Threadbare- The Traveling Show

by Alexandra DeMers

  The woman shook her head, jewelry chiming. “This is most unsafe.” She jabbed emphatically at the door with her pipe. “Sangria tried to make it alone, but she came to us in awful shape. Goodness knows the horrors she endured on the road. It was very fortunate that we found her.”

  “And we were very fortunate that she could play the violin and tie herself into a knot,” René put in kindly. “She’s an excellent performer, and she pulls in the most money.”

  “Indeed,” Marmi took a long draw from her slender pipe. “If you’re determined to get to Nieuwestad, you had better find a way to get there quickly, child.” She jerked her chin down once with finality.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Amandine agreed. “That is why I’m working now— to pay my way.”

  “It’s a shame she can’t work her trade on the road,” René spoke up suddenly. “She tells me that she’s an expert dressmaker from a family of tailors. Just look at how well-maintained her old clothes are. They are probably older than she is.”

  He looked straight into her eyes for the briefest moment; Amandine blushed. Nobody had ever looked at her that way before, and she didn’t know what it meant.

  “Your skills are wasted on delivery errands,” he said, smiling.

  Marmi let a puff of smoke escape her nose. “A tailor, you say.” She stared into the cloud and raised a ringed eyebrow as if it had told her something interesting. “A costumer, perhaps.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I learned to sew from my father before the war.”

  There was a pause while Marmi repacked her pipe with new tobacco and lit it again. This time, her golden stare bore into René.

  René tried a bolder approach. “Perhaps she could come with us. As you said, it is very dangerous for a young lady to travel alone.”

  “René hasn't yet told you about what we do here,” Marmi said, changing the subject.

  “No, ma’am.” Amandine noticed that Marmi had a peculiar way of never asking any questions. “And Mister Coronado got angry when I said you were a circus.”

  Marmi let out a low, throaty laugh. “Perhaps we were once, many years ago. We used to have so many performers, and we traveled all over the world. These days, I’m afraid we have been reduced to little more than a mud show.” She absently picked at the fringe on her purple sash.

  “I am sorry, madame. This may not be the best time to bring this up, but...” René pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket and showed it to Marmi. “I found this still tacked to a post in town. Johnstone was here two weeks ago.”

  Marmi glanced at the sign once and made a noise of disgust. “So that louse is headed to Nieuwestad, too.”

  She thrust the paper at Amandine. It was a full-color poster for a different traveling show. A jolly showmaster had his arms spread wide over a line of posing showgirls while a row of monsters at the bottom of the page reached up from the shadows.

  “He’s our competition,” René explained.

  “Oh, I would hardly call him competition.” Marmi gnawed on her pipe. “He’s a crook. His shows are nothing but lights and half-naked girls.”

  “Naked girls?” Amandine gasped. “Why would anybody take an obscene act to the capital city?”

  “For the festival?” René tilted his head. “You know, the Freedom Festival? It’s been all over the papers and the radio.”

  Amandine had never heard of it, but she nodded anyway. She believed that DJMA would rather chew tacks than promote anything like the Freedom Festival on his station.

  Marmi went on. “The Freedom Festival in Nieuwestad is an official celebration of the end of the war overseas. They are calling for performers of all sorts, and I have secured us the stage in the city center on the second day. We need fresh ideas for a bigger, better presentation. Although I ultimately make the decisions about what gets put into the show, Coronado is in charge. He has been working most diligently with René to improve the colored lights and invent some new fire-tricks.”

  René beamed.

  “We certainly need a seamstress, but I can’t afford to take on just anyone,” she concluded. “You will have to prove your skill.”

  “I can draw, cut, and sew a dress in a single day,” Amandine exclaimed, overjoyed by the thought of working and traveling with company. “I promise, you won’t be disappointed!”

  “I will decide,” Marmi said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Come back later tonight, child.”

  They left the tent, and René grinned from ear to ear. “Pardon me for putting you out like that,” he said. “But I am so glad you accepted. We haven’t had a proper costumer in years.”

