The Boy Who Swam With Piranhas

  “Well?” whispers Dostoyevsky. “Do we all need a drop of madness in us?”

  A dog barks somewhere. A woman sings a sweet song that carries on the air despite the wailing of the fairground and the yelling of the fairground-goers.

  “Maybe it’s in us anyway,” says Stan, “whether we want it or not.”

  Dosyoyevsky nods. He looks at Stan with fondness and respect in his eyes. “That’s very wise,” he says.

  And both of them relax and smile and let the madness of the moon pour down upon them.

  It’s deep into the night, and Stan’s in his bed but he’s wide awake. Beyond the caravan window, the lights of the fair still flicker and flash, and the moon hasn’t yet left the sky. The tank of fish is by his bed. It flickers and flashes too, filled with the fish from the goldfish supplier. Stan feels the excitement and joy of the thirteenth fish as it swims among the new ones. Welcome, he hears. Welcome, my companions. He hears something else, something much sadder, a snuffling, a catching of breath near by. He listens. It comes from inside the caravan.

  “Nitasha,” he whispers. “Nitasha?”

  There’s no answer, but the snuffling goes on. He crawls from his narrow bunk and along the floor to the rear of the caravan where her bed is, behind a plywood screen. He knocks gently.

  “Nitasha. Are you all right, Nitasha?”

  “Shove off.”

  The snuffling starts again. There’s a few sobs.

  “Nitasha.”

  “Shove off! What’s it got te do with you?”

  “Can I come in?”

  No answer. He pushes the screen and it opens. He crawls into her tiny compartment.

  “What’s wrong?” he whispers.

  Nitasha pulls the blankets right over her, then she slowly tugs them down so that only her mouth and her nose are visible.

  “She was lovely,” she whispers.

  “I bet she was.”

  “But she didn’t love me.”

  “I’m sure she did.”

  “Why would she go away if she loved me?”

  “I don’t know,” whispers Stan, but he knows that he too left people that he loves.

  Nitasha tugs the blankets down a bit more. Stan sees her eyes staring out at him.

  “Everything’s horrible,” she says.

  “It isn’t,” he says. “Or it doesn’t need to be.” He looks away. He’s hopeless. He knows nothing. How can he help Nitasha when he’s just a kid himself?

  “You’ve got your dad,” he whispers at last.

  “Him? He can’t stand me. He loves you more than he loves me.”

  “No, he doesn’t,” says Stan.

  “He wishes you were his kid and not me.”

  “No, he doesn’t.”

  “And he’s right. I used to be nice but not no more. I’m lazy and ugly and fat and good for nobody and good for nowt. Now leave me alone.”

  “Maybe you could start doing things,” suggests Stan. “You could help with the stall.”

  “Help with the stall! Huh. I’ll have me own stall one day and I won’t need him and I won’t need her and I won’t need you and I won’t need nobody never no more.”

  “What do you mean, your own stall?”

  “I’m gonna get uglier and uglier and horribler and horribler and fatter and fatter and I’m gonna grow a beard and build a stall and I’ll be the Ugliest Fattest Bearded Lady You Ever Seen.”

  “Oh, Nitasha!” says Stan.

  “Oh Nitasha what?”

  “Oh, Nitasha, you could be lovely. Last night by the fire you started to look really—”

  “That’s me plan,” says Nitasha. “I’ll be a freak. I’ll make a mint. Then I’ll not need nobody.”

  “Oh, Nitasha!”

  “Oh Nitasha nowt. Now go away.” And she pulls the blankets right over herself again.

  Stan turns to leave, starts the crawl back to his bunk. “I’m going to see Pancho Pirelli tomorrow,” he says over his shoulder.

  “Wow!” she sneers from beneath the blankets.

  “You could come with me.”

  “So people can see your freak at your side?”

  Stan hesitates. “No,” he says. “So people can see somebody who’s nearly like my sister at my side.”

  Nitasha raises the blankets and stares at him. “Ye’re mental,” she says. “Stop being stupid. Get back to bed.”

  Stan crawls back along the caravan floor and climbs into his narrow bunk. He looks across at Dostoyevsky. The man’s eyes are open and shining with tears in the moonlight. There’s a sob, and then silence, then much later a little whisper from Nitasha.

  “Did ye really mean that, Stan?”

