Free Metro Winds by Isobelle Carmody Page B

every minute that passed. The tobacconist gave him a little push and they went into the shop that had also darkened in their brief absence.
    The proprietor closed the door and reached for a panel of switches on the wall while Daniel dug from his wallet the receipt the receptionist had given him. He scrawled his name on the back of it, along with the name of the dead man. He did not know the name of the woman and he told himself he had done all he could. She would come, or she wouldn’t. The lights flickered on and the tobacconist brushed a brown-stained forefinger over the words written on the receipt, but he did not read them.
    â€˜If she comes, tell her I will come in again tomorrow in the morning,’ Daniel said. He thanked the man and went out into the street. He had walked several blocks before he noticed a small boy shadowing him. Clad in scruffy, too-big clothes of the hand-me-down rather than the American-street-cool variety, his skin was the colour of dark honey and his eyes liquid tar, the lashes as long as those of a newborn calf.
    â€˜Want to go to circus?’ the boy asked, seemingly unabashed. Sair-coos , he said.
    â€˜Circus?’ Daniel echoed, wondering if he had misheard. ‘What kind of circus is there in the middle of a city?’
    â€˜A ver’ zmall sair-coos,’ the boy said, and they laughed together.
    â€˜Why not?’ Daniel said, liking his cheek. The boy looked puzzled, so he added, ‘Yes.’
    The boy beamed at him. ‘Okay!’
    Daniel felt suddenly lighter. He had done the best for the dying man, after all. ‘Let’s go then,’ he said.
    The boy took the lead, walking quickly. Several streets later, they turned into a lane that sloped down to a small square where, to Daniel’s amazement, he could see the dim yet certain shape of a circus tent, though it did not seem to be properly circular. There were lanterns swaying around its uneven rim, but they gave off very little light, so that he could only see the sections of the tent where they hung, blurring away into the growing darkness. The sight of it reminded Daniel of what the tobacconist had said about the decor of the café during the war, and he shivered a little at the coincidence.
    The lane became wide, shallow, uneven steps and Daniel came along behind the boy cautiously, forced to concentrate on his footing. When he reached the bottom, he was startled to find his young guide had vanished. He hesitated, and heard music, long sobbing notes that roused in him an unexpected and potent hunger to be home, riding the flat red plains. Moving closer to the tent, he had the unsettling feeling that the longing evoked by the song was the same as his longing for his parents, who were irrevocably lost to him.
    â€˜Shall I whisper your future?’ a voice asked by his ear, and Daniel started violently.
    He turned to see a gypsy woman with a small baby in her arms, sitting cross-legged in an opening in the side of the tent. She seemed to be sitting on a platform, but he could not make out what was behind her.
    His silence seemed to anger her, and she sat up stiffly, eyes flashing. ‘But you have no time for Calia, have you? You want the main attraction! Another mooncalf come lusting for the Dove Princess. Fool! There is no future in her for any of you.’ She was so angry she was almost spitting, and Daniel, taken aback, wondered if she was mad. Yet her words made him curious enough to decide that he would go into the tent.
    The gypsy gave an angry grunt when she saw him glance to where a wooden sign had been erected, marking the entrance to the tent. She bared a plump golden breast with a dark nipple. The baby seemed to scent it and butted and struggled until it had the nipple fastened in its mouth, then began to suckle hard. Embarrassed by the bared breast and the derision in the woman’s eyes, Daniel made his way to the entrance and pushed the closed flap aside. Light flowed out