  Sangria appeared from the other side of the tent where she had been eavesdropping and pointed an accusing finger at René. “I see exactly what you're up to! Marmi is off her cob for letting you have your way.” She turned her finger on Amandine. “And you! You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into.”

  Amandine shook her head. “You’re right. I don’t. It will be a new experience, that's for certain.”

  Sangria glowered. “Anybody ever tell you that that optimism makes you sound like a dummy?”

  “I love her optimism,” René said, giving the contortionist a condescending pat on the head. She swatted his hand away. “Between Marmi’s worries and Antonio’s... creative blockage, I think it’s just the attitude we need to get this show rolling.”

  “And where do you expect to keep her?” Sangria sniffed, scrutinizing the newcomer. “I doubt she comes with her own trailer.”

  René shrugged. “Chérie, you know that is Marmi’s decision. She will choose a trailer that still has space.”

  Sangria’s face fell in horror. “No! I won't stand for it! She’s not staying with me!”

  René smirked and returned to their guest. “I am sure your employer is expecting you. You had better hurry back, but please join us for dinner.” He checked his pockets. “Did I already split the tips?”

  “Yes, thank you,” Amandine nodded.

  He handed her another coin. “This is from me personally. Thank you for—” He stopped as if he had forgotten why Amandine was there.

  “For the groceries?” she guessed.

  René took off his hat and absently preened the red feather tucked into the band. “I was going to say, ‘for your company.’”

  “Yes, I’m sure her conversations were riveting,” Sangria grumbled. “Now get lost, Raggedy Ann.”

  Amandine thanked René again and made her way back to town with a feeling of exhilaration swelling in her chest. She wanted to cheer but knew that wouldn’t be proper since Sangria and René were still within earshot. Instead, she looked across the camp again with a new perspective; this was going to be her new, temporary home. Just as René has said, more people appeared the closer it got to dinnertime. There was another pair of tall and muscular men with beautiful midnight skin, speaking French and rearranging heavy stage equipment into a storage truck. A woman covered from neck to ankles in tattoos sat alone by the fire, smoking a cigarette and reading the newspaper.

  Nobody paid attention to Amandine as she left the camp, counting her tip. She had earned nearly a dollar, which was a generous amount for such a little job. She added a bounce to her step, thinking of how her fortune was already taking a turn for the better.

   When Amandine returned to the bakery, the sign had been turned to “CLOSED,” but the door had been left unlocked, so she let herself in without setting off the bell. She was about to call out when she heard Mrs. White’s voice coming from the kitchen.

  “—no idea if she’s touched or just naive. Everybody knows that rebel collaborators are considered traitors of the worst kind, and to be suspected of treason is just as bad as being guilty in the eyes of an inquestor.”

  “If Caroline Stewart really went into the Prison of War Criminals, then the only way she’s coming out again is for public execution,” said a man’s voice. Amandine assumed that it was Mr. White, returned from his errands.

  Amandine peered
into the kitchen and saw the Whites leaning over the kneading table. Mrs. White looked sad. “But the poor thing has no place to go.”

  “That’s what replacement homes are for,” he said gruffly, shutting down her request before she even asked it. “The girl would be safer there than on the road where she might cross paths with dangerous vagrants who might try to take advantage of her. There’s no telling what a crooked cop or a bored inquestor might do, either. You ought to give her their address and—”

  “I’m back,” Amandine said, jangling the doorbell.

  “There you are,” Mrs. White exclaimed. She nudged her husband’s arm and said, “This is the Stewart girl I hired to help with the big order.”

  Mr. White had his ledger open in front of him, and he acknowledged the girl with a single nod.

  “I was afraid Casanova had whisked you away,” Mrs. White said with a wink.

  Amandine tugged on her necklace, embarrassed that her infatuation was so obvious. “In a way he did, ma’am.”

  “How do you mean?” she asked with sudden suspicion.

  “I think I will join his family on their way to Nieuwestad. His... er, Marmi said it was dangerous for a girl to be traveling alone.”

