LITMIR.BIZ

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knows what Gargantua went through; taken from his mother when he was just a baby and that drunken sailor that threw acid in his face on the voyage from Mombasa. That son of a bitch left him with a scowl,” he said, turning toward what I assumed was his starstruck paramour. “Please forgive my French, ma’am.” The young woman nodded. “And if it wasn’t for Gargantua, this show would really be hurting. So don’t you worry,” he added, stepping forward and patting me on the forearm.

      “Who is your friend?” the woman asked.

      “Oh, I’m so rude. Let me introduce you two. You know the social niceties aren’t my strong suit. I don’t have too much call for them on the savanna,” Buck added, making a sweeping gesture to the right as if we could glance in that direction and see the African plain, complete with a herd of zebras. “Valerie McPhearson, this is my dear friend and the gentlest giant, Jake Erlich, also known as Jack Earle.”

      She looked up at me and extended her hand, which got lost in mine. The woman had a firm handshake.

      Val was in her early thirties and about five foot nine. She had long auburn hair and wore a paint-stained brown artist’s smock. I imagined the smock camouflaged her curves, long legs, and an expensive French outfit she wore underneath it. Her eyes were bright green and big; the kind a man could get lost in. They sparkled. I would come to realize that woman’s beauty was intoxicating and healing. Like Orpheus’s music, it made me forget, at least for a while, all my troubles. But like all drugs, I would pay a price for it.

      “Val is here doing a sculpture of Gargantua for her art class at NYU,” Buck explained.

      I glanced across to the gorilla’s cage. He was an altogether different creature from the enraged beast I’d seen the night before. Now Gargantua slept peacefully on a pile of light-green and yellow straw in the front of his cage.

      I looked down to Val’s rough first attempt at his likeness, resting on a small card table in front of her. On the right side of the sculpture was a mound of untouched brown clay.

      To this day I don’t know why I said anything, but I did. It was like the words sprang out of me with a life of their own:

      “Do you mind if I take a crack at sculpting one of the animals?” I asked.

      “Be my guest,” she answered, clearly surprised by my request. She wasn’t the only one; Buck gave me a curious look as well.

      “I never thought of you as an artiste, Jake,” Buck said. “But if you must, which one of the beasts will you use as your model?”

      “I think I’ll try the giraffe,” I said.

      “Why am I not astounded by that choice?” Buck retorted sarcastically.

      When I picked up the clay no one uttered a word. The two of them just watched me kneading it.

      “I’ll tell you something you might not know about giraffes,” Buck finally said, filling the vacuum.

      Or that we might not want to know, I thought but would never say.

      He was my friend but there was a certain formal distance I maintained with “the dangerous great white hunter who faced down man-eaters,” especially when he was around one of his conquests. At that point, Buck did not consider me a threat.

      “It goes all the way back to the early thirteenth century, when the Ming emperor commanded adventurers to search the world for riches,” he began.

      I shot a look over at the young lady as if to say: You have to excuse him, Miss. My friend Frank fancies himself a history professor.

      Valerie winked at me and then turned to face Buck. I thought of my mother's admonition to avoid women who wink at you. Oh, he’s got a pigeon here, I thought. Little did I know who the real predator was.

      “The adventurers sailed the globe with a fleet of three hundred ships and thirty thousand men. They visited thirty countries and returned home with treasures; precious stones, pearls, ivory, coral, lions, and leopards. But the most exotic gift was from the Chief of the Kingdom of Malindi in Africa,” Buck explained.

      “What was it?” Val asked.

      “A giraffe,” Buck said, pointing to my sculpture. As Buck spoke, I deliberately lost myself in the warm, pliable clay I worked between my fingers. “Jake, are you with us?” Buck’s voice stirred me from my trance, bringing me back to the menagerie.

      “Oh, I’m sorry; I got carried away. You were saying something about the giraffe.”

      “Yes, the Malindi called him Ch’ilin. As Frank spoke, I continued to manipulate the malleable clay in my hands. “Well, believe it or not, the Chinamen also used the word Ch’ilin in their language,” Buck continued.

      Valerie reached out and took Frank’s hand coquettishly. “So don’t keep us in suspense, Frank. What does Ch’ilin mean in Chinese?” Valerie asked.

      “It’s the name of a very special, mythic creature that only appears in visions to those who are most pure,” Buck answered.

      By then I had finished my sculpture and set it on the table next to Val’s. I looked up at the penned giraffe I had been using as a model.

      “Jake, you and the Ch’ilin have a lot in common,” Val said, smiling warmly at me.

      “We both eat plants?” I joked, a bit embarrassed by her attention.

      “No, seriously; you both see the world from above,” Val added.

      You know, I’ve come to think we all have our own personal menagerie in us with our own Gargantuas and giraffes. Sometimes we’re proud of our menagerie and sometimes were ashamed. For most, our giraffes and gorillas are invisible to everyone else. They just live in a very dark place within us that only we know. But for others, their menagerie is not only visible but dramatic and draws disturbing attention.

      The young woman stepped closer to me and began circling the small artist’s table to get a better look at my primitive attempt at sculpture. Even now, I wonder what she saw in me and why I tried so hard to get to know her.

      “Wow, that is really good,” she said, her gaze going back and forth between the giraffe in the pen, the clay giraffe on the table, and me. “I mean, I’m impressed. This is really good,” she repeated. “Who have you been studying with?”

      “No one,” I said laughing. “This is the first time I’ve done anything like this. I’m no artist,” I said, dismissing her compliment.

      “I cannot believe that. You’re a natural.” She touched my hand, as she had touched Buck’s. Buck stepped forward and grabbed her hand. Though she was no longer touching me, it still felt electric. The admiration in her voice was unmistakable. I liked it.

      “Hey, Jake, if you don’t make it in the sideshow, or as a boxer who beats up rubes, you could give sculpting a try,” Buck said.

      His words stung. Normally I would not personalize the jokes he told at my expense. But that time it was hard to ignore his banter. The crack about not making it in the circus and beating up rubes was hitting below the belt. His words zeroed in on what, at that moment, were my two biggest dilemmas: my attack on the fan the night before and my future in Ringling Bros. If I knew then what I know now, I would have understood that Buck’s insensitive comment was a reflection of jealousy.

      “I hate to go. I’m having so much fun with you fellows, but I have to run,” Valerie said, interrupting the jousting she’d just caused. “I’m due at a Junior League charity luncheon at the Waldorf,” Val said, looking at her jeweled wristwatch. “I will talk to you soon,” she said, taking hold of the gorilla she had been sculpting and putting it in a small cardboard box that was resting under the table. I picked up the giraffe I had just made. Val quickly began to unfold the legs on the small table and stowed it under Gangantua’s cage. She turned back as she started to walk away.

      “Say, Mr. Erlich, may I keep the giraffe?”

      “I think

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