Zizou Corder Page 7

  Lying there sleepless on his shelf, he felt very unwatched over. He couldn’t get comfortable—either his mind or his body.

  It occurred to him to check where the call had come from.

  The number lit up turquoise in the dark. Charlie smiled grimly, and stored it. What name should he give it? He didn’t want to put just Rafi, as if Rafi were a friend of his.

  Funny. He used to really want Rafi as a friend.

  He stored it as Cocky Slimy Git. It was childish, but insulting Rafi made him feel a tiny bit better.

  When he felt a lot better, he might give him a call. See how he’d like that.

  No one, though, was watching over his parents—just skinny snivelly Sid. He was in a dilemma. Winner said he would punch him if he gave Aneba back his phone, and tell on him to Mr. Rafi so he would be fired and then Winner could get a partner with more than four brain cells and a vocabulary bigger than one word, because it was bad enough being hired by a sniking teenager without having to put up with a half-wit partner as well. Aneba, however, was still staring at him and muttering.

  Which was scarier? A punch on the nose and being fired, or a curse from a giant African wise man?

  “I’m going on deck,” said Winner. “You keep watch.” (Subs do have decks, for when they come to the surface, which is where they were now.)

  “Yeah,” said Sid.

  Winner’s heavy footsteps echoed down through the metal of the sub’s hull. Aneba, still lying on the bunk (there was nowhere else to go), heard them. He pulled himself to his feet, smiled to himself, and squatted down. Then he started to mutter again, in a deep, low, chanting voice:

  “Sid, oh Sid,

  You poor pathetic little blokey,

  Give me back my telephone.

  Give me back my phone, you bignose slugbrain,

  You moldy dollop of poop-trousered monkeysnot.

  Give me my phone and answer my questions,

  Give me my phone and answer my questions . . .”

  In Twi it sounded pretty bad.

  Sid heard his name. He sat there getting more and more scared. After some minutes of this Aneba leaned forward and started to sketch a big circle on the floor, muttering and staring the whole time. He went on and on. “Sid,” he repeated, often. “Sid.”

  He could keep it going for hours. He didn’t have to. He looked up and in a quiet but deadly voice in English addressed the two-way mirror.

  “You’re going to give me my phone now, aren’t you, Sid?”

  “Yeah,” said Sid in a tiny voice, green and sweaty-faced on the other side of the mirror.

  And that was how Charlie’s parents got his message, which was why his mum was crying, which was how Winner noticed what had happened, which was why he punched Sid, and took the phone off them again, and threw it overboard.

  And when the marmalade cat saw that, he knew that he had to act swiftly.

  If Charlie had expected the next day to be quiet, from the circus point of view, because of being at sea, he was very wrong. On his way to find Madame Barbue to go to breakfast, he spotted the little Italians swinging around in the rigging. He was right—they were acrobats. The father, wearing a rather worn-looking all-in-one leotard outfit, was hanging by his tremendously muscular little arms from a cross beam, swinging gently to and fro like a piece of laundry. Then suddenly he began to speed up his swinging, going higher and higher until he was flat out at the farthest extent of each swing, then higher than flat, then—If he’s not careful he’s going to go right over!, thought Charlie. And he did. Right over, holding for a moment at the top, standing on his hands as it were, and then right down the other side and then up again, and he was spinning around and around, his toes pointed, his legs straight, his hands shifting a little on each spin to allow the movement. And then—and it looked even more impressive—he started to slow down again, gradually, bit by bit, until he didn’t go over the top, until his body made a flat line again, and until once again he was hanging like a piece of laundry. Charlie couldn’t help himself. He burst into applause.

  The Italian looked down, saw Charlie, and started to laugh.

  “You think that’s good?” he said, and when Charlie nodded enthusiastically the Italian grinned, did a little flick or flip of some kind so quick that Charlie hardly saw it, and then he was standing on the cross beam that a moment before he had been hanging from, grinning, foot cocked, arms crossed, and saying, “Ta-dah!”