  “Mean what?”

  “About bein’ like a sister?”

  “Course I did,” says Stan.

  Then there’s silence again, but for the final screams and laughter and wailing from the fair outside.

  Stan’s excited when he wakes up. It’s almost like his birthday’s come again. It’s a bright clear morning. He helps Dostoyevsky to put up the stall, to set the ducks on the water, to hang up the goldfish in their plastic bags. He goes to the caravan door a couple of times and calls for Nitasha, but there’s no answer except a grunt or two.

  Dostoyevsky puts his arm round Stan’s shoulder. “Leave her, son,” he says. “It’s how she is. Go on. You jus’ go on yer own.”

  Stan shrugs. He sighs. He’s about to set off alone, just like he did on his birthday a few short days ago, but then the caravan door opens and Nitasha’s standing there, pink-faced and shy. She’s wearing a flowery frock, she’s washed her face, she’s brushed her hair.

  “Nitasha!” says her father in amazement.

  She can’t look at him.

  “You look lovely, love,” he says.

  He digs into his pocket, finds some cash, shoves it into her hand. Stan sees tears shining in his eyes.

  “Go on, love,” Dostoyevsky says. “Have a…”

  “Good time,” whispers Stan.

  “Good time,” says Dostoyevsky.

  “Say thank you,” whispers Stan to Nitasha.

  “Thank you,” she murmurs. She raises her eyes for a moment. “Thank you, Dad.”

  Stan’s so pleased and so proud. Nitasha walks at his side into the heart of the fair. They pass the dodgems and the wrestling booth. The boar man at the Wild Boar Cookhouse snarls a smile at them.

  “Got yerself a girlfriend, have ye?” he growls.

  Stan ignores him and peers towards the trees. It’s strange. Today the tent looks just like a painted tent. Its canvas walls are flapping in the breeze, and trees that yesterday looked like real trees are just trees that have been painted on. The paintings are clumsy, like a kid’s done them, and the paint’s flaking and cracked. And there’s a painted sign:

  “Why ain’t ye whistlin’?” snarls the boar man.

  Stan says nothing.

  “Cat got yer tongue?”

  Stan says nothing.

  “Have ye heard the tale about the man that et the boar?” says the boar man.

  “Yes!” says Stan.

  “Aha! Then have ye heard the tale about the world that turned into a tent?”

  “No,” says Stan.

  “It ended up lookin’ jus’ like a tent!” The boar man snuffles with laughter.

  The tent door flaps open and Mr Smith comes hurrying out. “Are you back for more fish already?” he asks.

  “No,” says Stan.

  “You’re looking at the tent, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” says Stan.

  “And you think it looks just like a tent, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” says Stan.

  “Of course it does!” says Mr Smith. “If it’s a tent, which it is, what else would it look like?”

  “I don’t know,” says Stan.

  Mr Smith looks at his watch. “Listen,” he says. “The tent looked like it did yesterday because yesterday was yesterday. Some days we see more … intensely than we do on
other days. Do you understand?”

  “No,” says Stan.

  “No,” says Nitasha.

  Mr Smith ponders. He looks at his watch again. “Nor do I,” he admits. “Now, move aside. I am off to see the splendid Pancho Pirelli. Along with many others, as you see.”

  And Stan turns, and sees that there are many people all hurrying in the same direction. Mr Smith rushes to join them, and Stan and Nitasha do as well.

  So here we are. This is the scene. There’s a clearing at the heart of the fair. A grassy space where people are gathering. They’ve brought picnics, flasks of coffee, crates of beer, bottles of wine. There are a few fires burning and the smell of chops sizzling and spuds baking. Kids wrestle, run and dance. Babies gurgle and cry.

  Nitasha stays close to Stan. They weave their way through the crowd towards a blue trailer. The blue trailer’s wrapped in blue tarpaulin, and a huge name is written there in gold:

  A few people speak to the pair as they pass by. “Hello, young Stan.” “How do, Nitasha.”

  Stan hardly hears them. His eyes are on the trailer, on Pancho’s name. He takes Nitasha’s hand and leads her forward. He feels like he’s been drawn to this place. He shivers with excitement and fear and holds Nitasha’s hand tight. “Come on,” he whispers to her. “Stay with me, please, Nitasha.”

  She whispers that she will.