  “Well, she’s right about that,” Mrs. White agreed. She gave Amandine a rag in a small, soapy bucket, and the girl pretended not to see the wide-eyed looks that the bakers shot each other while she cleaned the kitchen. “So, this young man’s mother will look after you?”

  “Yes, ma’am. She said I could earn my keep if I make them some new clothes. The war didn’t leave them with much.”

  When Amandine finished cleaning the kitchen, Mr. White passed her two silver coins. “That’s five hours’ work at forty cents an hour,” he said curtly. “Your pay for today is two dollars.”

  “Thank you, sir.” She put away the last few baking sheets and added the money to her earnings from René. “Mrs. White, may I ask a favor?”

  “Yes, sugar?”

  “Could I trouble you for a cheese sandwich before I go?”

  Mr. White looked after his wife imploringly. “Me too?”

  “I don’t know what it is about these sandwiches.” She sighed and pulled several pieces of sliced bread from a cellophane bag. “You’ll both spoil your dinner.”

  “This might be my last chance to enjoy my favorite snack,” Amandine said brightly. “I’m sure they have cheese sandwiches up in Nieuwestad, but it won’t be a White’s cheese sandwich.”

  The baker’s prickly temperament melted away at this and he smiled at the girl. “Did you know that Grandma White made these for us kids everyday after school?”

  “You don’t say,” Amandine chirped. “I used to get them everyday after school, too!”

  “I know my cousin sold these cheap to get rid of old bread.” Mr. White watched his wife apply the condiments with a frown. “More mayonnaise, please. Perhaps we ought to start selling them here, too. Get an afterschool crowd of our own.”

  “These won’t pull in an afterschool crowd,” Mrs. White exclaimed. “It’s just bread and cheese!”

  “Bah. You just haven’t learned to appreciate the delicious simplicity.” Mr. White fondly pecked his wife on the temple. “Ask the girl. She’ll tell you.”

  Amandine nodded in agreement. While she waited, a thought crossed her mind. “I was curious about something, ma’am. Have you seen any traveling shows in town recently?”

  “Why, yes.” She brandished her butterknife at her husband when he reached over her shoulder to recenter the cheese. “There was a show last night, but we missed it. We did see a rather interesting dance performance here almost two weeks ago, didn’t we?”

  “That’s right,” Mr. White nodded, locking their money in the safe beneath the counter. He struggled with it for a moment, and that was when Amandine finally noticed that Mr. White only had one arm.

  “It was very new and different,” she continued. “The music had a real rhythm that made you want to dance.”

  “Like jazz?” Amandine knew that Mrs. White was talking about Marmi’s rival.

  “No.” She shot a stern look at the girl. “Nobody plays jazz. It’s illegal.”

  Amandine smiled apologetically. “Something else, then?”

  “Yes, it had a very heavy beat, like bump-bump-cha-bump. I didn’t even realize that I was dancing until I accidentally knocked the popcorn out of Nathaniel’s’s hand. The performances were not very good. Nobody seemed very enthusiastic, but the music was exciting. If this music were on the radio, I wouldn’t get any work done. I would dance all day.”

  She handed out the cheese sandwiches. Mr. White finished his in four quick bites and smiled in gratitude as he wiped his hand on his apron.

  “Thank you for the sandwich. And thank you for letting me work here today.” Amandine put on her coat and picked up her suitcase.

  “Be safe, Miss Stewart,” the baker said. “And good luck.”

  She waved to the couple behind her, and the door chimed brightly again.

  Outside, the sun was setting and the air was beginning to cool. Amandine could smell fires burning, which rekindled memories of better times at home. That reminded her of the reason she came to Pearisville in the first place, so she scanned the streets for a mailbox until she spotted one on the corner near the grocer’s.

  She pressed the envelope to her heart and thought of Caroline. Amandine hoped her mother was comfortable in prison and that a letter would bring her a little cheer if she was feeling lonesome. With a kiss to the wrinkled paper, she dropped the letter in the mailbox and trotted back down the road out of town.