  “How did you do that!” howled Charlie. He was no slouch himself when it came to hanging and swinging, but that was something else. “How did you do it?”

  “It’s an old family secret,” said the Italian. “My father taught me, his father taught him. I teach my boys. You want to learn, first you join my family, then after ten years I show you. If you’re good.”

  “Could you teach me?” said Charlie. Suddenly it seemed important—vitally important.

  The acrobat jumped down from the beam—a distance of about twenty feet. He landed lightly like a cat, and fixed Charlie with an intent look.

  “If I choose,” he said.

  He stared at Charlie.

  “Yes,” he said. “Come each day. I see you can learn.”

  Then the intent look vanished, and he smiled and said: “Sigismondo Lucidi, of the Famiglia Lucidi. Call me Sigi.” The rest of his family was in the rigging. He gestured to them vaguely.

  “Are you practicing?” said Charlie.

  “Every day,” said Sigi. “To keep bendy and strong.” He lifted his left leg, placed it vertically up the side of the mast, and moved his right foot close in to the bottom of the mast so he was doing a split, with his body sticking out sideways. “And the other side,” he said, putting his left leg down again, turning and putting his right one up.

  “You do,” said Sigi.

  Charlie tried. He could do a split on the floor, but not up the mast.

  “You certainly are bendy,” said Charlie.

  “Have you seen Bendy Ben, the India Rubber Boy?” asked Sigi. Charlie hadn’t.

  “Ties himself in knots,” said Sigi. “Gets stuck sometimes. Used to do an act with this big strong sailor, Beppe, and Beppe would tie him in a knot, then pretend he couldn’t undo him and get his knife out, saying he just had to cut it, there was no other way.”

  “Yuck,” said Charlie, absolutely fascinated.

  “Got to go,” said Sigi, and with a bend and a breath he jumped back into the forest of rigging. “Come tomorrow at six. Before eating. You learn.”

  After breakfast, Charlie found himself staring at his telephone mistrustfully. He’d turned it off after yesterday’s message. Now he kind of wanted to turn it on again. And he kind of didn’t.

  He turned it on.

  The little envelope icon flashed.

  Charlie screwed up his face for a moment, and then he called up the message.

  At first the voice was civil and gentle. “Charlie. Rafi Sadler here. Sorry I was a bit impolite yesterday. Hasty of me. But have no fear I mean what I say, you presumptuous little brat, I’m on my way and you’ll be sorry when I arrive, sorry in ways you can’t even begin to imagine . . .”

  Charlie cut off the message. He didn’t need to hear what he was to get ready for. He’d slept badly enough the night before.

  He felt shaky again.

  Next time he wouldn’t listen at all. There was no point.

  He was glad when Bikabhai told him to clean out the monkey-cage, which was grubby but not bad. He refilled the monkeys’ water bottles and bowls of nuts, and gave them each a banana. The work eased his mind. Then it seemed he was off duty again. He decided to explore: There were zebras, horses, doves, and a Learned Pig to find, and, above all, there were lions. That should keep his mind off Rafi Sadler.

  Charlie knew the story about the leopard cub, and the snake, and the jab from the needle and the slashing scratch from the cub’s claw. He still had the scar: a thin, pale swooped line on his upper arm. Sometimes he told himself that he remembered the oc
casion: tottering over on his baby legs to the cuddly little cub, the sharp pain of the slash, and the sting of the leopard’s blood in the wound. Sometimes he thought he remembered thinking about his own blood on the jab in the leopard’s soft leg, wondering if it stung him too. He knew he remembered the sudden clarity and friendliness of calling out to the leopard, and the leopard calling back. Not that they had said anything in particular. Just that they had understood each other. Baby talk.

  Charlie knew that this accidental gift of some drops of leopard blood was why he could talk to the cats. But he knew cats well enough to know that you can’t take them for granted, ever. And he was downright nervous about the lions. Lions are different. Lions are wild—even if they are trained. Lions are big. Lions are the King of the Jungle, the King of Beasts. And then there was Maccomo, the unnaturally calm lion tamer. Sorry, trainer. He was quite unnerving, too. Charlie could not keep away from the lionchamber, but he approached it with respect and trepidation.

