Nucci: 13th Flyer in History to Do a Triple Somersault

By Adrian C Catarzi

Born into a circus family, Nucci spends his childhood learning trapeze. By age 21 he's a champion, the 13th flyer in history to perform a triple somersault. But the natural next step—the quadruple somersault—is a different matter entirely. Nucci will do it blindfolded, while trying not to think about how the feat killed his father. But a last-minute discovery of a long-buried secret could change everything. Nucci can't balk, lest the world label him a fake. The crowd under the big top roars. But Nucci may die flying blind.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jun 24, 2019
• ISBN: 9781543975505

Book preview

Front and back cover designed by Adrian C Catarzi

Mr. Catarzi’s portrait by Maria Lyle, marialylephotograpy.com, Sarasota, Florida

NUCCI. Copyright © 2019 by Adrian C Catarzi. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

For information address Adrian C Catarzi, 4006 Hina Drive, Sarasota, Florida 34241

FIRST EDITION

ISBN (Print): 978-1-54397-549-9

ISBN (eBook): 978-1-54397-550-5

These are the easiest

words I’ve ever typed

To the Loyal Repensky, Zacchini and Cristiani families who owned the circus world I was born into and still at 77, cherish.

Hugs to my parents Aldemaro and Albertina Loyal-Catarzi, brother Jules, grandfather Jules Cesar Loyal, my coaches William A. Krause, Addison S. Gilbert, III, and my catchers Alex Kruppa, Ivan A. Williams, David L. Camp, and Frank Schwartz.

An everlasting hug to Barbara The Bear Hepp Gordon.

A grateful squeeze to Wynne E. Hernandez, the ever present anchor.

Kudos to my fellow flyers over the years: Judy Allen, Mark Carroll, Jimmy Cash, Dorothy Gilmore, Peg Hannah, Pat Lane, Brent Pichard, Lolly Rendina, and Olympia Zacchini.

Of these, Dorothy Gilmore Hasty was one of two women flyers in the world performing a double somersault! Surely, I flew in great company.

A special nod to Martin Larsen, a peerless advisor and dear friend for years.

It took them all to continue my grandfather’s vision of excellence.

Hey, I was a tough study. . . .

Some events in my novel are based on stories my mother told me or those I heard from my aunts, uncles, or their peers.

When real people are depicted in fictional settings they remain true, in my view, to their character as I knew them.

It is accepted that recollections differ yet all are rich with elements stories need.

And so, the stories I heard and those I invented became Nucci.

Now, let’s get this show on the road. . .

Table of Contents

Chapter 1: A CARELESS MOMENT

Chapter 2: THE MAGIC OF ILLUSION

Chapter 3: INSIDE IS ITALIA

Chapter 4: THE CANCAN KICKS NUCCI

Chapter 5: EVIL WEARS A BRIONI

Chapter 6: THEY SEE ME, I SEE THEM

Chapter 7: CAN DOGS CHANGE COLORS?

Chapter 8: A DEATH IN D.C.

Chapter 9: WALTZING IN AIR

Chapter 10: DON’T DRINK THE WATER

Chapter 11: CLOWNS, TRAPEZE, TASSELS

Chapter 12: IT WAS THE ICE, STUPID

Chapter 13: BURT’S ENDGAME

Chapter 14: NONNO’S LEGACY COMES HOME

Chapter 15: FLYING HIGH

Chapter 16: A NEW HOPE

Chapter 17: WE’RE NEW IN TOWN

Chapter 18: WHAT NOW?

Chapter 19: IT’S ABOUT THE BOYS

Chapter 20: WHO’S IN CHARGE NOW?

Chapter 21: DENIAL UNDER THE BIG TOP

Chapter 22: FRED DOES THE WASH

Chapter 23: A DARK AND STORMY NIGHT

Chapter 24: BREAK A LEG

Chapter 25: HARD AS A ROCK

Chapter 26: BLINDSIDED

Chapter 27: THE NEW KID IN TOWN

Chapter 28: FOUR EVER?

Chapter 29: YOU’RE NO PAGLIACCI

Chapter 30: FOUR SURE

Chapter 31: ALEXEI’S SIBERIAN BABE

Chapter 32: DO WE TELL HIM?

