They walked in companionable silence until they came to the Gare du Nord and stopped short of the doors. Hordes of people pushed and shoved against the entrance to the station. Michel saw a young girl drop her teddy bear and her mother not notice. She picked up the child and pushed through the crowds, ignoring the child’s cries for the bear which was now being trampled. Michel made to move towards the bear – he had to rescue it, had to give it back to the girl – but he felt a tug on his arm.
‘Come. We will try the Gare d’Austerlitz.’ Bertrand was already walking away, and Michel followed, every now and again checking behind him to see if anyone had saved the bear.
It seemed to Michel that others had turned from the station and were now following them. ‘Everyone is running away,’ he said.
‘And why not? No point in staying.’ Bertrand shrugged, as if he were simply out for a morning stroll to retrieve his newspaper and sip a morning café au lait at Odette’s.
‘Aren’t you sad to leave?’ Michel suddenly asked. ‘It was your home for so long.’
‘It is a building, a room. I used to think that walls were important. But then Amélie died, and our only child died at two years old, and I realised my home left with them. So, I carry a few bits with me; some sheet music, a photograph or two. Nothing that important. My violin and my few treasures. That is all I need.’
By early evening they came wearily to the Seine, which was ever more shrunken from the heat and flowed lethargically under the indigo sky. As they walked across the Pont d’Austerlitz, they found themselves again amongst a growing crowd of people, all walking towards the station. Michel looked at Bertrand, waiting to see if he would suggest they try somewhere else, but he did not and instead ushered Michel forward, falling in with the rest of the human traffic as the sun disappeared behind the glass terminus.
Inside, it was chaos. Masses of people stood, and sat, on every available surface. Michel turned to leave but found he couldn’t, as more people had now pushed him into the waiting crowd. A woman reprimanded her son for opening their luggage to look for his toys, whilst her husband shoved his way over to a blank timetable, studying it as if the train times would appear any second.
The air inside was thick with heat and the aroma of unwashed bodies. Michel needed air and felt the cloying nearness of the anxious crowds too much. He turned again for the exit, but Bertrand grabbed his sleeve and pulled him instead towards the platforms, where more people waited for invisible trains. Bertrand gently squeezed a path through, Michel noticing the chatter as he followed.
‘They’ll come, won’t they? They will, won’t they, Phillipe?’
‘Can we go home now, Papa?’
‘Where’s the kitten? Hold on to it. The train will be here soon. Just wait.’
‘Check the ticket again! Check it. It’s for today, isn’t it?’
They reached the end of the platform at the opening of the terminus, where Michel could see the endless tracks running out into the night. He sat down with his back against a post, holding his bag tightly to his chest, whilst Bertrand squatted atop his suitcase.
A bee, baffled by all the visitors and early summer heat, rolled on the floor, his tiny wings beating as quickly as Michel’s heart. He held his hand flat so the bee could climb aboard his palm and sit for a while, until it finally felt able to hum away into the night.
Not far down the platform a tall, thin man with a heavy black moustache was arguing with a conductor. ‘We have tickets!’ he screamed. ‘We have them! Where is the train?’
The conductor did not answer, and Michel could see the fear on his face as another voice entered the argument.
‘We all have tickets! All of us. Why do you think we are here?’
‘I’m sorry,’ the conductor mumbled. ‘I am sorry.’
‘No point in apologies. Just tell us when the trains will come!’
‘I don’t know. Soon, I think? Yes, soon. Any minute now.’ The conductor took out his pocket watch as if it would confirm the trains’ arrival. ‘Yes, yes, soon. They’ll all come soon.’
His answer settled the mood slightly, and the moustached man went to sit with his family once more, whilst the conductor pushed past the seething walkway to his office.
The night-time shadows had fallen completely now, so Michel could no longer see the tracks, but the dark was bringing some quiet to the station as voices lowered, and babies ceased their howling. Michel could hear the coo of pigeons nesting in the rafters above him, and every now and then a feather fell with the sound of flapping wings.
