids around her and she painted their faces. Mothers stood and watched and smiled from nearby. The kids were animals. They were mice, cats, dogs, lions, tigers, bears. The girl painted with thin brushes. She held up mirrors so that each child could see his new face. The children raised their hands like claws and growled at each other. They padded on all fours across the wasteland. They raised their heads and sniffed the air. They leaped at imaginary prey. They killed. They licked their paws. They giggled and their mothers grinned. One of the children called Joe's real name. “Joe! Joe! Look at me. Joe!” And the girl turned her eyes to Joe and smiled and held her paint-brush up and asked, “So what will you be, Joe?”
    He blushed and walked on and stood before the biggest billboard. The paint on it was flaking away. The sheets of timber underneath were cracked. The animals on it were clumsy and stiff, as if they'd been painted by children. Lions, tigers, elephants, zebrasroamed together through a forest of oak trees and sycamores, like an English wood, and there were daffodils growing and sparrows flying. In a clearing in the wood, people held hands and danced in rings. On a little hill was Hackenschmidt's Circus, a shining bright blue tent. The real blue tent was threadbare and faded and covered in patches. There was another billboard resting against the wall of the tent. It was an ancient blurry photograph of a barrel-chested man with his fists raised to show the muscles in his arms and the width of his chest.
    GEORGE HACKENSCHMIDT
    LION OF RUSSIA
    WRESTLING CHAMPION OF THE
    WORLD
    !! Throw him to THE EARTH and make
    YOUR FORTUNE !!
    “The greatest wrestler the world has ever seen.” Joe turned and there she was behind him.
    “He was,” she said. “George Hackenschmidt. The Russian Lion. Champion of the World. And he still performs every night. Can you believe it?”
    “Yes.” He looked at the photograph. “No.”
    “No? You wouldn't say that to Hackenschmidt's face.” She smiled. “I saw you this morning, walking past with your friend. Your name's