Malabarista Read online

  “And Uncle Lane’s been withdrawing from us,” Christine said. “Pulling away. He gets angry all the time.”

  “He takes care of us,” Matt said. “He takes care of all of us. I just think he’s been really sad lately.”

  “Why do you think that is?” the doctor asked.

  “The work,” said Matt. “Our home life. Uncle Arthur’s illness.”

  “You think it’s me, don’t you?” Christine said.

  “No,” said Matt. “I think it’s us. We create a lot of stress for both of them.”

  “Actually, it’s neither of you,” Lane said.

  “What is it, then?” Alexandre asked.

  “I don’t know how to put it into words yet.”

  SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 9

  chapter 23

  “I’m going downtown to see the malabarista,” Lane said to Arthur as Matt came in the door and kicked off his shoes. His heavy canvas pants were stained from the knees down with dirt and grass from working at the golf course. “Do you want to come?”

  “Why?” Christine stepped into the kitchen.

  “Why not?” Matt smiled. “Let’s go.”

  “Can Daniel come?” Christine asked.

  “Ask him,” Lane said.

  “Okay.” Christine went to the top of the stairs. “Daniel? Come on!”

  Arthur looked up from the papers he had strewn across the dining room table. “It’s about time we got out of here. Summer’s almost over.” He let Lane get a jacket for him so he could hide the plastic tubes and drainage containers.

  “I’ll phone Keely,” Lane said.

  Twenty minutes later, they were jammed into the Jeep and driving along the valley bottom between condos, businesses, and skyscrapers.

  “What’s a malabarista?” Daniel asked.

  “A juggler. In this case, it’s two guys. One plays music and the other. . .” How do I say what he does?

  “Juggles?” Christine asked.

  “And does tricks,” Lane said.

  “You said he did some flips on stilts,” Matt said.

  “That too.”

  “That the guy with one leg?” Daniel asked.

  “Yes,” Lane said.

  “So they play music, juggle, and do gymnastics,” Arthur said.

  “Just like the two of you.” Matt laughed at his uncles. “Always juggling.”

  They parked just south of the river and west of the hotels and condos next to Eau Claire. A series of pathways met at Prince’s Island, where walkers, joggers, cyclists, and babies in strollers funneled across a bridge over a pond. Ducks and geese fought for scraps and territory under the bridge and along the shore.

  “Where will they be?” Christine asked as she took Daniel’s hand.

  “Just over by the water park, I think.” Lane looked across the promenade, where parents were drying their children as they exited the paddling pool. Beyond the pool, older folks sat alone or together on the benches on either side of the promenade. A steady stream of people approached the bridge on their way to the park or the restaurant on the island.

  The cheeky blast of a trumpet stopped feet and turned heads.

  To those on the opposite side of the bridge, Mladen appeared to be walking atop the bridge’s arch. Then he grew taller. In red and white, he glided over the bridge on stilts, swaying and twirling to the music. Now he appeared to be walking on the heads and shoulders of the people who looked in his direction. Leo followed behind, announcing their arrival. He played with one hand and maneuvered his crutch with the other. They moved in tandem — the malabarista and the musician — to the same tune.

  On this side of the bridge, Mladen began to dance in a circle. The crowd backed away. Mladen balanced on his good leg. Leo picked up the beat, the trumpet accompanying Mladen’s twirling.

  The trumpet stopped. Mladen stopped too. His flowing clothing swirled and caught up to him as he began to bounce on the spot then launched himself upward. At the top of the arc, he spread his arms, ducked his head, bent his knees, and flipped. He landed on his feet and completed another flip in the opposite direction.

  Leo started up again with the trumpet. The crowd clapped.

  “Amazing,” Matt said.

  Lane’s phone rang. He opened it without taking his eyes from the performance.

  “Lane? Look to your right.”

  He glanced east to see Dylan and Keely waving at him.

  “Is this what you call an intangible?” Keely asked, then hung up.

  Lane looked at Christine and Daniel, who held hands and watched the performance with frank admiration. Matt had his hand on Arthur’s shoulder. Leo played a raunchy tune and they began to dance.

  It doesn’t get better than this.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Bruce, for caring for us all these years — thank you.

  Javi, thanks for the insights into a real malabarista.

  Again, thanks to Tony Bidulka and Wayne Gunn.

  Brad, John, and Bill, thanks for the legal knowledge and advice.

  Bryce, Alex P, Mary, Alex K, and Sebi, thanks for the suggestions and feedback.

  Nebal, thank you for the help with Arabic.

  Karma, thank you for the Spanish translations.

  Thank you to Crime Writers of Canada and their spirit of generosity. Doug, Paul, Lou, Andrew, Natalie, Tiiu, and NJ, thanks for all that you do.

  Thanks to creative writers at Nickle, Bowness, Lord Beaverbrook, Alternative, Forest Lawn, and Queen Elizabeth.

  Sharon, Karma, Ben, Luke, Indiana, and Ella. What’s next?

  Garry Ryan was born and raised in Calgary, Alberta. He received a BEd and a diploma in Educational Psychology from the University of Calgary, and taught English and creative writing to junior high and high school students until he retired in 2009. That same year, Ryan received the Calgary Freedom of Expression Award in recognition of his outstanding contributions to the local arts community.

  Ryan’s debut Detective Lane novel, Queen’s Park (2004), sprang from a desire to write a mystery that would highlight the unique spirit and diverse locations of his hometown. The follow-up, The Lucky Elephant Restaurant (2006), won the 2007 Lambda Literary Award for Best Gay Mystery. A Hummingbird Dance (2008) helped cement a loyal following for Ryan’s books in North America and overseas. In 2011, the fourth Detective Lane novel, Smoked, was shortlisted for the Alberta Readers’ Choice Award and nominated for the Lambda Literary Award for Best Gay Mystery.