Learning the Ropes

by Monique Polak

  Someone tugs on my hand. I can’t help grinning when I see it’s Leo. He gestures for me to follow him.

  “I won’t be long,” I whisper to Hana.

  “Let’s go have some fun,” Leo says.

  So Hana was right. Leo does like me. So what if he invited Genevieve to go skating? Leo grabs my hand and whisks me down one of the cobblestone streets. It feels like we’re dancing.

  Leo and Guillaume have visited Montreal before, so Leo knows his way around the old city. He wants to take me to Place Jacques-Cartier. He says it’s just around the corner.

  When we get there, I understand why he’s brought me. The square is not only beautiful—lined with bars and cafés, customers sitting outside at round tables, colorful petunias in the flower boxes—but is also full of street performers. A man in a billowy yellow clown costume walks on stilts. Another man juggles pins, and two girls play fiddle. I think about Etienne Montpellier and how he started out as a street performer.

  Leo leads me to where the juggler is performing. This guy makes juggling four pins look easy. When he misses a catch and one pin clatters to the ground, Leo picks it up.

  Leo holds the pin to his chest as if it’s a baby. “Wah!” he cries out, the way a baby would. Then he jumps as if the sound has startled him.

  The crowd laughs.

  “Wah!” Leo cries again. He rocks the pin back and forth in his arms, and the crowd laughs even harder. The juggler laughs so hard he has to hold on to his belly. He doesn’t seem to mind that Leo is stealing the show.

  Leo tosses the pin into the air, and the juggler catches it.

  We are listening to the fiddlers’ performance when Leo’s cell phone rings. I can hear Guillaume’s voice on the other end. “Where are you? It’s almost six.”

  “You’re so lovely,” Leo says to me, “I lost track of the time.” Then he dances me back to the double-decker bus. I wonder if all the others can tell what fun the two of us have had.

  * * *

  Later, when we are back in the dorm and brushing our teeth in the girls’ bathroom, I think about how to break the news to Genevieve that Leo likes me. It will be hard for her because I know she likes him too. Still, I decide it’s better to be honest.

  “Genevieve…” I begin.

  But she has something to tell me first. “Oh, Mandy,” she says, grabbing my hand. “Guess what? Leo and I are going skating on Sunday! He didn’t use the word date, but I know that’s what he meant. I’m going to have to get up super early on Sunday to straighten my hair.”

  Nine

  Why would Leo dance in the street with me in the afternoon and ask Genevieve on a skating date? Can’t he make up his mind which one of us he likes better? I want to tell Hana how it’s bothering me, but I decide not to because her homesickness gets worse at bedtime.

  I don’t want to tell my mom either. She’ll say I’m too young to be worrying about boys. But I’m in the mood to hear her voice, and it’s been a few days since I phoned home. I grab my phone and go down the hallway to make the call. I’m afraid Hana will get even more homesick if she knows I’m speaking to my parents.

  My dad answers. “Your mom’s out. She’s gone for a swim. It’s awfully hot here.”

  “Here too.”

  I wait for him to ask how things are going at circus camp, but he doesn’t. “I’m working on a big report,” he says. “Why don’t you phone back this time tomorrow?”

  Those are my dad’s words. But I know he’s saying something else—he’s still upset that I haven’t given up my dream to make a life in the circus.

  “You being careful?” he asks just before I hang up.

  I hate how he is always worrying about me. It’s like a sickness he can’t control. “Can you try to quit worrying?” I ask.

  “I can try,” he says, “only I don’t think it’ll work.”

  * * *

  The next day in aerial class, I have trouble concentrating. “Point your toes!” Terence has to remind me more than once when I’m climbing the rope. “I want to see you paying more attention to your form, Mandy!”

  But when I work on keeping my toes pointed, I lose track of what my arms are doing. “Reach higher!” Terence tells me. “Keep those shoulders away from your ears! Lengthen your neck! I want to see you channel some giraffe!”

  Is it my imagination, or is he losing patience with me?

