Thus, I bring you back to where I left off with the beginning of this narrative. I waited in the stands, my chin resting upon my hand, glancing restlessly at my pocket watch. I felt lured into some great scam. It is true I had not spent a dime, but it was surely a swindle to steal away my time and leave me with only a faint impression of unimpressive acts.

     Despite my cynical thoughts and clear discomfort, I could not help but perk up with the sound of the drums. They rattled on dramatically, clueing us in on the start of the show. The whole audience fell silent, the rumbling beat drowning out all other noise. The tent became exceptionally dark, and my vision narrowed until my attention was purely focused on the center ring. A spotlight flickered to life, concentrating itself on a lone figure high in the air.

     He stood proudly on a tall platform. A few hushed whispers and pointing fingers, then another stillness fell upon the audience. Everyone concentrated their attention on the beaming tightrope walker perched on his pedestal. I noted what I could of the man’s appearance (surprisingly clear, despite the distance). I felt a familiarity in that face and pondered whether he might have been a member of the circus I had attended as a boy.

     The performer gave a final wave, as if in goodbye, and turned to the daunting task before him: a long, thin wire leading to another platform on the other side of the ring. As he took his first tentative steps, the crowd held its breath. He went slow and unsure, and at one point began to stumble. He wheeled his arms about, leaning to and fro. The circusgoers surrounding me gasped in fear, expecting him to fall. Rather shamefully, I yawned in boredom. Not only was I wasting my time at their circus, but they were incapable of putting on a decent performance.

     As this thought flew through my mind, the man on the rope suddenly straightened up. He stopped fumbling around and turned to the audience with an amused smile. The crowd erupted with nervous laughter as they realized his ruse. His blundering around was all part of the act. A bluff. He proceeded to perform several stunning flips through the air, flying across the remainder of the line with the agility and elegance of a cat. Applause burst out from all around. Even I clapped my hands, encouraging his amazing feat.

     The tightrope walker travelled across the line several more times, each stretch faced with a larger, more dangerous twist. This first act seemed to foreshadow all those to come. He danced across the rope as flames erupted beneath him. He parried with swords along the line, twirling to avoid their sharp blades as they were thrown up by hooded figures below. At the climax of his act, he stood in the middle of the wire.

     The drums started up once more, coupled with fiddles and the wind outside to set an edge-of-your-seat air. A daring move was about to be made. A lion was let loose in the ring, the other troupe members returning to the shadows behind the scenes. It growled at the audience and up to the man, precariously positioned above it. The tension was left to build. As the audience moved their eyes from the lion’s hungry face, they found the performer’s to be surprisingly free of fear. We were all transfixed by the show now. I looked at the performer as if readying myself for when I saw him again, in the obituary section of the news.

     What happened next surprised me more than a faulty misstep into the beast’s jaws would have. We were so focused on the performer as he began his feat, we could see his muscles tense. His knees bent, and he performed one last spectacular leap: straight off the wire and into the lion’s path. As yellow fangs and slashing claws greeted the air where he would have fallen, the tightrope-walker suddenly switched roles. Before the tightrope, a trapeze wire for a later act had been positioned. As he dived from the rope, he managed to grip the flimsy bar and swing up over the snarling beast in the nick of time, brushing fingers through his mane as he passed. When he landed on a further platform and raised his arms in triumph, the audience sent up an uproar of applause. A roar even superior to that of the hungry lion, which the beast gave as an unseen animal tamer led him out of the ring.

     After the audience had grown in enthusiasm, but allowed their cheers to die down, the spotlight fixed on its next patron. A figure with a strong silhouette had slowly come into view, strolling mysteriously into the ring. He had his head down, and even as he drew near, the top hat upon his brow shaded his face as to make it imperceptible. He stopped in the center, and we all left the tightrope walker, still standing upon his platform, to readjust our eyes to the brilliant beam and its host. As the gentleman stole our attention, he lifted his head, throwing light upon his face, and recognition into the eyes of the audience. A single gasp like a ruffle of the tent’s tarp echoed from the stands.

     We all sat, faces suddenly struck white and the shock pinning our mouths agape. The ringmaster now stood in the ring, loud and confident. He wore a coat with coattails (the inside of which was a garish red), a top hat with a matching red band, and pristine white gloves. The remainder of the ringmaster’s attire consisted of a fancy purple vest embroidered with an elaborate design and a gaudy cravat. But it was not his flashy fashion that had caught us circusgoers' eyes, but his familiar face.