Suddenly, from outside, a light stabbed at the now dark blue summer sky, a huge beam that sought its prey.
‘Search planes,’ Bertrand grunted.
Others had noticed and looked to the sky too. Their voices rose again, and Michel heard a woman sobbing.
The moustached man started talking once more, this time to a short gentleman who sat alone but had an abundance of luggage. ‘They’ll be here before the trains arrive,’ the moustached man said.
‘You may be right,’ the short man replied.
‘I left home two days ago. Two days! And we are still waiting. Why is no one helping us? Do they want us to die?’
‘We won’t die,’ the short man said. ‘The Germans will come, but we will not die. We will just have to live different lives – the lives that they want for us.’
The moustached man scoffed and lit a cigarette. ‘You know it all, eh? You know what will happen? I’ve been a solider before. I know what happens in war. I know what the Germans are like.’
The moustached man’s wife began to weep, holding her smallest child to her chest and letting her tears fall onto its golden hair.
The short man shook his head. ‘Maybe you’re right. Maybe. But isn’t it better to hope that we can survive?’
The moustached man turned away, and Michel saw the short man take his flat cap off; underneath he wore a kippah. The short man looked at Michel, smiled, then replaced his cap.
A baby woke and wailed; a high-pitched howl that made Michel want to hold his hands against his ears. Somewhere, a dog barked, and another child started to cry.
As if by magic, Bertrand’s violin appeared in his hands, and he began to play a soft tune. At first, the melody was so quiet that it did not reach the ears of the waiting crowds, but as Bertrand played, the volume increased just enough for it to echo off the glass terminus.
Slowly, people turned to find the source of the music, and although they could not see Bertrand and his small wiry hands moving the bow across the strings with such care, they gradually stopped their worrying chatter.
Michel felt a surge of warmth in his chest as his friend played and soothed everyone’s souls. He leaned his head back against the cool metal of the post and fell into a fitful sleep.
When he awoke, Bertrand was not by his side. Michel stood, yet found it almost impossible to move from his spot as most of the crowd were lying on the platform, trying to sleep. Just as he felt the panic rising in his throat, he caught sight of Bertrand, who was talking to the conductor. He saw the conductor say something; Bertrand nodded and the two shook hands, then the conductor placed his hand in his pocket and smiled at Bertrand.
Michel sat down and waited for his friend to return.
‘Come,’ Bertrand whispered. ‘We are to go.’
‘Where?’
‘Shhh. Keep your voice low and follow me.’
Carefully, Bertrand and Michel stepped over the sleeping bodies, until they reached the end of the platform where the tracks led out into the night.
‘Jump down,’ Bertrand instructed.
Michel jumped the two or so feet down to the tracks, then helped Bertrand.
‘Where are we going?’
‘To find a train. Where else?’
They walked for an hour, in a straight line, until they came to a large junction with tracks shooting off in six different directions.
‘I need to sit,’ Bertrand said, and wiped his brow with
a white cotton handkerchief.
Michel guided him towards the side of the tracks to a thicket of bushes and grass. ‘The conductor told you a train would come?’
‘Yes. He did.’
‘Why wouldn’t he tell anyone else?’
‘Because it isn’t really a train for people. And besides, I used to play pétanque with him. He knows me. It is a favour from a friend.’
Michel sat on the damp grass and Bertrand opened his case quickly, then closed it again. He handed Michel a small paper-wrapped bundle. The paper was greasy under Michel’s fingers. He unwrapped it to reveal a butter croissant and bit into it, remembering he had not eaten since the morning before.
‘It will be light soon,’ Bertrand said.
‘Where is your food?’
‘I am not hungry.’ Bertrand waved his hand in the air then took a cigarette from his pocket and lit it, the smoke curling upwards into the ever-lightening sky. ‘Will you miss Paris, Michel?’
He rubbed the crumbs from his lips and balled the paper in his hand. ‘I think so. The horses, most definitely. Your apartment. Odette’s café. But I think I’d quite like to see more of the countryside. Maman came from the country and she always told me how beautiful it was to walk through fields for hours, to see sunflowers growing wild, to play in the river with her friends.’
