The Theater: No Giasticutos, No Hyfandodge

Exhaling cigaret smoke through his nose, a slight man, tough as raffia, brown as leather, leaned over a collapsible campstool tugging at the laces of his chamois slippers. Into the concrete cave of his dressing-room crept the sound of remote applause. A distant rain of handclapping drifted in, and many smells—a realistic mixture of axle-graphite, new timber, horse sweat, ropes, giraffe dung. His laces pulled and fastened, the wiry little man stood up and flexed his fingers, appraised their steely strength. A buzzer sounded from behind a dented locker, a girl's voice called...

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