  And that is one reason why he was so surprised to find one of the lions—a male, quite young though no longer a cub—just standing on the deck behind the lionchamber, not far from the door, all alone, gazing out to sea with his whiskers down and a strange expression on his face. Surely the lions would be locked up? Surely the trainer wasn’t so powerfully calm that he could let his lions wander about the ship?

  Without thinking, Charlie came up beside the lion and said, in Cat: “Hello.”

  The lion turned swiftly to him, his sad expression changed in an instant to amazement and—yes—fear. How could a lion be scared of me? thought Charlie. I’m just a kid. But the lion was scared of him.

  “What?” said the lion.

  “I said hello,” said Charlie.

  “I heard you,” said the lion. “It’s just—you’re talking Cat.”

  “I know,” said Charlie.

  “Humans don’t talk Cat,” said the lion.

  Charlie had never come across this before. All the cats he knew at home knew him and knew about his peculiar ability. He’d learned not to mention it to human strangers; but he hadn’t thought that a cat stranger—a lion stranger—would be just as surprised.

  “I’m sorry,” said Charlie. “I didn’t mean to surprise you. I’ve always known Cat.”

  But his friendly words had the opposite effect. The lion folded his front legs down, lowered his head, and looked as if he were about to cry. Charlie was appalled—“Oh, look, I’m sorry,” he said. “Please, I didn’t mean to upset you.” He bent down and stroked the lion’s sad head while murmuring kind words, and after a moment the lion raised his head and said: “Sorry. Haven’t heard anyone else speak my language for a long time.” But suddenly his voice changed. “Oh, no. Oh, no . . .” he muttered urgently, and began to scowl and growl. Charlie looked up.

  They were being watched by an audience of amazed and silent sailors and circusguys, their mouths open, their faces filled with disbelief.

  The lion growled a bit more and pawed the ground a little—for show, Charlie thought, but the audience seemed frightened enough.

  “I only came out for a second,” hissed the lion. “Didn’t mean to stay so long. Now they’ll think I’ve escaped, and it’ll all be horrible.”

  “What can we do?” said Charlie quietly.

  “Don’t know,” said the lion. “I have to carry on being threatening or they’ll think I’m weak. GRRRROOAAAWWWWLL!”

  “Tell you what,” said Charlie, seeing Major Tib forging his way through the crowd. “Let me calm you. I’ll take you back in and make something up. Come on, just pretend. I know I couldn’t calm you really, unless you wanted me to.”

  The lion, who had been beginning to enjoy his show of fearsomeness, shot Charlie a sideways look, then said: “All right—in a minute.” And he gave a roar—a huge roar, which made everybody jump back and Maccomo, who had just come running up from the hold having heard of the drama, raise his long whip. Then the lion turned to Charlie, laid his head at his feet, and started to purr. A lion’s purr is quite something, and for a moment Charlie so enjoyed the heavy, rhythmic reverberations through his feet that he didn’t want to move. Then he remembered himself, and put his hand gently first on the lion’s head, then on his thick chain collar.

  “Come on,” he said softly in Cat, too soft for anyone but the lion to hear. “Back inside. Come along. Come along.”

  The audience, Major Tib and Maccomo included, were dumbstruck. In silence they watched Charlie lead the big cat back to the chamber, in silence they saw the lion padding gently and obediently after him.

  Major Maurice stared.

  Maccomo rubbed his mouth slowly.

  Madame Barbue fainted. (Pirouette grabbed a bucket of water that Hans had been taking to the Learned Pig and threw it over her.) The little Italians burst into cheers—but only once the lion was safely inside the lionchamber.

  Maccomo burst through the crowd, into the chamber and right up to Charlie. The moment the lion was through the door of his cage, Maccomo slammed the door shut, locked it, and turned to the boy.

  He stared at Charlie. “Explain,” he said softly, his eyes dangerous in the dim light.