‘That’s good.’ Bertrand smiled then clapped Michel on his back. ‘Give me the paper, I’ll put it away.’
Michel handed Bertrand the ball of paper and Bertrand opened his case to put it inside. He tried to close the case quickly, yet was too slow. ‘Why is your case empty?’ Michel leaned over his friend and lifted the lid, revealing nothing more than the wrapper from his croissant and the silver flask.
‘Ah…’ Bertrand said.
‘Bertrand—’ As Michel spoke, he felt a rumble underneath him, and heard a clatter in the distance as a train approached.
‘It’s here!’ Bertrand exclaimed, jumping up and pulling Michel with him. ‘You must be quick, Michel. The train will reduce its speed at this junction and will be slow enough for you to run alongside and jump aboard one of the wagons. Do not hesitate. This is your one chance!’
‘Me? But you too?’
‘No. No, not me.’
Michel looked towards the junction and saw the dim lights of the train heading for them. ‘I don’t understand.’
Bertrand grabbed Michel by the shoulders and turned him to look at him. ‘I am old. I cannot leave – I had no intention to leave. But I had to get you away, to be safe. I promised your mother.’
‘But I don’t want to leave you alone.’
‘Michel, you must. This is your adventure. You are a man now. No longer a stuttering boy who has only horses and an old neighbour for friends. You can be whoever you want to be! Now go! Quick! The train is coming.’
Michel looked at his friend and then took him in his arms, smelling the spicy cologne and earthy tobacco smoke for the last time.
‘Write to me. Tell me of your adventures so I can pretend I am having one too!’ Bertrand quickly kissed Michel on both cheeks, then pushed him away.
The train slowed at the junction and Michel ran alongside. He could see a red cargo carriage, the door slightly ajar. The train was already beginning to pick up speed and Michel could hear Bertrand shouting at him. He ran, his legs feeling as though they would crumple beneath him, his bag slapping against his back. Soon he was there – almost, two more strides – then he reached out his arm and grabbed hold of the door and scrambled inside just as the train rounded the bend, its pace quickening. Michel sat down, his legs dangling outside the carriage, watching as Bertrand waved, growing smaller and smaller, his hat in his hand, his violin case at his side.
Michel did not cry, even though he wanted to. He felt exhausted and exhilarated all at the same time. He looked about the carriage to see what else was in there, but the compartment’s darkness prevented it. So, he leaned back against the cold wood of the door frame, and as the train rocked gently from side to side, he felt himself drifting to sleep, the familiar, yet unexpected, musty scent of horses on the air.
Three
Le Clandestin
The brightening dawn woke Michel and as he stirred, he smelled the rich musk of coffee coming from Bertrand’s apartment. He opened his eyes, expecting to see the whitewashed ceiling of his bedroom streaked with spider cracks, but instead over him stood an exceedingly tall man in a purple suede suit with a cravat at his neck, and a short man no larger than a ten-year-old child, in brown chequered breeches and a waistcoat, his shirt matching the sunflower yellow of the tall man’s cravat.
Michel wondered if he was still dreaming and did not move, expecting the vision above him to disappear. Yet, as the seconds passed by, nothing changed. The tall man stood erect, a fixed smile on his face, a piece of wood in his large hand, resting against his long leg. The smaller man drank from a chipped mug, his lips puckering from the bitter coffee or at the sight of Michel.
‘Do you speak?’ the giant asked.
‘I do,’ Michel answered, stifling a laugh. This was certainly a dream.
‘So, who are you?’ the small man asked.
‘Michel, Michel Bonnet.’
The giant laughed and tapped the wood against his leg. There was something in the movement, the noise, which was so real to Michel, it wiped the sleep completely from his brain. He sat up and shuffled backwards until his spine rested against the wood of the carriage. The small man continued to sip at his coffee and gave the giant a long look, raising his eyebrow conspiratorially.
‘I’m just trying to get away,’ Michel explained, raising his palms in surrender.
