The Bonaventure Adventures

by Rachelle Delaney

  Seb had his doubts that a rehearsal would raise people’s spirits, but he was always happy to watch. He stationed himself in one of the wings, where he could see everything onstage and off.

  Onstage, Dragan was parading around in his favorite teal top hat, waving his arms and bellowing at an imaginary audience about the most talented family on earth, whose feats they were about to witness. Backstage, the three acrobats were limbering up their shoulders and practicing their splits. The aerialist was dusting her hands with resin so she didn’t slip from the silks. Nearby, two riggers were discussing the state of the bolts keeping the trapeze from tumbling down onto the stage.

  If only the audiences could see what went on backstage, Seb thought, not for the first time. The nerves, the excitement, the bruises and tears, the way everyone came together no matter what, to make sure the show went on. Maybe then they’d understand the magic. Maybe then they’d buy tickets, and the Konstantinovs wouldn’t have to worry about—

  Someone tapped his elbow, and he looked up to see Aunt Tatiana. She was wearing a long dressing gown over her costume, and her beard was woven into an intricate braid.

  “What’s up?” he asked.

  “Thought you’d be hungry,” she said, passing him a square of gingerbread cake. His stomach rumbled in agreement. He took a giant bite.

  “Thank you,” he said over a mouthful. Onstage, Dragan announced the first act, and the acrobats burst into the ring in a frenzy of flips and cartwheels.

  “Also, I just got the mail,” said Aunt Tatiana.

  “Oh yeah?” Seb swallowed his gingerbread, put two fingers in his mouth, and whistled at the acrobats.

  “Here,” said Tatiana, and Seb tore his gaze away from the ring. She was holding out an envelope. “It’s from Montreal.”

  “Oh!” he exclaimed.

  “What’s in Montreal?” asked Tatiana.

  “Oh. Um.” He took the letter. “Can I tell you later?”

  She regarded him for a moment, then nodded and walked away.

  Seb held the envelope up to the light. It was indeed addressed to him, on a nice, heavy cardstock that was smooth to the touch.

  “Wow,” he breathed. His stomach turned a backflip.

  Onstage, the acrobats were building a wobbly tower with folding chairs. Soon, he knew, they would climb up onto it and use it as a precarious diving board for their flips and tumbles. It was Seb’s favorite part of their routine, and it would be followed by Maxime and his swords, then the contortionist’s new act, in which he attempted to fit himself into a guitar case.

  But Seb couldn’t possibly concentrate on the rehearsal, not with his fate right there in his hands.

  “Sorry, guys,” he whispered to the acrobats. And he hurried out of the big top and down the row of caravans until he reached his own. He ducked behind it and sank down in the grass near one of the rear tires.

  Then he took a deep breath, tore open the envelope, and unfolded the letter.

  It read:

  Dear Sebastian,

  On behalf of our esteemed directrice, Angélique Saint-Germain, I would like to welcome you to the Bonaventure Circus School. We are thrilled that you have accepted our offer to attend. Madame Saint-Germain speaks very highly of your father and is certain that a descendant of Dragan Konstantinov—and heir to the Konstantinov Family Circus—will be an excellent addition to Bonaventure.

  We are, therefore, delighted to offer you a full scholarship, including room and board, at the school in beautiful Old Montreal.

  The school year begins September 1, in two months’ time, and out-of-town students typically arrive a day or two early. I will make all travel arrangements for you, including your flight and airport pickup in Montreal. You have only to tell me where in the world you’ll be in late August.

  Congratulations, Sebastian, on making the excellent decision to study at the Bonaventure Circus School. We so look forward to meeting you in person.

  Sincerely,

  Michel Letourneau

  Bonaventure Circus School Scout

  AN HOUR LATER, Seb was still pacing around the caravans, too nervous to sit still.

  “I’ve been accepted. Into circus school,” he told himself for the perhaps the thirty-seventh time. “I did it. They let me in.” Even when he said it aloud, it didn’t seem like it could possibly be true.

  He pulled out the letter and checked it again, front and back. There was no mention at all of an audition. Which meant they assumed he had circus skills.

  Which made him feel a little bit faint.