  Then there’s a hush, and suddenly there’s Pancho himself, standing beside the trailer. He’s wearing a blue cape that’s fastened at his throat with a golden cord. There is a pair of blue goggles on his head. He looks into the crowd and sees Stan there and he smiles, and the smile makes Stan even more excited. Stan leads Nitasha closer, to the front of the crowd, so close they could almost reach out and touch Pancho Pirelli.

  “Welcome,” murmurs Pancho, then his face hardens as he turns his eyes to the crowd. “My name,” he says into the hush, “is Pancho Pirelli.”

  People giggle, sigh and smile.

  Pancho raises his hand. “I am here,” he says, “to touch the teeth of death for you. I am here to look into its eyes for you. I am here to dance with it for you.”

  “Do it, Pancho!” someone cries from within the crowd. And other voices start yelling.

  “Do it, Pancho!” “Yes! We love you, Pancho!” “You’re a madman, Pancho! You’re crazy!” “You’re barmy!” “You’re wonderful!” “Do it for us, Pancho Pirelli!”

  Pancho lets the voices go on for a moment, then he reaches up to the blue tarpaulin that’s wrapped around the trailer. He tugs, and the tarpaulin separates like curtains on a stage. And Stan’s jaw drops open, for there, behind the tarpaulin, is clear water. The sun’s shining down on it, and there’s a shoal of fish swimming elegantly in it.

  The whole trailer is a fish tank. And the fish inside?

  “Piranhas!” gasp the crowd. “Pancho Pirelli’s Perilous Piranhas!”

  Pancho turns. The voices fade.

  “These,” he says, “are my piranhas.”

  The fish are rather pretty, oval-shaped, silvery-grey, a flush of red on their cheeks and lower jaws. Each one is about the size of a child’s head. No bigger than that. Stan stares. “Piranhas!” he whispers to Nitasha. He knows, as most people do, their fierce reputation. These are the lethal fish of myth and legend, the fish that will strip a man to the bone in seconds.

  But these fish, they seem so tame, so calm. Can they really be piranhas?

  “They aren’t piranhas!” somebody yells. “They can’t possibly be piranhas!”

  Pancho smiles. “No,” he says. “Of course they can’t possibly be piranhas. Would you like to dip your hand into the tank to test them out?” He walks forward and mingles with the crowd. “How about you, madam?” he asks. “Or you, sir?”

  People laugh. They back away and separate to let Pancho through. Stan watches Pancho weaving his way through the crowd. He watches the fish suspended above so beautifully in their crystal clear water, with their fins and tails propelling them elegantly forward, their mouths opening and closing as if they’re saying

  “Or you, young sir?” comes the voice from his side.

  It is Pancho, of course, leaning down to Stan.

  “You look like you know the world of fish,” says Pancho. “You look like you could almost be a fish yourself. Would you like to—”

  But then he suddenly turns away and reaches out to grab a little boy standing close by, a boy who’s eating a sandwich. “Or you!” he snaps. “You look like a mischievous kind of boy. Am I right?”

  The boy can’t speak, but the man with him says, “Aye, you’re right, Mr Pirelli! He is a mischievous kind of lad!”

  “Daddy!” cries the boy. He tries to pull away from Pancho, but he can’t. He gasps and giggles and groans at Pancho’s side.

  “He’s a little monster, Mr Pirelli!” says the father, who can hardly speak for laughing. “He’s a total terror. Me and the missus has often said he should get fed to Pancho Pirelli’s piranhas!”

  “Then let us do it!” says Pancho. He leads the boy towards the tank and takes the sandwich from his hand. “What is this?” he asks.

  “A … a … a sossij samwich,” stutters the boy.

  Pancho holds the sandwich up to the glass walls of the tank. The fish rush furiously towards it. Their jaws open and shut and their eyes glare viciously out through the glass.

  “The poor ickle fish are hungry, little boy,” says Pancho. “Shall I feed them your sossij samwich?”

  “Aye, Mr Pirelli,” whispers the boy.

  There’s a ladder fixed to the side of the tank. Pancho steps onto it, holding the sandwich in his hand. The fish inside swim upwards as Pancho climbs. The crowd laughs as the boy runs back to his dad. Pancho reaches the top of the ladder. He leans over the tank. He smiles, and lets the sandwich fall, and his terrifying fish rush to it and savage it, and there is tumult in the tank, and silence in the crowd.

