Free Little Nothing by Marisa Silver Page B

he could hardly hear her through the sound of his own scream.

P avla did not blame Danilo then and does not blame him now for what happened. And even though she was angry with her parents for wanting her to change, she does not blame them either. How could they or anyone have known what would happen to her? That she would not only grow as they had hoped, but that with her height would come this other unbidden disfigurement? But just as she learned that love is not always kind and is never simple, she does not allow herself to mistake Danilo’s interest in her for anything other than what it is, a blend of guilt and pity and decency. During the long, slow drives following the parade of ramshackle conveyances that carry the fat man and giant man and the three-headed snake and all the other attractions from one town to the next, Smetanka sleeps off the previous night’s drunkenness in the back of the caravan while she sits next to Danilo on the wagon bench. Sometimes they trade carnival gossip about the separate romances of the conjoined Chinesetwins. All Danilo has to say is “Can you please look the other way?” and he and Pavla fall against each other laughing. But as their bodies meet and then part and then meet again, their laughter becomes self-conscious so that every snort of the horse or crack of stones underneath a hoof feels as embarrassing as if one of them burped. They fall silent, and lulled by the slow rocking of the wagon and the nearness of him, she drifts into daydreams. He will put his hands on her face. He will brush her lips with his. He will— But the fantasy only serves to make her acutely aware of its implausibility. For how does she differ from Ling Ling and Ting Ting, whose names are really Marika and Markéta and who are from a village not far from Pavla’s, but who are transformed into Oriental exotics by virtue of white face paint and black kohl? Or from Rosta, who is so thin that you can see every vein and bone in his body through his nearly pellucid skin? Or Juliska, whose folds of belly fat fall down to her knees? Or Leopold, who can swallow a padlock, a colored ball, and a live mouse, chase all of it down with a pint of beer, then regurgitate everything in whatever order the crowd demands? Perhaps, just now, the others are having a laugh at the expense of her hairy cheeks, which Smetanka forbids her to shave, or her ears, which twitch when she is nervous. If it weren’t for the clatter and squeal of the wagon wheels she might be able to hear them, for her ears capture sounds she has never heard before. At night, she can hear worms inching up the sides of the caravan. She can hear a blade of grass rub against its neighbor.
    How could he want her?
    The two leave the tent and walk out into the crisp night. Her stretched muscles have mostly healed but walking is painful. Knowing this, Danilo moves slowly. Anyway, there is no rush to get back to the caravan. As tired as they are, sleep only means that the next night will come that much more quickly and with it more humiliation. They pass the fortune-teller’s tent. Inside, her lamp is still burning. A gust of wind, and the wooden board advertising “Fortunate FrantiÅ¡ka” knocks against its post.
    â€œYou don’t have money to waste,” Pavla says, but she knows Danilo won’t be able to resist throwing away his pitiful salary on FrantiÅ¡ka the Faker, as Pavla refers to the old woman.
    â€œYou’re the one who said all time exists,” Danilo says. “The past exists. The future exists.”
    It’s true. She did say this. And she does somehow believe that what has happened to her and what will happen exist simultaneously, that the story is already written but not yet told. She must be like someone in one of her mother’s tales who has existed for centuries of telling and will live on even after her mother is gone. How else to explain her life? As something random?
    â€œYou