  Terence must know something is wrong because when we’re all sitting on the mats, he gives us a little lecture. “Circus is physical,” he says. “But it’s mental too. Circus performers need to be able to focus no matter what’s going on in the rest of their lives. Without focus, the moves get sloppy. And without focus, there’s a greater danger of injury. Sometimes even serious injury.” Because Terence makes a point of not looking at me when he says this, I know his advice is meant for me.

  So when it’s my turn again, I will myself not to think about how it felt to dance in the streets of Old Montreal with Leo, or to remember that he has asked Genevieve to go skating on Sunday. Instead, I focus on my body and the rope.

  This time, I use every muscle in my shoulders to hoist myself up, and my toes feel stiff from pointing them so hard. I know the friction from the rope is chafing the skin between my big toe and the one next to it, but I don’t feel the pain. All I want to do is concentrate on my form.

  “Better,” Terence says.

  I’m beginning to think the coaches at circus camp aren’t big on compliments.

  Terence is right. If I want to make it in circus, I’ll need to train my mind as hard as I train my body.

  Only just when I am thinking that, the side of the rope brushes against my cheek, and I’m suddenly remembering the feel of my dad kissing me goodnight when I was a little girl. You being careful? his voice asks in my head.

  “You’re losing your concentration again, Mandy!” Terence bellows from the mats. How can he tell?

  Unlike me, Genevieve does not seem to be having any trouble concentrating. When it’s her turn, Terence asks for only the tiniest adjustments. “Open your chest a little more. Give yourself to the audience.”

  At the end of climbing class, Terence gets us to do some forward bends on the mats. Genevieve and I face each other. “Oh my god,” she says, staring at my feet. “What have you done to your toes? They’re totally gross!”

  I look down and see that the skin between my first two toes has begun to bleed. How could I not have noticed? I was so focused on trying to be focused that I didn’t even feel it.

  Terence says I should put on some antibiotic cream when I get upstairs. I wonder if bleeding toes counts as one of the injuries he was talking about before.

  I have antibiotic cream in my cosmetics bag. I’m sitting on one of the lower bunks in our dorm, applying the cream, when Anastasia taps me on my shoulder.

  “Use this instead.” She hands me a tube of Krazy Glue.

  “Are you joking?” I ask.

  “Would I joke about a circus injury? Antibiotic cream is good for preventing infection. But with Krazy Glue, you’ll be back on the rope tomorrow! It’s an old Russian circus trick.”

  “You have Krazy Glue in Russia?” I ask, taking the tube from Anastasia and squirting a little of the liquid between my toes.

  “Krazy Glue might be an American product, but I heard that a Russian man, a friend of my uncle Boris, invented it. He mixed together water and corn syrup. My uncle Boris was a famous equestrian…” Anastasia has launched into another one of her family stories.

  It’s a long story. But I listen to every word. It’s the only way I can think of to show my gratitude.

  Ten

  Suzanne says there will be a special surprise for us tonight.

  “Is it food?” Guillaume calls out. “Are we going to try Montreal’s famous smoked meat?”

  “Does it have something to do with Cirque de la Lune?” Genevieve asks.

  “Of course not!” Suzanne looks away when she says that. Which is how we know for sure the
surprise has something to do with Cirque de la Lune.

  “Maybe the Cirque’s team of talent scouts wants to meet us,” Genevieve says after Suzanne has left the cafeteria. We are eating breakfast—homemade granola, Greek yogurt, poached eggs, whole-grain bread, bran muffins and fresh fruit. I like eating healthy food, but there is so much of it at circus camp that I can’t blame Guillaume for dreaming about smoked meat.

  “Maybe the Cirque performers—and all of their understudies—have come down with the flu and Etienne Montpellier wants us to fly to Vegas to help him out,” Guillaume says.

  “I think you should put me in charge of negotiating with Etienne. We’ll need suites at the Wynn Hotel and round-the-clock room service!” Leo adds.

  “I have figured out the surprise!” Anastasia announces. She pauses. Even when she’s just hanging out, Anastasia knows how to put on a show.

  “What is it?” Genevieve and Hana ask.