  Stan’s heart thunders. He’s never seen anything so wild – and all for the sake of a sausage sandwich. What, he wonders, would those piranhas do to a boy?

  Pancho smiles. The sandwich has gone. The fish swim with a new energy and urgency, as if they’re hunting for something more to gobble up inside that empty tank.

  “See?” he says. “See what my fish can do to a sossij samwich. Imagine what they could do to a…” He groans in disappointment. “But where is my mischievous boy, my ickle monster? Ah, I see he has runned back to his dada.” Pancho frowns. “Give him back! The fish are hungry! They’re waiting!”

  The boy’s father has both arms around his son. He glares at Pancho now, defying him to take the boy.

  Pancho relaxes and smiles. “Don’t worry, sir,” he says. “It’s just my little joke. Your monster is safe. Now, watch.”

  He reaches under the tank and takes out a dead chicken. It has been plucked. He holds it by a leg and lets it dangle in front of him. “It’s time for something a little larger,” he says to the crowd.

  He climbs the ladder again. He lowers the chicken into the tank. The fish launch themselves at it, and within seconds it has been stripped to the bone. Within a few seconds more, the bone has been stripped to nothing at all. The fish swim on, in circles, in spirals, in threatening figures of eight.

  “Do you think they’ve had enough?” asks Pancho Pirelli.

  Down the ladder he comes again. He picks up an old shoe that has been lying on the ground. It’s a twisted stiff dark leather thing. It’s probably been lying there for months, for years. Pancho weighs it in his palm. He twists it. He pretends to sniff it. The crowd giggles. Then Pancho lobs it upwards, and it curves through the air and lands with a splash in the tank. Straight away it’s gone, ripped by the piranhas’ teeth, snapped by their jaws, gulped down into their guts. And still they roam, looking for more.

  Pancho turns his eyes to Stan, and when he speaks, it’s like he’s speaking just to him. “Who would dare to dive into this tank, to swim with these fish?” His gaze intensifies. “You? You?”
br />   Stan grips Nitasha’s hand. He shakes his head. “No,” he murmurs. “No!”

  Pancho moves through the crowd again. “Would you like to see Pancho Pirelli enter the tank?” he asks. “Would you dare to watch if he did? Or would you close your eyes? Would you turn away? Would you run off screaming?”

  He holds out a red velvet bag.

  “You must pay, of course,” he says softly. “You must give money to see a man face such danger.” Coins are dropped into the bag. “Thank you, sir,” he murmurs. “Thank you, madam.” Sometimes he stops and looks at people with sadness or scorn. “Is that all you’re going to give?” he whispers. “Would you face death for that? Pay more. Pay more! Thank you. Much better.” He shakes the bag, jingles the coins. He seeks out those who try to hide, to avoid his gaze, to pay nothing. “I see you,” he says. “You can’t fool me. There’s no hiding from Pancho Pirelli. You have nothing? Oh, but you must have the tiniest of coins somewhere. A cent, a farthing. Take it out, drop it in, and you will see the greatest act you’ve ever seen. Thank you, madam. Thank you, sir.”

  At last he smiles. He carries the heavy bag of coins to Stan. “Will you look after this for me until I return?” he says.

  “Yes,” says Stan, and takes it from him.

  Pancho unties the cord at his throat. The cloak falls from his shoulders. He’s wearing blue swimming trunks. He holds the cloak out to Stan. “And this as well?” he asks.

  Stan takes the cloak. Pancho climbs the ladder. He pulls his goggles down over his eyes. He leans over the edge of the tank. And in he goes.

  People clap their hands across their eyes, turn their faces away. They gasp in horror. They imagine the tank turning red with Pancho’s blood. There are giggles and laughter and screams. But not from Stan. Yes, his heart thumps, his skin crawls, his hands tremble, but he sees the courage and the beauty of it all. He sees Pirelli dive elegantly down through the water. The fish part to let him in. They arrange themselves around him as he hangs at the centre of the tank, beating the water with gentle movements of his feet and his hands. Pirelli faces outwards, towards the watching crowd, and the fish do the same; and for a moment, everything inside the tank is almost still. Then Pancho moves, a gentle swaying of his body. He tilts his head; he moves his hands; he lifts his feet.