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she
missing him too?
    Jason was supposed to be focused on work,
focused on this act Lemaitre was so interested in. Before his
promotion Jason had been an acrobatics coach, but now he scouted
all kinds of acts in search of undiscovered talent. That was why he
was here, not to get torn up over a cocktail waitress he’d met at a
kink bar. She’d told him straight out, one night . Now he had
to get over her. Jason hoped this trapeze act was good enough to
warrant all the drama of this journey.
    He and the translator finally settled on a
bench halfway up the stands. She left an appropriate amount of
space between them, causing Jason to suffer repeated bumps from the
brawny man on his other side. He sucked air through his mouth
rather than his nose. These folks obviously weren’t into showers.
With the cool temperatures outside, Jason wasn’t sure he blamed
them. Even in spring, Mongolia was chilly, sometimes snowy. The
stands were soon full to bursting with an exuberant Saturday night
crowd.
    The show started late, without any intro or
fanfare. Jason knew within minutes that he’d been sent on a wild
goose chase. It might be Mongolia’s largest circus, but it had no
production values, no polish. It was only a series of acts
performed by people who looked every bit as rough as those in the
seats. Juggling, a little tightrope, but not very high off the
ground. There were muscle men lifting things like oil drums and
tires, and a smiling trio of contortionists who balanced bowls on
their heads. These acts were interspersed with comedic bits that
his translator tittered at but didn’t bother to translate.
    This ragtag revue brought to mind circuses of
the past, before innovators like Michel Lemaitre arrived with
glossy lights and special effects and a million-dollar
infrastructure whose sole purpose was to create theatrical art. He
looked around at the smiling, clapping spectators. What would they
think of a Cirque du Monde show? They were so appreciative of this
low-level nonsense. A show like Cirque Brillante or Cirque Vivide would probably cause a riot.
    The entire program lasted a little over an
hour. The crowd grew restless, and Jason worried that the trapeze
act he’d been sent to scout wasn’t even going to perform. Then a
great cheer went up, pounding and yelling. The children rose to
their feet and bounced up and down as a beat-up trapeze dropped
almost to the ground, then was ratcheted skyward in uneven tugs.
Jason looked up and saw men winching the ropes to the rigging. It
didn’t look safe, not by Cirque du Monde standards. Not by any
standards.
    Jason took a deep breath as the trapezists, a
man and a woman, took the stage. The man was compactly built,
typically Mongolian, with a broad, attractive face. His partner
stood with her back to the audience, her dark hair styled in a
tight ponytail. She had a gymnast’s body, lithe and muscular,
beautifully proportioned. Her red leotard was plain in design, but
it brightened up the dreary circus tent.
    “These performers are well known, very
popular,” the translator said over the din of the crowd. “The
woman’s parents also did trapeze, but they died in an
accident.”
    He grimaced, watching them raise and lower
the off-kilter bar. “A trapeze accident?”
    “A car accident.”
    Jason glanced down at the note in his hand.
The performer’s names were miles long, indecipherable. At last the
apparatus was ready to go, and the man leaped up and caught a rope
affixed to the bar. He used it to haul himself up, and then hung by
his knees, extending his arms for his partner. The woman climbed
the rope next and he grabbed her by her arms. A warbling soundtrack
whirred to life over static-y loudspeakers. At the resounding
approval of the audience, the woman looked over her shoulder and
smiled.
    Jason froze. He knew that smile. He realized
now that he knew that body too, that perfect, proportionate body.
He looked back down at the note. The man was Baatarsaikhan ,
the