  He was just about to sit back down when Stanley appeared. Or rather, Snickertoot appeared, for Stanley was in clown mode, dressed in a tattered red suit jacket, baggy blue trousers and massive red shoes, and wearing a spongy red ball on his nose.

  “Heya, kid.” He jingled his shoes at Seb. “I’ve been looking for you. You had dinner yet?”

  Seb shook his head. There was no way he could eat.

  “Well, we need you to round up some locals. We’ve only sold a few tickets, and your dad’s getting all…you know.” Snickertoot bared his teeth and raised his shoulders up to his ears.

  “Got it,” said Seb.

  “Here are some flyers.” The clown handed him a small stack. “Draw in some crowds for us, will ya?”

  Seb glanced down at the flyers, which featured scenes from the show: Maxime swallowing a sword, the clown tripping over his pant legs, the acrobats diving from their tower of chairs. And of course, Dragan Konstantinov, front and center. He had his arm looped around the lion, who looked less than thrilled to have her photo taken.

  “Kind of false advertising, isn’t it?” Seb said. “Since we don’t have the lion anymore.”

  Snickertoot shrugged. “So tell them she’s sick. Make something up. You like stories.”

  Seb decided against reminding him that he didn’t speak Serbian. He nodded and pocketed the flyers, and the clown waddled away.

  As Seb watched him go, red shoes jingling, he was suddenly struck by an overwhelming sense of “What have I done?” In two months’ time, he’d be leaving his family and moving halfway around the world to a city he knew absolutely nothing about.

  What would Montreal be like? he wondered. Who would his friends be? Would he even have any friends?

  Really, he only knew one thing for certain.

  His father was going to kill him.

  Or at the very least, Dragan would be very, very upset. The Konstantinovs had never been allowed to make changes without consulting him first. Maxime couldn’t swap a cutlass for a bayonet, even though he was the one coaxing them down his throat. The aerialist couldn’t add any new tricks to her performance. Tatiana couldn’t even toss a new ingredient into the goulash without Dragan’s okay. His twelve-year-old son’s plan to move halfway around the world to study the modern circus was not going to go over well.

  But it was, Seb reminded himself, for the good of all the Konstantinovs. It was the only plan they had that just might work. And so he resumed pacing, considering the ways in which he could break the news.

  Option one, he decided, was to not tell anyone what he’d done. He’d simply steal off into the night, board a plane to Montreal and send Dragan a postcard once he’d arrived safe and sound.

  But even Seb, who’d never boarded a plane in his life, knew that the likelihood of a kid flying transcontinental without adult supervision was basically zero. Option one, appealing as it was, would never work.

  Option two involved waiting until after that night’s performance, then breaking the news to his father. But if crowds were as sparse in Serbia as they’d been in Bulgaria, Dragan would be in a foul mood. Plus, Seb didn’t think his own nerves could wait that long.

  “I guess it’s option three, then,” he decided. He would tell his father then and there.

  He found Dragan in his caravan again, sitting in front of his mirror while Juan the contortionist did his makeup.

  “Hi, Dad.” Seb closed the door behind h
im.

  Dragan looked at him, then closed his eyes so Juan could powder his face. “Is this about the animals again?”

  “No,” Seb said. “Not this time.”

  Dragan waved at him to proceed.

  Seb cleared his throat. “I have a plan,” he said. “To save the circus.”

  Dragan opened one eye and looked over at him. Juan tsked and turned his head back. He began tracing Dragan’s left eyelid with black liner.

  “It’s…it’s not going to be a quick fix,” Seb went on. “It’ll take a few years. Okay, maybe four. But if we can hang on that long…”

  “Stop,” Dragan commanded Juan, then turned again to stare at Seb. “What are you talking about?”

  Seb took a breath. “I want to…I mean, I’m going to…circus school. To study the modern circus.”

  Juan’s eyeliner clattered to the floor.

  “It won’t cost anything,” Seb hurried on. “I have a full scholarship. I…I already got accepted. Sorry…for not telling you when I applied.”

  For a moment, Dragan only blinked at him. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, then managed to ask, “To which school?”

  Seb swallowed. “Bonaventure.”

