The remains of the banquet lay strewn about the boards like the carnage around a road traffic accident. Ravaged fish stared glassily at the ribs of exotic game birds; fruit and fancy chocolates lay smashed and torn among the smoking remains of flambéed shellfish and spilt sauces; crumbs and lost morsels were scattered over the place mats with the unused cutlery and the fingerbowls. In the centre of this epicurean chaos a giant wedding cake stood dismembered and dissected, its two figurines standing drunkenly on the top.
"Is my circus not the greatest wonder in the galaxy?" said the Great Barnooli, waving his half-eaten drumstick at the assembled diners. "Are we not the toast of a thousand worlds?"
Barnooli sat on a raised platform with his new wife at his side. "Are my acts not the finest?" he continued. "Are my animals not the best? Is the train not the most beautiful sight to be seen flying through the skies of the many worlds we have performed on?"
The silence was broken by one or two grunts of assent. The diners, Barnooli's employees, were seated in rows down the length of the buffet car. They no longer looked great or magnificent. Their best clothes were clinging to them like clear-wrap plastic, their belts and braces flapped about undone and the ornate chairs seemed to be conspiring to pitch them onto the floor.
The Juggling hare was already face down among the mixed nuts, the Amazingly (formerly) Thin Bendy Man was sobbing gently to himself and the Fire-eating Pyro Brothers were regarding the cheese board with a look of horror normally consigned to newly arrived in-laws announcing an indefinite stay.
They'd had enough. They wanted out. They were artists, they were performers, they were lean and fit and had small stomachs. After thirty-seven sumptuous and richly decorative courses (plus wine) they were in debt to their diets and facing bankruptcy. Nobody was in the mood for anything more than an aspirin and a lie down in a darkened room.
Barnooli's circus had been touring for three years and had become immensely successful. His splendid red tunic was ablaze with medals and ribbons from grateful rulers and an adoring public, his social diary was full for another three years and his face had appeared in every newspaper, telecast and multi-visual medium in the known galaxy. This was worth bragging about. He sucked the rest of the meat from his bone and tapped it on the table. He was in the mood for some sycophancy.
He resumed, "Is my circus not greater than the Menagerie of Menylace the Magnificent?"
A weak chorus of 'poo poos' echoed among the empty platters and plates. The Menagerie was pretty good, thought the victims of their director's excessive gluttony, but not worth arguing about under these circumstances.
"And the Zoo of Zophocles the Collector...?"
"A mere aquarium," groaned Bazmondo, the Great Magician, who wished he could make his stomach disappear.
"And the palaces of Nute the Grand...?"
People wavered but generally agreed. Even Nute the Grand might have run down his erections at a moment like this.
The stars whisked by the buffet car windows in a haze of purple light as the stars inside collapsed still further into the crumbling ruins of Barnooli's pre-honeymoon party.
Barnooli was disappointed with their responses. He turned to his new wife. Ophonia, the circus diva, was still picking daintily at a large bowl of fruit and looking none the worse for the five hour ordeal. He smiled at her and she smiled back, her cheeks puffed out with the contents of a small melon.
Her face was angelic and she moved effortlessly, like a cumulous cloud sweeping across a summer sky, all nebulous, benign and 'billowy'. She had a bewitching quality, which the other performers found disconcerting. With Barnooli she cooed and billed but her hairdressers said she was bad tempered and there was a rumour that one of the clowns had been sacked for a careless comment.
"He suggested she go on a diet," said the Lion Tamer.
"What? Really?" said the Strong Man, his jaw hanging slackly.
"Yes, I heard it from one of the costumiers."
"Never!" said Ted, the Theatrical Director, who was a sensitive and poetic soul and about as robust as a Christmas fairy. "I don't believe you."
"Believe what you like," continued the Lion Tamer. "But would you say it? Or criticise her choice of frock or music or the way she sings?"
Ted looked uncomfortable, "Of course not."
"Neither would I," agreed the Strong Man, a shiver running up his spine.
"And don't you think this wedding lark is all a bit sudden?"
Ted looked warily at the far end of the table where Barnooli and his new wife were almost hidden by the massive cake, "Very," he said, frowning.
"Too sudden to be quite satisfactory," nodded the Strong Man.
"I mean, where's she from?" said Ted. "How did she get here?"
"How can she eat so much and where does it all go?"
"And," Ted paused for theatrical effect. "What's going to happen when Barnooli is on his own with her, and away from our influence, will he come back a changed man without a will of his own?"
