The Midnight Circus, стр. 7
Iwas sixteen in the early sixties, living with my parents and twoyounger brothers in Westport, Connecticut. My. father, a member of alower-class family, had married rather late in life to a young andlovely Southern Jewish intellectual. He had become—by dint of hard workand much charm—part of the New York advertising fraternity. He hadalso rather successfully shaken off his Jewish identity: of all theYolens of his generation, he was the only one without a hint of anaccent. If he knew Yiddish, he had suppressed or forgotten it. Mymother’s family were active leftists, more interested in radicalismthan religion. I was reminded we were Jews only when we went—infrequently—to a cousin’s wedding or bar mitzvah.
Iwas undersized, over-bright, and prone to causes. My glasses hid thefact that I was more myopic about people than things. Recently I hadfallen under the spell of a local pacifist guru who was protestingAmerican involvement in Vietnam even before Americans were aware we were involved.While my friends were playing football and discussing baseball stats,I was standing in protest lines or standing silently in vigils in themiddle of the bridge over the Saugatuck River. I even took to writingpoems, full of angst and schoolboy passion. One ended:
Deathyou do not frighten me,
Only the unknown is frightening.
whichthe guru’s group published in their mimeoed newsletter. It was my firstby-line, which my father, a staunch Republican, refused to read.
Itwas while I was standing next to Bert Koop, the pacifist guru,basking in his praise of my poetry and wishing—not for the firsttime—that he was my father, that I noticed the man in black.We were used to onlookers, who usually shouted something at us, thenwalked away. But he was different. Wearing a long, ankle-length blackcoat and high boots with the pants pushed into the tops, he stood inthe shadow of the town library’s front door. He had an odd cap pulleddown to his eyebrows that effectively hid his face, though I couldtell he was staring at us. He didn’t move for long minutes, and Ithought he was watching the entire line of us. It was only much laterthat I understood he had been staring at me.
“FBI?”I whispered to Bert.
“CIA,”he told me. “But remember—we have rights.” He turned his face towardthe man in black, as if defying him.
Idid the same. And then, as bravado took over—sixteen is the high pointof bravado even today—I slammed my fistagainst my chest, shouting across the noise of the traffic: “DougYolen. American. I have my rights.”
Atthat, the man in black nodded at me, or at least he tucked his chindown, which totally obscured his face. I turned to gauge Bert’sreaction. He was smiling proudly at me. When I looked back, the man inthe doorway was gone.
Thenext time I saw him, I was at a basketball game, having beenpersuaded by Mary Lou Renzetti to go with her. I had had a crush onMary Lou since second grade, so it didn’t take much persuading. Shethought of me as her little brother, though we were the same age, giveor take a couple of months.
Theman was on the other side of the gym, where the Southport crowd sat indead quiet because their team was losing, and badly. I didn’t see himuntil the second half. He was wearing the same black coat and cap, eventhough it must have been 100 degrees in the gym. This time, though, itwas clear he was staring at me, which gave me the shivers, bravadonotwithstanding. So I turned away to look at Mary Lou’s profile, withits snub nose and freckles. Her mother was Irish and she took afterthat side.
JackPatterson made an incredible basket then and we all leaped up to screamour approval. When I sat down again, I glanced at the Southportbenches. The man in black was gone.
Itwent on like that for days. I would see him for a minuteand then look away. When I looked back he wasn’t there. Sometimes itwas clear where he had gone, for a nearby door would just be closing.Other times there was nowhere for him to have disappeared.
Atfirst I found it uncomfortable, spooky. Then when nothing at allhappened, I tried to make a joke of it.
“So—yousee that guy over there, Mary Lou?” I asked. “The one with the blackcap?” We were standing outside in the parking lot after school. Igestured over my shoulder at the running track, now covered withnew-fallen snow. “He’s been following me.”
Sheput her hand on my arm, so I enlarged on the story, hoping she’dcontinue to hold on. “He’s probably heard my dad is rich or somethingand wants to kidnap me. You think my dad will give him anything? I meanafter the report card I brought home? He’ll probably have to send mydad one of my fingers or something to prove he means . . .”
“Douggie,there’s no one there.”
Ifelt her hand on my arm, the fingers tight. I liked how they felt, andgrinned at her. Slowly I turned my head, careful not to jiggle her handloose. He wasn’t there, of course. The snow on the running track wasunbroken.
Ithought about saying something to my father then. Or to my mother. Butthe more I rehearsed what I could say, the sillier it sounded. Andthough I had made a joke of it with Mary Lou, the truth is that thereport card I’d broughthome the week before hadn’t really put me in my parents’ good graces.It was “Douggie—you’re too bright for this!” from my father. And asearching, soulful look from Mom. To make matters worse, the twinsbrought home all As. But then so had I at age thirteen.
SoI shrugged the whole thing off as nerves.