"I would certainly try to be," said Linck.
"So that leaves species recognition. But these little creatures have no eyes -- they can't see their own patterns. They are beautiful, and they are blind."
They had been so absorbed in what he was saying that nobody noticed the intruder until he was in front of them. It was a man in brown bathing trunks, well built, a little pudgy around the waist; his long hair was wind-blown.
"I'm sorry," he said to Gene, "but I don't suppose your name is John Kimberley?"
"Yes!" said Gene. "Who are you?"
The man smiled and took off his sunglasses. "Mike Wilcox. My God, is that Irma? What are you all doing here?"
Irma squeaked, shot forward and embraced him. He freed one arm to shake hands with Gene.
"I could ask you the same question," Gene said. "Come and sit down. Irma, leave some for the sharks. Mike, this is Margaret Morrow, and this is Piet Linck. That's Bill Richards down in the water." They made room under the canopy; Irma, her eyes brighter than Margaret had ever seen them, sat next to Wilcox and held his arm.
"Mike and I were in the carnival together -- what, twenty years ago?" said Gene.
"It can't be. You know, this is amazing luck. I almost didn't come out this morning; I was really more drawn to the idea of sulking in my room with a bottle. What are you doing here?"
"I live here. What about you?"
"I was playing a club on Treasure Island. Not a great success, I'm afraid."
"Doing magic?"
"Yes. It was all right, actually, until my assistant broke her knee. I offered to go on alone, but the manager wouldn't have it. I think he felt the customers were more interested in her legs than my card tricks."
"You're free, then?"
"At liberty is more like it."
"Come home with us, then, and we'll talk. Where's your assistant?"
"In hospital, poor old bird. I've got to hang around until I see she's all right."
"Stay with us, we've got plenty of room," said Irma. "Mike, I can't believe it's you! Have you seen any of the old gang?"
"No, not for donkey's years. I used to get a note now and again from Ed Parlow. He told me about Ray -- that was hard lines."
"No, it's all right."
"Are you, ah -- ?" He glanced from Irma to Gene.
She laughed. "I'm the housekeeper. Gene is rich now -- wait till you see."
"This calls for a celebration," said Linck. He was rummaging in the cooler. "Aha," he said, and drew up a frosted bottle. "I thought this might be here." He poured five small glasses and handed them around.
"What is this, gin?" Wilcox asked.
"No, jenever." He pronounced it as if the first letter were a 'y.' "It is like gin, but much better. This is the new kind, I think. We have the old and the new. Some like one, some another."
Margaret tried a sip; the liquor was like icy water, and tasted almost as innocent.
Pongo came up glistening wet, carrying his mask and flippers, and was introduced. Linck handed him a glass; he sat down on a towel just outside the canopy.
"Well, I must say this is superb," said Wilcox, with a broad grin. "Wait till I tell Nan. Gene, whatever became of you, after you blew the show in West Virginia?"
"I went to France and joined a circus."
"No! How long were you in Europe?"
"Almost ten years, but I left the circus in seventy-two."
"Just before me. I was there from seventy-three on."
"Did you ever work the Circus Romano?"
"Yes! My God, now I come to think of it, they told me they'd had an American giant in the sixties. But the name was different, and you were long gone by then."
Pongo unpacked the hamper, and they ate huge sandwiches of cold chicken, Westphalian ham cut in paper-thin slices, raw Bermuda onion, cole slaw.
"Working a circus is quite different to carnivals," Wilcox said. "I don't know if you've found that."
"Oh, yes," said Irma.
"Because of the animals?" Margaret asked.
"Well, partly. It's a difference in attitude, though, I think. A circus is, well, you know, a traveling entertainment -- it's a theatrical performance really, except too big for a theater. But you're right, the animals do make a difference. I used to like being around the elephants -- bulls they call them, I don't know why."
"Aren't they bulls?"
"No, they're cows as a rule. Bulls are too hard to handle. You know, animals are near the top of the heap in a circus, right up with the aerialists and so on. I remember once in Georgia, we were showing a little town where they had a home for retarded children -- we did a special matinee there, and so on, and when we got to the next town we discovered that one of the inmates had joined us. Well, the circus sort of adopted him, kept him for years, and the point I was getting at, they treated him like an animal, which is to say, several ranks above a common working hand."
"Was that with Clemens Brothers?" Irma asked.
"Yes, and you know, Clemens housed him with the workmen, gave him a little spending money -- never paid him any wages, as far as I know, but he was sort of a privileged character. The working hands got paid, but they were the lowest of the low."
"That's the truth," Irma said. "Once when I was with Vargas, I saw a workman get laid out with a stake because he spit at a llama that had just spit at him."
"That's terrible," Margaret said.
"Well, the workman had probably been hired a week or two ago down on Skid Row, and the llama was worth a thousand dollars."
Pongo brought out lemon tarts for dessert, coffee hot from the thermos, brandy. The sun was low by the time they finished, and a little group of people walking northward along the tide line cast shadows like spears. "This beach is getting too crowded," Gene remarked as they came closer. There were half a dozen in the group, all very young, the boys bare-chested, the girls in T-shirts and cutoffs. They stopped and looked up toward the shelter; after a moment one of them detached himself and walked up through the dry sand.
"Could you tell me what time it is?" he asked, halting a few feet away.
"Just a minute." Margaret got her watch out of her bag. "Five-thirty."
"Thanks." The boy needed a haircut; his body was slim and muscular, and very red across the shoulders. He was looking curiously at Gene. "Are you in the circus?"
"I used to be. I'm retired now. Where are you from?"
The others had been drifting closer as they spoke. "I'm from Schenectady," the boy said. "My name's Carl. This here's Scott, he's from Schenectady too" -- a tall boy with sandy hair, also sunburned -- "and this is Karen, and Christine, and Rebecca, and Tony, they're from Cincinnati."
"My name is Gene Anderson. What are you all doing here?"
The boy shrugged. "Nothing to do at home, I guess. Nothing to do down here, either, but the beach is pretty nice."
"We were in St. Augustine," said one of the girls, a frightened-looking blonde, "but we heard they were going to spray the garbage cans with poison." One of the boys gave her a nudge with his elbow; she pushed him away.
"Haven't you got any money?" Gene asked. They shook their heads.
"Pongo, see what's in the hamper."
Pongo opened the lid, looked in. "Couple of sandwiches."
"Push it over here." Gene reached in, withdrew two wrapped sandwiches that looked small in his hand, and offered them. "Are you hungry?"
"Gee, yeah, thanks."
Gene reached into the hamper again, drew out two more sandwiches, then another two. The young people crowded up, sat in a row and began to eat. Gene passed out soft drinks and bottles of beer. "Were you really getting food out of garbage cans?" he asked.
"Sure. People throw all kinds of stuff away -- you wouldn't believe it. I mean good stuff, not rotten or anything."
"And they sprayed poison in the cans?"