"What nonsense!" said the Brilliant Bazmondo. "...What married man ever had a will of his own?" His fine voice had a rich silkiness, which shone like his black hat.
"But that's just my point," bleated Ted. "She might persuade Barnooli to sell up the circus and retire, and then what will happen to us?"
"Rubbish, the circus means more to him than all the hors-d'ouvres in the universe, and besides she loves it as well; all that singing and the flowers and the applause, why would she want to give it up, let alone him?"
"But but but..."
"You shouldn't worry so much."
Ted had a silly quiff in his hair that waved about like a squirrel's tail, "But what do we really know about her? She could be a spy, or she could have been sent to destroy the circus, by sabotage, to make sure it fails..." The quiff wobbled nervously.
"Who by...?"
"I don't know, a rival, somebody who's jealous of our success?"
"All right, how? Who could bring down the Great Barnooli's circus? The Zlativan MindsTM run all the technical parts, we look after ourselves, the animals are kept in their own self-contained carriages; it's just too big to bring down. You might as well say you're going to cause a hurricane by flapping your arms about."
Ted was not reassured; technology wasn't his bag so he didn't trust it. There was always the threat of a mutiny among the major and minor acts and, obviously, the animals, by virtue of being animals (and therefore thick) could be easily led. "I'm sure somebody could do it," he insisted.
They heard Barnooli laugh. He was patting his wife on the knee and nodding a good deal. Jealous eyes watched his every move.
Bazmondo shrugged, "I don't think she is a saboteur," he said, growing tired of Ted's narrow-mindedness. "Not unless she means to eat us into submission."
"But don't you find it strange that she can just turn up and lure Barnooli away like this?" asked the Lion Tamer.
"Strange, yes," said Bazmondo. "But not impossible."
"But a 'honeymoon', oh!" Ted wailed (quietly). "It's all so unprofitable and unlike him."
"True, Barnooli is about as sentimental as a barbed wire fence, but that, I expect, is the 'power of a woman's love'."
"Oh please," Ted minced. "Spare me the hearts and flowers."
Barnooli presented his wife with a flower he had made from a piece of peel. Ophonia giggled in a faintly disturbing and peculiar way. She scrunched up her face and held Barnooli's hand in a sort of 'bunny-wunny' gesture, which he reciprocated with nauseous attentiveness. It was difficult to say whether one of the guests subsequently vomited because of this sickly display or because he was genuinely ill, probably both.
"My dear, perhaps you would sing for us?" grinned Barnooli.
Ophonia giggled again and tried to look shy.
"Oh please," implored Barnooli. "Just one little song...?"
Several of the closer employees caught on to what he was saying. They looked across at each other, they looked worried, very worried. They started to revive their companions, "Wake up," they whispered. "Mrs. Barnooli might sing..."
The clowns asleep among the custard pies were suddenly wide-awake and sitting up, their painted grins looking more strained than ever. The members of the orchestra looked longingly at the exits and tried to think of excuses to leave. The more religious began saying prayers. Everyone was in fear of a voice that carried to the furthest reaches of the big top unaided and was currently caged like a large bomb in the confines of their buffet car. Even the cheese board picked up speed around the table in the vain hope that renewed interest in food might distract their host...
Several guests were hissing at Bazmondo to pluck something out of the air to save them, "Say something, for all our sakes..."
"Ummm... Mr. Barnooli," Bazmondo stood up, raised his hand to catch his employer's eye. "Perhaps I could propose a toast?"
The mention of 'toast' drew a whisper of alarm from a clown who hadn't been listening properly, "Oh Punchinello, not more food."
"A toast?" said Barnooli, looking up.
"Yes, to you and your new bride...?" The magician gesticulated at his companions and hissed, "Get up!" The other employees began struggling to their feet. When they were all more or less upright Bazmondo raised his glass.
"Entertain and prosper," he intoned, using the circus motto.
"Entertain and prosper," repeated the others, reverently.
"May we spread joy and happiness throughout the galaxy..."
Barnooli belched magnificently, raised his own glass in salute. The guests sat down and he rose to his feet.
"Thank you, thank you."
He took a deep breath; he was going to give a speech, preferably a long one. He tucked his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets and began.
"Friends, I sincerely hope you all have a good holiday, I know I shall."
There were a few titters from the crowd. Mrs. Barnooli blushed.
"I am glad we have had this opportunity to sit and eat together before we part, we so rarely seem to get the time these days, and we have been so busy..."
A few eyes were glazing over already. No matter, they would get a transcript in the morning.