‘And you chose us,’ the giant said.
‘I didn’t choose anyone, I just needed to get away.’
Again, there was a look between the two, and Michel glanced at the partially open carriage door with the trees and track rushing by.
‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you,’ the small man said, following Michel’s line of sight. ‘You’ll be dragged underneath or break every bone in your body on the fall down. Either way, not a nice way to go.’
‘Who are you running from?’ the giant asked.
‘The same as everyone.’
Perhaps only a minute passed, but it felt to Michel like an age. The clack, clack of the wheels was all he could hear, and in his mind was the image of being dragged underneath, onto the tracks.
Finally, the giant held his hand out to Michel, ‘Jean-Jacques,’ he said.
Michel took his hand and gently shook it.
The small man grabbed Jean’s arm and turned him away. Michel could hear urgent whispers between them – ‘the boss… forbidden’, then ‘it will be fine… trust me.’
Jean turned back to Michel, a smile on his face, but the small man refused to look at him.
‘Ignore him,’ Jean said. He sat down next to Michel, folding his long legs underneath him, resting his enormous hands on his knees, and with his tapered fingers he tapped his bony kneecaps in a jaunty rhythm. ‘Are you hungry?’ he asked.
‘A little…’ Michel answered.
‘Giordano, go and get us some breakfast. Come straight back.’
‘And what will I tell the others, eh? That we eat with the animals now?’ Giordano turned around so quickly, his coffee leapt out of the mug and fell with a slop onto the wooden boards of the carriage.
‘Tell them nothing. They won’t care what you are doing. If anyone does ask, you tell them we are working on our act in the stock car.’
‘As if they would believe I’d spend my time in here! My suit would get dusty and smeared with dirt.’
‘Hush now. They don’t pay as much attention to you as you think.’ Jean raised a hand to silence Giordano as his mouth opened, full of protestations. ‘Just a few pieces of bread, some cheese and some more coffee.’
The soft lilt of Jean-Jacques’ voice was at odds with his huge frame, and held some power over Giordano who nodded and quickly departe
d, stirring up a swarm of dust motes with his heavy tread, which danced and swirled in the early morning light.
‘Thank you,’ Michel said once they were alone.
Jean shrugged. ‘I have been where you are.’
‘Where are you going?’ Michel asked.
‘Wherever the train takes us.’
‘Who is us?’
‘Our troupe. Do you not realise what train you have stowed away on?’
Michel looked at the crates, most of which were hammered shut, yet a few revealed small secrets: colourful material – perhaps a suit, a dress; some sequins spilled out from crates that had been badly closed. Suddenly, Michel heard a low rumble partially disguised by the screech of the wheels as they clattered onto a new track, taking them further away from Paris.
Michel looked at Jean, who smiled. ‘Can you not smell them? I am surprised they did not wake you earlier. Monsieur Aramis is an early riser and usually much louder than this.’
‘Monsieur Aramis?’
‘The lion. You just heard him roar, did you not? Come now, do not tell me it is not obvious to you? The costumes, wild animals, a dwarf and a giant?’
‘The circus. You’re a circus.’
‘Aha, correct!’ Jean-Jacques clapped his hands.
‘Maman took me once. I think I was five – no, maybe six. It came to Saint-Émilion.’
Jean-Jacques produced a packet of cigarettes and offered one to Michel.
Michel took one and Jean lit it for him with a gold lighter, engraved with the Ace of Spades.
‘You like it?’ Jean asked, giving Michel the lighter to take a closer look. ‘The first magician I ever met gave me this. He said it was lucky.’
‘And is it?’
‘I like to think so. I’m still here, aren’t I?’ Jean grinned.
‘There is a circus in Paris, the Cirque d’Hiver.’
‘Of course. Our competition, although we do not match them. They have more performers – the best – more animals. Hell, even their train is enormous! Their carriages stretch for miles. Not like this rickety six-trailer. Although, we did have more. Once.’
The Ringmaster's Daughter: A beautiful and heartbreaking World War 2 love story Page 3