  Charlie, intoxicated by the excitement of the moment, the sweet musty smell of the cabin, and the knowledge that all around him were lions he could talk to, could not think of a single intelligent thing to say.

  “Um . . .” he said.

  “Not good enough,” whispered Maccomo. “Why was my lion obeying you?”

  His lion?

  “Oh, he didn’t, sir, no, not at all,” said Charlie quickly. “He, um, I was just there and I saw him, and, er, it didn’t seem he should be out there, so he, er, didn’t like the crowd I suppose, so, er, he, er . . . went back in.” Charlie tried to smile up at Maccomo, but his smile was wobbly. He could feel it wobbling from inside. Maccomo was scary.

  The lion trainer didn’t answer. He took the two steps that brought him back to the gate of the lions’ cage, and stood there, his whip still in his hand. He stared at the young lion, but the young lion did not stare back; instead he lowered his head and laid it on the floor, in a very submissive pose, and made a little mewing noise.

  Charlie was worried about this lion. He was behaving so strangely—as if he were confused and upset. Every cat Charlie had ever known had been dignified; had known who and what it was, and had felt all right about it. Even the fattest, laziest, greediest housecat had an attitude that said: “Yes, I am fat, lazy, and greedy, and rather good at it too, don’t you think?” But this lion was sad and confused. Charlie didn’t like it. It made him feel sad and confused too.

  Maccomo made a little noise in his throat, and turned back to Charlie.

  “Where are you from?” he asked.

  “London,” said Charlie.

  “No,” said Maccomo. “London people are white.”

  Charlie had heard this said before, and knew that only an ignorant person could say it. Maybe Maccomo just didn’t know about London.

  “London people are all colors,” said Charlie. “People have always come to London from everywhere, so now we are all colors.”

  “Where is your brown skin from?” said Maccomo.

  “My brown skin is from London like the rest of me,” said Charlie, trying not to get annoyed. “My father, if that is what you want to know, is African.”

  “His name and country,” said Maccomo.

  Perhaps it was Maccomo’s rude way of asking, or perhaps it was a natural carefulness, but Charlie didn’t want to say. And he didn’t have to, because at that moment Major Tib burst in.

  “What d’ya think, Maccomo?” he said. “He’s got it, don’t ya think? I never saw anything like it, and I knew Van Amburgh and Cooper—ya want him? He’s got the knack—you should take him on. You’ve got to.”

  Maccomo turned his great black eyes on Charlie, and once again Charlie saw the flash of light reflected in their depths. “I will take him on,” he said. “Of course.”

  “Fine
,” said Major Tib. “Charlie, you’re not the monkeyboy anymore—you’re the lionboy.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Charlie was absolutely terrified by the idea of being the lionboy—and at the same time he was delighted and excited and amazed. Lionboy—how cool was that! But working for Maccomo—how frightening was that! And lions . . . real, big, beautiful, strong, wild, golden lions. Charlie’s breath came a little short when he thought about it. Remember your big cat blood, he said to himself. Your leopard blood. He imagined that he could feel it hurtling through the tunnels of his veins: strong, brave, agile leopard blood.

  “Thank you, Major, sir,” he said. And to Maccomo: “Thank you, sir. I’ll do my very best for you, sir.”

  Maccomo’s eyes narrowed. He suspected Charlie of something, and Charlie could tell. But he didn’t know what Maccomo suspected him of—and nor, if truth be told, did Maccomo know. And actually, Charlie suspected Maccomo too, and he didn’t know what of either. So between them was an air of unexplained fear and mistrust: not the best air to have around when starting a new job or taking on a new helper. But funnily enough, each of them resolved to deal with it the same way; in fact, almost exactly the same sentence went through both their heads: “I don’t know what’s going on with this character, so I’m just going to keep an eye on him and see what happens.”

  As a boss, Maccomo was extremely civil. For the first three days, Charlie’s only work was to fetch water, carry straw, and sweep, and Maccomo always asked him politely to do these chores, and thanked him. His voice was silky and soft: “Thank you, Sharlie,” he would say.