The Swan Gondola by Timothy Schaffert Page A

gentleman lingered and took a great interest in the art of it. A man, perhaps feigning insight in order to ogle the nudes, might make mention of deliberate shadows and classic poses, or ask Rosie for recommendations. “I love them all,” Rosie would say each and every time, and I somewhat believe he meant it. Rosie seemed to gaze upon his every lovely not so much with lust as with a longing and heartsickness, unable to decide if his love belonged more to Helen of Troy or to Salome or to Nefertiti.
    After the speech, I made my first wage at the Fair. Rosie hired August and me to simply ride in the rickshaw as he pulled us along the length of the court. He wanted to demonstrate to the fairgoers that his rickety taxi wouldn’t collapse, but I wasn’t convinced. I worried the risk wasn’t worth the fifty cents. But as I yakked on and on to August, boasting of my good luck at finding Cecily so soon, I would’ve been happy to have been wheeled around all morning long in that wobbling cart. And the more I talked about Cecily, the more I remembered of her, and all the rest of the day’s misery began to fade to nothing.
    â€œJust before I lost sight of her,” I said, “she was lifting up her dress an inch or two, to pick her hem up from the ground to step over some mud, or something, and she was wearing ballerina slippers. At least I think so. They were pink. The ribbons were undone, trailing behind her. I don’t know how she kept from tripping on them.”
    August blew out his cigarette smoke in a long sigh. “Heaven only knows,” he said.
    I sensed I was boring him, so I shut my mouth, and in the silence he whooped again. “‘The war whoop of the aborigine,’” August said, quoting the lisping speaker. He rolled his eyes and shook his head. “My father is an Omaha Indian,” he said, with a snap of irritation, “and he opened our bookshop before most of the cowboys of this grubby little town could read a word of English. I’ve been wearing a suit and tie since I was ten years old. As a matter of fact, my father took me, when I was that little boy, to Boyd’s Opera House to hear Oscar Wilde speak about the pursuit of beauty.” August drew out the phrase “pursuit of beauty” as if referencing a sacred text, fluttering his fingers before himself. “Here’s an adorable little irony you might appreciate, Ferret: Daddy does a particularly swift business selling dime novels all about wild Indian attacks on poor, frightened white settlers.”
    â€œDon’t the Indians always end up gunned down in the end?” I said. “In those books?”
    â€œOh my yes,” August said. “Practically every character in the book gets a shot at the redskins. Even the little girls in their gingham dresses. But, oh, the violence, the glorious violence, that leads up to it all. The scalpings. The cowboys burned at stakes.”
    I nodded and winked, and I finger-thumped the brim of his derby, jostling the stuffed bluebird. The lazy bit of affection seemed to cheer him up, and he took his hat off so he could put his head on my shoulder. He looped his arm through mine and told me to tell him more about Cecily. “Tell me everything,” he said, “then tell me again.”
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    A LITTLE PAST NOON, the elephant was the first to cross the bridge, and many of us fairgoers followed him, like a tribe of exiles. August and I had failed to drum up business for Rosie’s rickshaw, so we were on foot now, Rosie having wisely hired a few pretty girls to ride and pose as fearless.
    Some boys risked getting stomped, roller-skating around the elephant’s lumbering legs, figure-eighting, ducking down and under the beast’s belly.
    Though August’s carpetbag jingled with bottled cures, he didn’t feel up to the task of hawking them. And Oscar, with his half-cracked head, was a