  “The Cirque de la Lune troupe must be developing a new show. They probably want to test it out on us.”

  “Do you mean we might get to see a Cirque de la Lune show before anyone else in all the world?” Genevieve asks.

  Leo grins. “I want to say one thing. This camp is my idea of heaven. Even without the smoked meat.”

  * * *

  Anastasia was right. Suzanne asked us to meet her at a quarter to six at the MCC entrance, and we arrive to find that our coaches are there too. This time there is no red double-decker bus waiting in front of the building. Instead, we cross Second Avenue and walk over to the Cirque de la Lune headquarters.

  A young man and woman dressed like playing cards, their faces painted white, usher us into a small auditorium. On the way, we pass paintings and sculptures connected to circus. A bronze strongman carries a beautiful girl on his shoulders. In a painting in an ornate gold frame, a girl in a frilly dress dances on top of a white horse. “Chagall painted that one,” Hana whispers.

  I’d heard that Etienne Montpellier collects art, and I wish we had more time to admire his collection, but the ushers move us along. They make us stop at a small table where each of us has to sign a waiver. Even our coaches have to. What we see tonight must remain top secret. When I am signing, Leo brushes my elbow with his. “You look radiant this evening, Mata Hari,” he says. I turn away and pretend not to have heard him.

  The stage is set up to look like a giant tea party. There are half a dozen tables decorated with lace tablecloths. When a beautiful girl wearing a blue dress with a white apron steps onstage, I understand why the ushers are dressed like playing cards. We’re about to see an Alice in Wonderland circus performance.

  Alice’s aerial hoop is as tall as she is, but she whips it forward, skipping through it so quickly that all we can see is a white glow. Alice is entering Wonderland. When the bottom of her dress expands so that Alice is towering over us, I try to figure out how they did it. Is there someone standing underneath her? Could there be two or even three people there?

  There’s no time to figure it out. Tweedledum and Tweedledee are doing a juggling routine. Only they’re not juggling balls or pins, they’re juggling toy mice. They each balance a mouse on the tip of their nose, then toss the mice over their heads. They spin around just in time to catch the mice with their toes and send them flying back up into the air.

  There’s a Mad Hatter too. He’s a tightrope walker, and he crosses the rope carrying an oversized, flowered teapot. He keeps pretending he is about to fall—he makes the funniest faces when that happens—but, of course, he never does. Once, when he wobbles, he actually collapses, flattening his spine along the rope—and pours some tea into his mouth. Then he reaches into his pocket for a sugar packet, tears it open and swallows the sugar too. Leo and Guillaume squeal with laughter.

  A Caterpillar tumbler blows smoke rings out of his nose as he cartwheels across the stage. He extends one arm, allowing Alice to step onto his hand, and then he raises her high into the air. His face drips with sweat, but his expression is blissed out.

  The entire cast sits down for tea. The Red Queen arrives by trapeze, landing on top of a fluffy white cake.

  When the show is over, the cast returns to take a bow. We’re all clapping like crazy except for Anastasia, who is just tapping her palm with her fingertips. Maybe she thinks the performance could have been edgier and more innovative.

  I notice now that Alice looks very Russian. She has pale-blond hair, pale skin and light blue eyes set wide apart. When it’s time for her final bow, she positions herself to face Anastasia and takes a deep bow. It is, of course, her way of paying tribute to the Bershovs. If it were me, I’d feel embarrassed, but Anastasia nods graciously.

  “Look,” Genevieve says. We’re on our way out, and she is eyeing a tall thin man at the back of the room, close to the other entrance to the auditorium. “It’s him! Etienne Montpellier! He must have come in during the show!” She grabs my arm. “Let’s go meet him.”

  “Genevieve, we can’t. What would we say?”

  Genevieve ignores my protests. She drags me down the corridor and back in through the other entrance. Except by then, Etienne Montpellier is gone. I don’t know if I’m more relieved or disappointed.

  Another man, dressed all in black, is standing where Etienne Montpellier was. He is making notes on his iPad.

  “Do you know where Etienne Montpellier went?” Genevieve asks him.

