Up in the Gallery
If some frail tubercular lady
circus rider were to be driven in circles around and around the arena for
months and months without interruption in front of a tireless public on a
swaying horse by a merciless whip-wielding master of ceremonies, spinning on
the horse, throwing kisses and swaying at the waist, and if this performance,
amid the incessant roar of the orchestra and the ventilators, were to continue
into the ever-expanding, gray future, accompanied by applause, which died down
and then swelled up again, from hands which were really steam hammers, perhaps
then a young visitor to the gallery might rush down the long staircase through
all the levels, burst into the ring, and cry “Stop!” through the fanfares of
the constantly adjusting orchestra.
But since things are not like
that—since a beautiful lady, in white and red, flies in through curtains which
proud men in livery open in front of her, since the director, with the devotion
of an animal, seeks her eyes, breathes in her direction, and, as a precaution,
lifts her up on the dapple-gray horse, as if she were his granddaughter, the
one he loved more than anything else, as she starts a dangerous journey, but he
cannot decide to give the signal with his whip and finally, controlling
himself, gives it a crack, runs right beside the horse with his mouth open,
follows the rider’s leaps with a sharp gaze, hardly capable of comprehending
her skill, tries to warn her by calling out in English, furiously castigating
the grooms holding hoops, telling them to pay the most scrupulous attention,
and begs the orchestra, with upraised arms, to be quiet before the great
somersault, finally lifts the small woman down from the trembling horse, kisses
her on both cheeks, and considers no public tribute adequate, while she
herself, supported by him, high on the tips of her toes, with dust swirling
around her, arms outstretched and little head thrown back, wants to share her
luck with the entire circus—since this is how things are, the visitor to the
gallery puts his face on the railing and, sinking into the final march as if
into a difficult dream, weeps, without realizing it.
