Death in the Air

But he knows that something even better is yet to come. The Farinis will close the show. They will fly directly above the heads of the audience. Sherlock can hardly wait.

When it begins, it exceeds his expectations.

The gaslights dim. A drumroll sounds. A trapeze apparatus lowers magically until it hangs halfway between the ceiling and the floor, and a long narrow net falls into place about thirty feet above the tables. Silence descends.

Suddenly, El Nino is in the air. He sails noiselessly on a single swinging trapeze in a blood-red costume. His curly blond locks flow behind him. His grace and strength are incredible as he builds momentum, almost reaching the ceiling of the dome, eliciting gasps from below. But then the drums begin again, loud and sinister this time, and suddenly Signor Farini is seen across the auditorium on another trapeze.

“There he is!” someone cries.

Farini’s black goatee and mustache contrast perfectly with his scarlet costume, the big muscles in his legs bulge in his silk leotards, his bare arms are thick and sinewy. Sherlock tries to shout but the sound catches in his throat. He has seen this famous man once before on Fleet Street near London Bridge, strutting along with his protege like a dark-eyed stallion, confidence exuding from him. Sherlock had been entranced. Now … here is The Great Farini in the air above him! This is the athlete who challenged Blondin on a high rope above Niagara Falls, perhaps the most fearless, inventive acrobat on earth, and the creator of El Nino, the boy who can fly.

Farini swings toward the ceiling too, and because of his size and power, it seems as though he will sail from his trapeze and ascend through the roof. The orchestra is playing “The Farini Waltz” and El Nino and his mentor are synchronizing their movements. But then the master makes a sudden move into a sitting position and … his bar breaks! He starts to fall and Sherlock’s cry is smothered by the screams of many others. But Farini isn’t really falling – the bar hasn’t broken. He is executing a sudden drop of a few feet, and grabs the bar with the backs of his knees to hang upside down. Then he starts swinging, his eyes cast across the auditorium toward El Nino. There, the “Bullet Boy” makes a mighty swing and crosses to a trapeze bar directly over the center of the hall, catching it with one hand and winking at the audience. Then he takes another swing, two, three … and lets go!

He flies like a falcon, somersaults … and catches his father’s hands. Farini gives him three swings and flings him into the air again, back toward his own bar, which he catches. Once more they try the trick, but this time with two somersaults, and finally … three.

Sherlock is ecstatic. He watches in wonder as the Farinis perform more extraordinary feats, in a stunning display of strength and speed: El Nino taps on a drum with both hands, holding on to the trapeze by the nape of his neck while he plays; Signor Farini lies down between two bars and projects the boy straight into the air with his remarkable stomach muscles.

But nothing they do prepares the spectators for what follows.

A single drum sounds in the Alhambra as El Nino moves across the auditorium to the bar hanging at the farthest end of the dome. Then he turns, swings until he has frightening momentum, as though he were the stone in a giant sling shot, and lets go…. Out he flies, fifty feet above the tables, his speed almost unbelievable – a boy- arrow shot across the sky. His father hangs by his legs at the other side of the hall, waiting.

This time he seems too far away. How can the boy wonder possibly reach Signor Farini? He would have to have wings. Sherlock steps forward in the pit to extend his arms upward. He can’t bear another accident, not this time, not El Nino!

The ominous drumbeats increase in intensity.

The boy rockets across the hall, passing one hanging trapeze bar, another, and another. As he approaches his father, there is no doubt that they have miscalculated. A terrible thought crosses Sherlock’s mind: perhaps this horrific accident has been planned too. Farini has a dark reputation: it is said he will do anything to create a sensation. The hint of a nefarious smile is spreading across the big acrobat’s face.

El Nino has missed him. Missed by two feet. And the net won’t catch him!

“He’ll die!” calls a frightened voice from the galleries.

Then something miraculous happens. Farini drops like an anchor, letting go of the trapeze bar and catching it again with his toes, hanging fully stretched out, his big arms extended two feet lower … and seizes El Nino’s outstretched hands!

The orchestra bursts into “The Farini Waltz” again. The crowd rises to its feet and explodes. Sherlock cheers as loudly as anyone. He shouts even louder as the Farinis drop from their bars and fall, frightening the audience again, but landing lightly in the net.

“Bravo!”

“Well done!”

They bow and salute the crowd and Sherlock dearly wishes that he were El Nino. Applause and praise are assurances he desperately wants, almost needs. He worries that this is a weakness, but he has always yearned to be not only accepted, but adored. He wishes his life had not been what it has been so far – that his mother and father had not been ostracized because of their mixed marriage. He wishes his mother’s life had not fallen apart – that she had not died – because of him.

He feels a tear sneak from his eye onto his cheek and violently wipes it away. No emotion. No feelings. Find the villain. Be someone!

The Farinis leave via a wooden door near the stage and Sherlock makes for it. This is going to be difficult.

George Leybourne, London’s famous “Champagne Charlie,” who sometimes travels to theaters in a carriage drawn by milk-white horses, has ascended the stage dressed as a dandy. His face glows under his glittering gold top hat. The band is striking up again and he sings one of his most famous ditties, a fitting end to the evening.

He’d fly through the air with the greatest of ease

That daring young man on the flying trapeze!

Normally, Sherlock would be thrilled to see Leybourne merely stand on a stage, but he has a job to do, and he is on it like a bloodhound. He will do anything to get backstage and speak to El Nino.

A large man stands at the stage door ushering the Farinis past, holding out a beefy arm to prevent anyone else from entering. “Much obliged, William,” he hears the younger star say over his shoulder as he disappears through the exit.

Sherlock decides to make a rush for it. The door is still slightly ajar. But it isn’t when he gets there. The big man almost slams him in it.

“And where is we going, sir?” he asks, bringing his face up uncomfortably close to Sherlock’s, a root- vegetable stench wafting from his mouth and into the boy’s nostrils.

Sherlock steps back. He needs a plan, fast. He surveys the man, examining every inch for observable clues on his face, his clothes, in his attitude.

“I’m from The Glowworm,” says Sherlock in the deepest voice he can muster.

“Yer what?”

“ The Glowworm. I have an appointment with El Nino and a deadline at quarter past eleven. Signor Farini won’t be pleased if this isn’t in my column by tomorrow. Let me pass … William.”

“Do I know you?” the big man asks, his thick arm still across the doorway.

“Perhaps not, but I know you. My editor told me to speak with you and that you would let me pass.”

“Tell me what you know of me then, sir. I’m familiar to all the regular writers.”

Sherlock surveys him again, his mind racing.

“You go by the name of William here but Will at home. You would prefer the latter but your boss, Mr. Hollingshead, wants the former. You were born and raised in Lambeth and still live there. You had a spot of difficulty last night with a troublesome woman who stood just a little better than five feet tall, tried to get by here as well, and raked you on the left cheek with her right hand. I saw it from where I was standing. You have been working at this job for about ten years … though Lord knows, they should promote you.”