  Juan gasped. “In Paris?”

  “Montreal,” said Seb.

  He cocked his head to one side. “Is that near Paris?”

  Seb shook his head. “It’s in Canada.”

  Juan gasped again, this time in horror.

  “Leave us,” Dragan told him.

  “But…” Juan gestured to Dragan’s half-lined eyes, but the ringmaster waved him off. He let himself out in a huff.

  Dragan sighed and rubbed his forehead, getting powder on his fingers. “How did she find you?”

  “She didn’t,” Seb told him. “I found the letters in your closet about a year ago. I was looking for a hat or something. But I wasn’t snooping,” he added.

  Dragan closed his eyes and groaned.

  “Look, I think it’s a good idea,” Seb went on. “I can come back every summer to tell you what I’ve learned. It might not even take me all four years to figure it out. Just…just please don’t get rid of anyone else until I come back. Okay? Promise?”

  Dragan folded his hands in his lap and turned to his mirror, frowning at his reflection. He looked suddenly old, Seb realized. Or maybe the lightbulbs were on the fritz.

  “Seb,” he sighed, “you can’t go to circus school.”

  “Yes, I can,” Seb insisted. “They’re giving me a full scholarship, with room and board. It won’t cost us anything.”

  “Seb,” Dragan said seriously, “you’ll have to take skills classes. And you have no skills.”

  “Oh.” Seb flinched a little. “Right.”

  “You can’t juggle to save your life,” Dragan went on. “You can’t turn a flip, or even a somersault. You can’t pull yourself up onto a trapeze. The last time you tried to climb the silks, you got so tangled we had to cut you down! Don’t you remember?”

  “Yes,” said Seb, who had no desire to relive that scene.

  “You’re really, really bad!” Dragan still sounded incredulous after all these years. “At everything!”

  “Okay, Dad. I get it,” said Seb.

  Dragan sighed. “Sorry. But Seb, there’s bound to be an audition. They won’t let you in without testing your skills.”

  “Apparently they will.” Seb pulled the Scout’s letter out of his pocket and handed it to his father.

  Dragan read it over, then groaned again. “Sebastian,” he said, “I have been in the circus business long enough to know this is a bad idea.”

  Seb shrugged. “Do you have a better one?”

  For a moment, Dragan just stared at him through the mirror. Then he heaved a sigh. “Have I ever told you about Angélique Saint-Germain?”

  Seb shook his head.

  “Well, I’d better.” He motioned for Seb to pull up a chair.

  “Angélique Saint-Germain,” he began, tenting his fingers in front of his face, “is a very big deal. She was one of the most talented aerialists of our time. She won the Grand Prix at the World Circus Fair five years in a row, and at the Festival Mondial du Cirque three times. She has traveled the world, performed for kings and queens. She even dated the man who played James Bond. You know, the one with the accent?” Dragan stared off into space for a moment.

  Seb studied his father for some sign that he was making up another story, but he wasn’t using his ringmaster voice or waving his hands around. He waited.

  “And she’s beautiful,” Dragan went on. “I fell in love with her myself, ages ago. But Angélique…” He paused again. “Loved another man.”

  “Instead of you?” Seb couldn’t imagine it.

  Dragan raised an eyebrow as if to say, “I know, right?”

  “She was in love,” he said, “with Jean-Loup.”

  The name was familiar; Seb tried to place it.

  “The founder of Terra Incognito.”

  “Oh, right.” Seb nodded. He’d heard about the circus company that staged daring performances “where no circus has gone before,” like beneath the sea in giant submarines and in Borneon bat caves. “The guy with the monocle.” Jean-Loup was also known for his old-fashioned eyepiece, which his devoted fans apparently wore in homage at his shows.

  “The guy with the monocle.” Dragan nodded grimly. “And more money than God.”

  “So Angélique Saint-Germain doesn’t perform anymore?” Seb asked.

  Dragan shook his head. “Around the time you were born, she suffered a tremendous fall,” he said. “Plummeted from her swinging trapeze, thanks to faulty rigging. But she was so good, so talented, that somehow, she managed to land on her feet. Though she shattered both ankles on impact.”

  “Yikes!”