     Despite the new arrival sporting a thin, curly-edged mustache, it was most certainly the same visage worn by the fellow above him. I remember squinting my eyes, believing the lighting to play tricks on my vision. Perhaps they were twins, or doppelgangers who chanced upon one another, or at least those were the whispered theories of the audience around me. However, all attempts at explaining this odd illusion were dashed by the ringmaster’s introduction. While my memory may not hold his speech word for word, I have since found documentation of his script. I have filled in the places where stain and age had withered away the predesigned words through paraphrasing what I had heard for myself, keeping it quite accurate to its true script:

     “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen! Please, relax once more in your seats, and do not fret! You may stop scolding your weary eyes. I can assure you; you are not seeing double. However, you may remain puzzled when I explain that still a single man stands before you. Yes, for there is only one man in this ring, and only one man manning this show tonight, for I warmly welcome you to the one and only One-Man Circus!”

     The circus patrons clapped, even though the speech only served to confuse them further. I folded my arms and leaned back in my seat, unconvinced. As the confused, but courteous, clapping died down, the showrunner continued to elaborate.

     “The show you are about to witness is performed by a single man…” As if to contravene this previous statement, the entire circus troupe came out and lined up behind the ringmaster. Nevertheless, the audience found truth in his words, for every member appeared to be the same person. They all shared the same gray eyes, the same dark brown hair, and the same olive skin. Most of them were also of the same size and stature. Some had notable differences that defined them, like the muscle man with his exceptional bulk, but they were all remarkably alike in appearance, closer than any family genetics I’d ever seen. They were also all men, except for the bearded woman, and even that I could not be sure of.

     Their similar semblance would not have been enough to convince anyone of the claim the show’s namesake made, but as the show progressed, there was not a single person left unshaken by the singular shtick. The circus troupe gathered in the ring, the scene resembling that of an image mirrored repeatedly with the ringmaster as the reflection’s host. Once they were settled and in perfect view of the stands, they all took a bow. They moved in perfect unison with one another, down to the tiniest characteristics, such as a slight curl of the fingers as they bent to the audience, and a twitch of a smile flickering across all their faces at once, as if they were all puppets being pulled by the same strings. The speech was suddenly, and quite stunningly, continued, but with it our ears became as unbalanced as our eyes. The ringmaster’s voice rang out once more.

     “As you can see, this performer and I are one and--”

     “The same. In fact, I am the performer.”

     The ringmaster had been cut off as another stepped forward and finished his thought. Despite the crowd moving their eyes from one mouth to the next, it was surely the same voice that rang out from the other’s throat. The same charismatic elocution with its soft, yet commanding tone. However, the frame from which the words echoed belonged to that of the tightrope walker. The speech was taken up once more, and my eyes fled around the ring, fruitlessly trying to find the source.

     While it seemed to me it must be the tightrope walker, or possibly the ringmaster, still narrating without interruption, the only mouth I could see moving below me was that of the contortionist. Despite his body being grotesquely distorted, the words rang out clear, and with the same pitch.

     “Now that you mention it, I am also the contortionist,”

     “And the animal tamer,”

     “And the harlequin.”

     Each time one mouth closed, another opened to continue the script, tricking us into believing it was he who was speaking who had been speaking all along. As the next line was delivered, everyone in the stands gave a shiver.

     “Indeed, I am everyone!” the sound of multiple voices sang out, yet so similar they were, that it seemed one voice echoed from within the troupe members. A wave of shock swept over the crowd and rattled the tent with the wind outside. I blinked rapidly and sat back in my chair, realizing I had been gawking wide-eyed and open-mouthed while the elaborate trick lured me into its trap. Baited with intrigue, I found even with a head full of suspicion I had been captured by the show. The ringmaster took his place once more as the head, stepping forward and raising himself up.

     “Thus, the One-Man Circus earns its name. ‘Tis no trick! Simply me, sharing my many talents with you all.” The man, or men, continued, bringing the crowd to laughter and tears with his charm. Meanwhile, throughout the rest of the show’s opening, I was lost not in amusement, but in thought. By the end, I had convinced myself it could not possibly be a single man pulling off this great feat. He could not be multiplied, surrounded by his troupe, yet in truth standing all alone. He could not be the tightrope walker, and the bodybuilder, and the contortionist all in one, not when each was gifted with their own talents.

     Clones were just a thing out of one of those fictional pulp magazines, no more plausible than walking on the moon. Below me stood men, made up to look alike. Or was it an elaborate trick, possibly using mirrors, vocal recording, and the lights to deceive our eyes and ears? Yes, that seemed reasonable enough. Even now, with the truth of the matter revealed to me, these early explanations seem much more contenting. My mind still turns (despite the surety of my eyes) over the credibility of all I have witnessed. 

     Though I had shrugged off the circus gimmick as simply that: a gimmick, the individual acts and overall show was still spectacular. The performers performed as if it was all they knew... as if they were born for the roles they played. When the final act was up, I admit that I was impressed. Not even the wind of that day could have done a better job of blowing me away. Yet when I stepped out into its cool breeze, leaving the big top behind me, I found I was in for another shock.