  It was twilight when she reached the camp partially hidden in the trees. She could see that a number of people were sitting around the fire, but outside of the circle near the road, a lone silhouetted figure played a resonator guitar.

  René set the instrument down as soon as he saw her trotting up the path. “There you are.” He took her suitcase for her. “You are just in time for dinner.”

  “You weren’t waiting for me, were you?” she teased. “Why aren’t you with the others?”

  “Nobody likes my guitar-playing,” he lied. He wiped his hair sheepishly and suddenly Amandine’s infatuation didn’t feel quite so embarrassing.

  They entered the camp again, only this time, everyone stared. All together, they were an odd group of bizarre and foreign appearance. Aside from the people she had met already, she saw a diverse cluster of women, a thin man, a little person that she momentarily mistook for a child, an extremely hairy fellow, and a man in a ruffled blouse. René invited the girl to sit in a chair near Coronado and went to get her some dinner.

  The illusionist was sitting alone at a folding table, thumbing through a notebook with a glass of wine in hand. He had changed out of his tuxedo into more comfortable clothes in somber colors, yet he still looked exceptionally sharp for someone who spent most of his time outdoors. He regarded Amandine with the same coldness.

  “So you’re here to stay, eh?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He lit a cigarette and asked through his teeth, “You do men’s clothing?”

  Amandine assumed that René had already spread the word about her purpose. “Yes, sir. That was my father’s specialty, but I know a thing or two myself.”

  René reappeared with a bowl of stew, a cup of water, and a chunk of bread. Coronado laughed when he handed it to her, but the sound was laden with disparagement.

  “Something funny?” René sat on the ground and plucked a jaunty melody on his guitar.

  “How are you supposed to eat without your bowl?”

  “I didn’t think she had her own yet.”

  Coronado shook his head, amused. “And I suppose if she didn’t bring her own tent, you’d share yours as well?”

  “Nonsense.” He kicked dirt in the illusionist’s direction. “That’s Sangria’s job.”

  Meanwhile, the contortionist sat across the fire, staring at Amandine with a combination of disgust a
nd fear.

  Marmi was seated furthest from the food, slightly elevated from the others by the gentle incline of the ground. Her ornaments clinked like raindrops on glass when she stood at her impressive height of six feet.

  “Everyone,” she called out. “I would like you to meet our new seamstress. She will stay on with us from now until we reach Nieuwestad.” She extended a hand towards Amandine, who quickly swallowed what she was eating and waved politely. “Tell everyone your name, child.”

  “My name is Amandine Stewart, and I’ll be making your costumes.” She heard Coronado grumble something about “nothing but tattered rags to wear,” so she added, “And regular clothes! I can make those, too.”

  Marmi nodded to René. “You have already met our stagehand. He can build, repair, and assist with anything that you require. Since I am busy preparing for the festival, please go to him before you come to me. Also—” She pointed to Sangria, who shrank back in her chair. “That is Sangria. You will be sharing her trailer.”

  The contortionist gripped her bowl and moaned in protest.

  Marmi ignored her tantrum. “You can meet the others in your own time. Enjoy your supper, then get settled in right away. We leave early tomorrow.”

  Amandine nodded and tucked into her bowl. It was more food than she had eaten in years, and it tasted delicious. Tender meat, sweet carrots, onions, and buttery potatoes filled her with a warm feeling of comfort that only a hearty meal could provide. She returned her empty bowl to René while she chewed her bread.

  He refilled his bowl for himself and plopped back onto the ground again. “Tell me,” he said, using the back of his guitar as a table. “What do you need to start working on costumes?”

  Coronado tapped on a blank page in his notebook with his pencil. “What makes you think I’d entrust such an important part of the new show to this girl? How do we know if she’s any good when we haven’t seen a stitch of proof?”

  “Well,” Amandine disregarded the grumpy illusionist. “I can sew fast enough by hand, but it would be much quicker if I had a machine.”