  Dragan nodded. “Her career was over. She went into hiding for six months, in a castle high in the Carpathian Mountains, owned by none other than Jean-Loup. When she emerged, she had reinvented herself as the directrice of a new circus school.” He paused. “I suppose I should have told you when she first wrote, asking for you.”

  Seb swallowed. “I get why you didn’t.”

  Dragan regarded him for a moment. “Sebastian, are you sure you want to do this?” he asked. “I know Angélique. She will not be forgiving of someone who isn’t naturally skilled.”

  “I figured that,” said Seb. “But I’m…I’m working on a plan.”

  Dragan raised an eyebrow. “Care to share?”

  “It’s still in progress,” Seb said. Actually, it was still just a half-formed idea. He had some serious work to do.

  Dragan grunted. For a minute or two, they both fell silent. Then Seb said, “I’ve been thinking about the fire breather. Remember him?”

  His father nodded.

  The fire breather had been an impressive act, though short-lived, as he’d fallen in love with an ice dancer when they passed through Saint Petersburg, and decided to stay put.

  “I’m really more of a family man,” the fire breather had explained.

  “He was weird,” Dragan recalled.

  “Yeah,” Seb agreed. “But he once told me that whenever he got nervous, he’d stop and say to himself, ‘Okay, I might get hurt here, but what would happen if I didn’t even try?’ ”

  Dragan considered this. “Well, he would still have his eyebrows, for one thing.”

  “True,” said Seb. “But he also wouldn’t know he could do it, right?”

  Dragan shrugged. “But eyebrows.”

  Seb sighed. “Can I go, Dad?”

  Dragan rubbed his temples. “I can’t believe I’m even considering this.”

  “Me neither,” said Seb. And despite everything, he had to chuckle. “ ’Cause I’m, like, really bad!”

  Dragan nodded in wonder. “You really are.”

  They stared at each other in the mirror. And suddenly, they both began to laugh.

  “Remember my trampoline lesson?” Seb snorted.

 
Dragan hooted. “You bounced right off and got caught in the ceiling rafters!”

  They laughed until Dragan’s eyeliner ran down his cheek and they had to call in the contortionist, who gasped in horror at the sight.

  It made them laugh even more.

  “YOU GUYS DON’T all have to come in,” Seb said as the car pulled up in front of the Budapest airport on a muggy afternoon at the very end of August. “I’m sure I can find my way around.”

  He turned in the passenger seat to see them all squished together on the rear bench: Aunt Tatiana and Maxime, plus Stanley the clown, Juan the contortionist and Julie the unicyclist-in-training. When they’d rented the car earlier that day, they’d been warned that the backseat only fit three. But no one wanted to stay behind, and Juan volunteered to ride in the glove box if need be. So in they’d squeezed, for the momentous occasion of Seb’s departure.

  “We’re coming in,” Stanley declared. “We wouldn’t miss this.”

  Out they tumbled, all seven of them, onto the sidewalk in front of the airport. They left the car in the waiting lane, which Seb didn’t think was a great idea, but neither did he want to argue. He popped the hatch and pulled out a leather trunk that contained all his worldly possessions. It was, unsurprisingly, quite light. It was also falling apart at the seams. He had a feeling this was symbolic, but didn’t really want to ponder it.

  “Ready?” Dragan asked, and Seb looked up to see his father watching him. His hair part was crooked, a sure sign he was unsettled.

  Seb knew that if he tried to answer, he’d say something like, “No! I’m terrified. What the heck was I thinking? This was the worst idea in the world.” Instead, he nodded.

  They trooped into the airport. Seb was relieved to see that Maxime had left his swords at home. He only wished he could say the same for Stanley’s gigantic red shoes. He’d even worn the jingly bells, for Pete’s sake! Everyone was staring.

  Seb tried not to be annoyed. It was, he reminded himself, the last time he’d see any of them for ages.

  He tried once again to imagine life without the Konstantinov Family Circus. Without watching his favorite people do incredible tricks every night. Without the smells of trodden dirt and cigarette smoke and buttered popcorn. Without tinny orchestral music and Tatiana’s goulash and Maxime’s throaty snores that kept him company when he woke during the night.