Nevertheless, when he arrived at winter quarters he was nervous about meeting, for the first time, the man he had impersonated so fanatically for three years. But on that first day, Gebel-Williams showed up at the tiger cage wearing faded jeans and cowboy boots and behaved more like a roustabout than a living legend.
He ran around outside the cage, pushing a stick through the mesh to break up fights between Burck's tigers. He didn't talk much. He was just there. Burck was too awed to say anything. Finally, after several days, Gebel-Williams asked if there was anything more he could do to make Burck feel at home. Thanks, no, Burck said politely. He felt just fine.
Gebel-Williams had never been offended by Burck's three years of dyed blond hair and desperate attempts to be a Gunther clone. "Since I came to Ringling Brothers 18 years ago," Gebel-Williams says with a sly smile, "you'd be surprised how many animal trainers all over the world suddenly grew blond hair."
Burck's problem was not Gebel-Williams. It was Charly Baumann, 58, the Blue Unit's performance director. Like Gebel-Williams, Baumann had been imported from Germany. He had starred as a Ringling tiger trainer for 20 seasons, finally stepping down because he began to feel strange sensations in the back of his neck whenever there were tigers behind him. He wanted to retire before his tigers retired him.
But when he finally left the cage, Baumann missed his tigers terribly. He was overweight. He had been smoking two packs a day for almost 30 years. His heart and throat were at risk. His anger was as huge as his massive chest. He sometimes thought that everyone in the Blue Unit hated him—including Wade Burck, the guy Feld had hired to replace Baumann in the cage. Burck decided to win Baumann over. He took to calling him "ya big palooka." When he knew Baumann was watching during tiger practice, Burck would whip out Baumann's autobiography and pretend to be consulting it—he would look at his tigers as if confused, look in the book, then smile and nod as if he had found the answer.
Baumann took to chasing Burck around, brandishing a tiger whip, burlesquing his own anger. A curious friendship has developed between the two men.
"He's like ol' Tony," Burck says, referring to his 15-year-old patriarch tiger to whom all other white tigers in the trace their bloodlines. "Tony used to be a warrior. Fought continuously. Chewed up nine people. But them days are gone now. Now I'm dealing with an old man. A very scared old man who knows he's not in his prime anymore. He's blind in his left eye. His nose is just a mass of scar tissue. He's been replaced. He's going through a hard time now. Like Baumann."
One night, after the show, Baumann sits in his office and complains about Burck. Burck's tigers do not roll over in unison. Burck's tigers do not waltz with panache. Some people, Baumann says, look better pushing a wheelbarrow than holding a whip in their hands. He is not going to mention any names, but Gunther never did that, he says. He himself never did that. Where, he asks, is the Germanic elegance of yesteryear?
There is a knock at the door. "Goddammit!" Baumann bellows. "What?" No one enters. Baumann walks out to see what's going on. Burck is kneeling in front of a footlocker, eyes tightly closed and hands clasped together in prayer, head tilted up toward a tiger whip taped to the wall next to a handmade sign that reads SHRINE OF ST. CHARLES. The whip is one of Baumann's old ones. There are four green votary candles burning on the footlocker. Burck rocks back and forth, praying in reverent tones. "My tigers have all run away," he keens. "What shall I do? Should I use my big whip? Should I use my little whip? Should I use my hanky? Give me a sign." Baumann rips the whip off the wall. Burck springs to his feet and runs. Baumann chases him through a gaggle of scattering clowns and show girls, traps him against a pile of footlockers, drops the whip, lurches forward and slaps Burck's bare chest so hard that Burck falls over backward.
Burck shakes off the pain and beckons to Baumann as if he has a secret to share. Baumann is curious. He leans forward so Burck can whisper in his ear. Burck lets his wrists go limp and plants a big, wet kiss on Baumann's right cheek. Baumann recoils in horror. "Goddammit!" he roars. "This is why his cats won't listen to him. They look at each other and say, 'Who is this wimp?' "
Baumann reaches out and pinches Burck's nipples, hard. Burck cries out in pain. "See?" Baumann booms. "He likes that." Burck's relationship with Gebel-Williams is less physical but equally vaudevillian. Last winter they got together in Florida for a photo session. Burck introduced Gebel-Williams to the photographer as the bus driver from the Red Unit. Then he knelt and kissed Gebel-Williams's ring. The living legend responded by blessing Burck with his whip, touching him lightly on the head.
When the photo session was over, Burck took Gebel-Williams over to his truck. "Something here I want you to see," he said. Then he showed Gebel-Williams the rear bumper, which is dominated by a sticker that reads: GUNTHER IS COMING! "That's the last thing people see," Burck said, "when I leave town." Burck has come a long way from his blond days. He has exorcised his demons. He has used his country boy humor and his big-cat psychology to establish whippersnapper but workable relationships with the somewhat aloof Gebel-Williams and the rampaging Baumann.
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