Chapter 33: WHEN CLOSE IS TOO FAR

Chapter 34: IT WILL HIT THE FAN

Chapter 35: FLY OR DIE?

Chapter 36: IT’S MY BIG TOP

Bonus Short Story: THE LOYAL LEGACY

Final Thoughts

For the moment, Edith Ringling endured July’s heat by sipping a cold, tart lemonade in the shade of her circus dressing wagon’s awning. She wore her usual seersucker summer frock and relaxed in a canvas chair that sat on a luxurious Tuscan area rug.

The crimson and gold-fringed area rug flattened the parched grass and weeds of an open field on the outskirts of Hartford, Connecticut, in July of 1944.

Two roustabouts carrying sledgehammers caught Edith’s eye as they cut across a sequestered field of circus wagons, tents housing performers, roustabouts, and a menagerie of exotic animals, domestic and wild.

Darrel, one of the roustabouts, a muscled young redhead, gripped the wooden handle of his sixteen-pound sledgehammer. He squinted at the afternoon sky while using his frayed cabbie cap to wipe sweat from his forehead.

Summer’s different up here, Josh, Darrel said. Ain’t a breeze or a cloud to be had.

Alabama don’t have clouds? Josh said as he strode alongside the younger man.

Plenty clouds when I jumped the boxcar too many Sundays ago.

Josh rested his sledgehammer’s long handle across his shoulder. His broad back, chiseled chest, and rock-hard arms spoke of countless seasons as Ringling’s chief roustabout.

Darrel, how good are you with that sledge? This show usually don’t take on First of Mays.

Say what?

Amateurs. Like you, Josh said politely.

The canvas boss thinks I can use a sledge just fine. Said so hisself.

While he was he grinning, slapping your back real friendly like?

Yeah. What of it?

Josh’s shrug came with a slippery smile.

One thing sure, Darrel said, I smell sizzlin’ bacon. He pointed his sledgehammer’s handle at a large two-pole tent. That a cafeteria? I’m sure as shit hungry.

That green flag flying over it means performers only. A brown flag is us.

We can’t eat ’longside ’em actors? Darrel snorted. I ain’t no slave.

Can you do a triple somersault on the flying trapeze?

What’s a three-flip got to do with being hungry? They’s treating me like a piece of shit.

Hush, we’re ’bout to pass Misses Edith’s wagon. Act respectable.

Darrel patted his wrinkled shirt pocket. Uh, gotta fag?

Josh shook his cigarette pack and up popped a cigarette.

Gotta match? Darrel asked as he glanced at Edith’s circus wagon. That’s some setup.

Edith Ringling loved elegance. She was heard referring to her circus wagon as a rolling Victorian drawing room.

From her chair, the circus matron’s gaze followed the contour of the massive performance big top nearby, the centerpiece of her family’s traveling entertainment empire. It seated close to ten thousand spectators and was supported by six center poles and multiple short ones, all comprising the big top’s skeleton.

Because of Hartford’s hot and suffocating air on this day, the six main poles of the nineteen-ton, twelve-acre mountain of canvas held six limp American flags.

Edith knew today’s July 6 performance would be profitable. America’s war effort created American jobs, and that meant tickets. Hartford’s men worked 24-hour shifts for the war effort so today’s audience of seven thousand-plus would mostly be women and children.

Edith grimaced looking at the green flag above the cafeteria tent. Because of the cafeteria’s policy of discrimination between the show’s population, every touring season she memorized the names of as many roustabouts she could and relished their smiles when she greeted them by name. It was the least she could do. Edith set her lemonade on the end table as Josh and Darrel walked by. How are you, Josh? she asked with a wave.

Josh grinned. Just fine, thanks, Misses Ringling, he said.

Edith raised an eyebrow upon seeing the strapping young redhead who was evidently a recent hire and made a mental note to learn his name later that day.

Josh and Darrel dodged performers who scurried to dressing wagons and chorus tents. They ducked under the big top’s rope guys. Josh yanked a rope and its stake wobbled.

After a windstorm like last night, stakes get lose. So, we pound ’em back down. Trouble is we need rain, everything’s too damn dry.