  The man looks up. “Excuse me?”

  “We want to know where Mr. Montpellier went,” Genevieve says.

  “He had another engagement,” the man says. When he looks down at his iPad, I know he wants to get back to whatever he was doing. But Genevieve won’t let him.

  “Who are you?” she asks him.

  “Genevieve!” I whisper.

  “My name is Reginald Dubuc.”

  “Do you work for Cirque de la Lune too?” Genevieve asks.

  “You could say so.” Reginald hesitates, as if he’s deciding whether he should tell us more. “I handle admissions at the MCC.”

  “Oh my god,” Genevieve says, and the man laughs. For once, Genevieve is too overwhelmed to speak.

  I take a breath. “We’re aerialists,” I manage to say. “With the circus camp.”

  “Ahh,” Reginald says.

  Genevieve has gotten her voice back. “Does that mean you’ve heard of us?”

  Reginald laughs again. “I have heard there are many talented young people at this summer’s camp. So you say you two are aerialists?”

  I turn slightly, then push back my shoulders so Reginald will notice my deltoids. “I do rope.”

  Genevieve flips back her hair. “I do tissu.”

  Reginald looks at me, then at Genevieve, then back at me. “Well then, I suppose I’ll be seeing one of you at the MCC next year.”

  “One of us?” Genevieve asks.

  “That’s right,” Reginald says. “I thought you already knew. We only have one spot available for an aerialist at the MCC next year.”

  I can’t believe Genevieve hadn’t already figured that one out.

  Eleven

  On Sunday morning, la palestre is open for anyone who feels like practicing. A couple of coaches are there to supervise. When we come in, they are huddled together on metal folding chairs, sipping coffee from reusable cups.

  Genevieve, Anastasia, Hana and I head for the long blue spring floor designed for tumbling. We warm up with a few somersaults, but soon we’re doing cartwheels and then roundoff back handsprings. The floor makes a bam-bam sound every time we land on it.

  The spring floor is surrounded by large rectangular pits, each of them filled with oversized yellow Styrofoam cubes. If we miss our mark, the cubes will ensure a cushy landing.

  The floor is wide enough for two girls to use at once. While I await my turn, I dive into one of the pits. Just for fun. Wading between the Styrofoam cubes makes me feel like a little kid again.

  Next thing I know, Genevieve is diving in too. When I see her body flying toward me, I s
tep away as quickly as I can. What is she trying to do—crash into me?

  Genevieve is on her knees, grinning up at me. “Did I mention Leo is taking me skating today?” she asks.

  “You mentioned it.” I almost add that she’s mentioned it a thousand times, but I don’t want her to know I care.

  “He really likes me.”

  “If you say so.”

  Genevieve wades closer to where I am, until her face is only inches away from mine. “Of course I say so. And you’re wasting your time flirting with him.”

  I don’t know what bothers me more—the fact that her face is so close to mine or that she’s accusing me of flirting with Leo.

  “I’m not a flirt,” I say. “Besides, I can’t help it if he likes me too.”

  “He doesn’t!” Genevieve’s voice carries in the air. One of the coaches tilts his head in our direction.

  “He does too. But you know what, Genevieve? Some of us have more important things on our minds than boys.”

  “Like what?” she says.

  “Like circus.”

  Genevieve makes a snorting sound. “If there’s only room for one aerialist at the MCC, we both know who it’ll be. Me! Not just because I’m a better climber than you are, but because I do tissu.”

  It’s my turn to snort. “Tissu’s a cliché. Rope is way more interesting.”

  Genevieve’s eyes are shining. “Interesting? Interesting only goes so far! People come to the circus to see something—and someone—beautiful.”

  “They want more than beauty. They want innovation!” I don’t mean to raise my voice, but Genevieve is getting to me.

  “You’re just mad you don’t do tissu!” Genevieve hisses.

  “That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard!”

  The coach stands up from his folding chair. But it’s Hana who intervenes. She somersaults into the pit, landing next to me. In seconds, she bounces up on her feet, inserting herself between Genevieve and me.