"May I celebrate our fortunes so far this tour? Twice winner of the Greatest Show in the Galaxy award, winner of the Best Spectacle in the Empire and recipient of the Humanitarian Award for Kindest Treatment towards a new Galactic Species; pretty good I think."
Nobody contradicted him, even after five hours and thirty-seven courses; there was no denying that Barnooli had done them all a big favour when he launched the circus. It was just a pity he had to remind them of it every five minutes.
"And of course, I must mention our internal successes; our increased profits, our better efficiency and the improved state of the plumbing." (A few nods of assent attested to the last flush of success.)
"And we must celebrate our most recent finds; we must thank the people of Hubblenook V for loaning us their Royal Drummers Pursuivant,"
Some blobs of clay grew arms and hands and waved at Barnooli.
"And to the planet Whekau we owe a debt of lasting significance for allowing their wisest citizen to come on board as our Memory Master..."
A small owl nodded wisely at the other end of the table.
"This is all something to be very proud of..."
There was a pause waiting to be filled with some clapping.
"May it continue to prosper and grow...?"
There should be some cheering as well.
Barnooli frowned, "We should really sing its praises, loudly."
Sing? Thought the acts; 'Sing'? Sing who? ...Ophonia.
"...Oh hear hear," said Bazmondo, waking up and beginning to clap, looking for support.
"Absolutely, wonderful, fantastic," agreed the others, some standing to clap more enthusiastically.
"Bravo bravo!"
Barnooli smiled. He could always trust his employees to rise to an occasion when threatened. "Thank you, thank you."
"More more," they encouraged.
Barnooli waved majestically. This was more like it.
"Friends... Please..." Barnooli tried to look embarrassed.
"No, more more..." the acts insisted.
Barnooli smiled but wouldn't be drawn.
The weight of wine and food began to count against them and the acts began to slump back into their chairs, hands running out of steam like the pistons of a train going up a hill.
"And now, as a special treat... My dear...?"
Ophonia was standing, not eating.
"It was a trick," said the Lion Tamer. "He was going to get her to sing all along."
The Strong Man was looking pale, "I feel sick," he said weakly.
"The cunning old sybarite," said the Lion Tamer, covering his fear with anger, "he just wanted us to think she wasn't going to sing!"
Bazmondo, with a slight of hand, produced some earplugs. The other victims made do with grapes or pickled onions. The Royal Drummers Pursuivant, being made of clay, were deaf anyway.
Ophonia began to puff herself up like a bagpipe. Silence had descended on the room like that moment at an air show when you wonder where the extremely fast and noisy jet fighter has gone and you're worried that when it does come back it will bring a sonic wave capable of...
A glass shattered, a clown keeled over and the buffet car began to shake with a tale of dragons, short men and big feisty women. It was a wonder the fire alarms didn't go off.
"I'm surprised there isn't a law against singing like that in a confined space," shouted the Lion Tamer.
"Eh?" said the Strong Man, gritting his teeth and swallowing deeply in a grim attempt not to throw up.
"...The noise! It's too loud!"
"Do what?"
"...The noise!"
"Boys...? What boys?"
"Eh?"
"Excuse me..." The Strong Man ran for the door.
Ophonia wound up to the crushing of bosoms and everlasting love conclusion and then there was silence. The silence rang and shook. Barnooli with a cry of 'bravo' almost missed by the deafened audience, stood up and clapped. The acts, with the word 'encore' very severely stuffed into the recesses of their vocabulary, also stood and clapped.
Luckily, Ophonia was hungry again and she sat down for another piece of fruit. "Marvellous," said Barnooli, patting his wife's knee and watching his employees as they fell back into their seats again. He smiled to himself, "Pity they don't like opera."
He was under no illusions as to what his employees thought of his marriage, or his wife, and he knew they were against him going on honeymoon alone with her. But, "First rule of the circus," he said to himself. "'Never get in the way of the director and his sweetmeats." He smiled at Ophonia and made 'wibbly-wibbly' faces at her.
The party ended. Conversation had become more of an ordeal than the final coffee and mint-in-an-envelope. "The plumbing's going to take a right hammering tonight," they all agreed.
The major and minor acts helped each other from the table. With final tired and hypocritical congratulations, they left the scene of the conflict, like soldiers retiring from the Somme, defeated in every way.
Philip Hamm is a lecturer in English and History at a small college in England. He never ran away to join the circus but sometimes thinks he ought to have. He is also an authority on H.G. Wells, has written articles for the Times Educational Supplement as well as writing stories and novels in his spare time.
© Philip Hamm
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