How ’bout another fag? I’ll buy you a pack come payday.

You smoking or eating ’em? Josh said while holding a pack out.

See that gal yonder in her red outfit? Darrel took a cigarette. I’d snack on that.

She starting a fire for you somewhere?

The kind I like, Darrel said. Gotta match?

Gripping a riding crop in one hand, a chubby two-year-old’s in her other, the lady in red spangles and sequins cruised past Josh and Darrel.

Emmett Kelly, Ringling’s famous clown, winked as the lady and her son walked near him. Bertina, don’t forget what I told you the other day. My wife’ll be glad to babysit Nucci if you need it.

Emmett, who will dare tell Edith? Bertina said with a chuckle.

The wife doesn’t figure on the politics of it. After all, she married a clown!

One of the best, Emmett. If not the best.

Bertina and Nucci left Emmett in his canvas chair. Except for his makeup, Emmett could be any middle-aged man in a baggy T-shirt and denim shorts that showed pasty-white legs.

"Buon giorno! Edith greeted Bertina and lifted her squirming son into a hug. How is Nucci, mio bambino, today?"

He is cranky, Madam Ringling.

I shall attend to that, Edith said, while you and your family babysit my audience with panache only the Loyal Repenskys possess.

Bertina smiled but anxiously tapped her palm with the riding crop’s tip.

Edith noticed Bertina’s mood. She set Nucci on the rug and gave him a transparent plastic sphere filled with metallic flakes that sparkled like fire.

Edith stood. To speak rather bluntly, is Papa Loyal being a bore today?

He makes my sisters’ lives impossible, Bertina said. She held the crop still with both hands. They are prisoners. That we are in America, not Italy, means nothing to him.

Nucci rolled the plastic sphere across the red-and-gold carpet. He sat back. His curly blond locks flipped over large ears. He clapped, glanced at Edith, and rolled the ball back and forth, guiding it with his fleshy palms.

"Fai buono, caro mio, Edith told the boy and turned to Bertina. Your family’s act is one of my show’s center ring attractions. Your father is obliged to keep it whole to make money, to preserve a tradition he has dedicated his life to create."

Madam Ringling, since childhood we have rehearsed circus routines to become that tradition. Bertina slapped her palm with the riding crop. I was allowed to marry because Papa wanted to benefit from my husband’s notoriety. Perhaps being the eldest made me disposable.

Edith shook her head. What have your brothers to say?

They do what men do, Edith. Whatever they wish, they—

Edith shooed her silent. You and me, I dare say all women, live in a man’s world with rules only they devise or break at will.

Nucci cupped his mouth, giggled, and tossed the ball up to Edith, who caught it and sat in her chair. She held the sphere against her nose as if to hide her face. She leaned to the boy.

Captivated, the boy edged close to her as though a moth to a flame.

Boo! Edith barked, flipping the ball to the startled boy, who caught it and squealed with delight. Bertina, I believe we cherish children not only because we bear them, but because it is the only time we make rules males must obey.

Nucci threw the ball up, easily caught it, and held it high as if it were a trophy.

Bertina, Edith said, Nucci carries your husband Alfredo’s abilities.

Not all of them, let us hope.

Edith stood. Quite.

Papa is looking to Nucci to fulfill his late brother’s legacy on the flying trapeze.

Then, no doubt, Nucci’s future as an aerialist will be a triumph.

Papa, I fear, sees my son accomplishing the triple somersault as the triumph.

I see. Edith sighed. "My prayers are with you and my bambino."

A half-hour later, Edith watched musicians carry their instruments through the big top’s performer’s entry, an opening made by parting the tent’s canvas sidewall.

Nearby, a dwarf in clown makeup stood clutching a battered cavalry bugle. He checked his wristwatch and snapped into a semblance of attention despite his bowed legs. He made a show of raising his bugle and played the brief show starts in fifteen fanfare.

The tune ended on a sustained note, which perilously wavered between sharp and flat. Mercifully, the brief blast ended.

The dwarf acknowledged Edith’s stern look and sought refuge among a bustling parade of performers threading their way between stablemen leading elephants, llamas, and giraffes.

A sudden horse whinny startled Nucci, but he laughed and pointed to the chestnut horse, a brawny Percheron. "Cavallo!" Nucci shouted.

Nucci, Edith said, "did you know Papa Loyal purchased that cavallo just last week?"

The magnificent horse shook his large neck and head while Brad, his insistent groom, tugged the animal’s thick leather reins.

Brad, Edith shouted, continue to walk him. He must acclimate to the sounds of the backlot before he is able to manage a performance.

Sure will, Misses Ringling, but he’s full of spit and vinegar for some dang reason.

Inside the big top and atop a raised platform, the circus band conductor, Merle Evans, scanned a collection of twenty-six middle-aged, sweating musicians on wobbly folding chairs.

The band’s musicians wore military visor hats, short ties, and uniforms trimmed with gold-colored loops and epaulets. Those men seated in the second row were lucky. They wore Bermuda shorts.

Merle raised his baton. He hesitated. He snapped it up and sideways. Instantly the musicians answered with a brassy rendition of Entry of the Gladiators.

Excited women and children climbed the huge oval of steep bleachers. Concessionaires twirled toy redbirds and carried trays of popcorn, soda cans, and pink cotton candy cones while searching for hungry youngsters.

Outside the big top, Edith stroked Nucci’s blonde curls. She settled in her chair and thoughtfully watched him lift toy cars from a box and methodically set each in parallel rows on the carpet. My bambino is orderly, she happily told herself.

The Ringmaster’s muffled words floated from the big top over the backlot. Ladies and gentlemen, children of all ages, welcome to the 1944 edition of Ringling Brothers and Barnum and Bailey Circus, the Greatest Show on Earth!

Inside the big top, thousands of children recoiled in fear as safari-costumed lion tamers snapped whips and jabbed chairs at roaring lions and tigers.

Tamers steered leopards aboard shelves welded to steel arches inside each of the three steel cages.

Saturday mornings, even air-cooled movie theaters cannot compete with entertainment that is always in color and smells of fresh sawdust. The circus is real.

Children scrunched their noises at the feral odor of jungle cats. They pointed to lion tamers who never turned their backs to the calculating stealth of man-eaters armed with curved claws and wide jaws lined with sharp, sallow teeth.

Above the cat cages, seven white-costumed performers, the wire-walking Wallenda family, climbed rope ladders hung from pedestals atop two steel poles, each supporting a bridge created by a single steel cable stretched between them, forty feet above the center ring’s lion cage.

The lion tamers whirled and cracked whips, forcing the cats reared up on their haunches. Their front claws extended four and a half inches while their front legs flailed in instinctive, though futile, attempts to lacerate the air.

Merle Evans pointed to a musician who slapped cymbals with a clash that stung the air.

The Ringmaster introduced the wire walkers with a mix of hyperbole and alliteration.

Seven dauntless daredevils! Fearless. Flawless. Four stories above the hippodrome with no net below! His announcement ended with, Who walk where even angels fear to tread!

From the bleachers, multiple rows of gaping faces, raised eyebrows, and wide eyes flashed to the big top’s upper reaches to fix on the Wallendas.

The band’s tense music amplified a contagious, nail-biting suspense. Would one of them slip and fall to their death?

Outside the tent, Darrel struck and held a match so his cigarette’s tobacco caught fire. Through the swirl of smoke, he glimpsed Bertina on her way to the menagerie. He stared while the match continued to burn. Ouch! he yelped and dropped the burning match. Shit fire!

Bertina entered the menagerie to find her father, Papa Loyal, reshoeing the chestnut Percheron and cursing Brad, the horse groom.

"Imbècile!" Papa Loyal shouted in French and threw his beret to the ground. He glared at the now quaking Brad.

Brad spotted Bertina. Miss Bertina, ma’am, please, you tell your daddy I didn’t shoe that horse wrong, somebody else done it.

Papa Loyal pointed to Brad. "Ètron! then held a nail to the horseshoe on the horse’s hoof and swung the hammer. Sacré bleu! he screamed and dropped the hammer. He fell to his knees, clutching his flattened, bleeding thumb. Putain de merde!"

The horse casually looked back at the suffering man, then looked away.

Brad sidled over to the horse’s ear. Ain’t yer fault. You’re an innocent bystandin’ horse is all.

The horse’s ears flicked, and he snorted.

"Papa, vado per il dottore, Bertina said. Then to Brad, Where is the doctor?"

Doc Henderson’s inside the big top like always when the cat acts is on.

Bertina entered the big top as the Wallendas assembled a seven-man pyramid, their signature groundbreaking innovation.

The pyramid was a human stack spanning twenty-five feet of the taut steel cable. It towered seventeen feet above the cable to become a formidable human skyscraper.

Forty feet beneath the Wallendas, bored roustabouts waited to disassemble the three rings of cat cages. Each cage had a ground-level steel mesh chute, a tunnel to rolling cages outside the big top.

The shoulder-high tunnels blocked traffic on the hippodrome track, separating the spectator bleachers and cat cages.

Outside, Josh, Darrel, and two other sledgehammer-wielding roustabouts circled a wood stake and pounded it deeper into the parched dirt using alternating blows.

The big top’s rope tied to that stake tightened, and each blow caused a sliver of the tent’s canvas roof to bounce.

Done! Josh shouted.

The men rubbed sweat from their faces and stood their hammers upright on the dirt, handles pointed to the cloudless blue sky.

A stout black roustabout wiped his face. He peeked at the sun through squinting eyes. It burning hot out here, sho’ is.

Sho’ is? Darrel mocked the black man and relit his cigarette butt.

The black man moved toward Darrel, his blue eyes meeting Darrel’s gray. We ain’t in ’Bama, white boy. We in da circus ’n’ we got tricks. Like me pickin’ you up by yo feet and shakin’ all da guts from yo belly. Sho’ wanna see?

Darrel flicked the cigarette over his shoulder, grinned, and said, No, um . . . sir.

An overturned bucket a few yards behind Darrel sat on a patch of brown weeds, which his discarded cigarette landed on. Its ash tip brightened to bold red. The burning cigarette’s heat curled the weeds. An eyeblink later, the weeds ignited. Neighboring shriveled weed patches caught fire. Soon, small flames licked the fuel embedded in the fifteen-foot-high canvas sidewall.

In 1944, waterproofed canvas was a blend of paraffin and kerosene.

Inside the big top, Patrick sat at the top row of bleachers. The freckled-faced boy of twelve watched animal handlers jab the jungle cats inside the ground-level tunnels with poles, driving the snarling cats forward.

Patrick nudged his mother. Ma, lookit ’em tigers down there. I only seen movie tigers in those Clyde Beatty serials on Saturday mornings!

"Seen? Patrick, you saw tigers, she said while fanning her neck with a frayed Hartford County Fair paper fan. Gracious, what are they teaching you in school?"

Duck and cover. But these tigers are real!

Ma pursed her lips. They smell.

Twenty yards away, a commotion behind the bleachers caught Patrick’s attention. He grabbed his mother’s arm. Ma, there’s smoke. See? Back over there, I seen it!

Forty feet above the ground, Karl Wallenda also saw the black smoke. "Acht geben, feuer! Karl shouted to his family of wire walkers. Mach schon!"

Below, the startled Ringmaster watched the Wallendas dismantle their pyramid. A concessionaire approached him, whispered, and then pointed to the smoke. The Ringmaster hurried to the center ring, passing roustabouts pulling carts stacked with sections of the cat cages. He held the microphone to his lips. Ladies and gentlemen, your undivided attention, please! Ladies—

His mic went silent.

What is this? Merle Evans thought from his elevated band platform. Who cut his sound?

Patrick and his mother watched frantic roustabouts toss pails of water at the smoldering canvas sidewall. This ain’t a movie, let’s get outta here! Patrick stood and took his mother’s hand.

Finally, Merle Evens saw the smoke, spun to face his musicians, and brandished his baton. Give me a fast fifteen measures of ‘Stars and Stripes’ then get the hell outside!

The astonished musicians played the arcane song while scanning the tent for any dreaded mishap Stars automatically conveyed to circus personnel.

Concessionaires and ticket-takers implored women and children to leave their