‘But you said you could see the future?’ Michel’s tongue felt fat, his speech slurred.
‘There are mysteries everywhere, all around us. But we are lucky and have signs to follow – a painting, a photograph, a letter; mysteries, yes, but at the same time we will have our answer if we truly want it and look for it.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Michel said.
‘It is because you are not sure you want these answers. You need to look at what is everywhere – what is right in front of you.’
‘I do not understand,’ Michel said once more.
‘You will. You will. You must look, Michel.’
From outside came laughter, then Kacper’s accordion struck up a tune.
‘They are celebrating our new home. Hugo will have made génépy. Come, Michel. Let us join them.’
Michel followed the Madame, his head still clouded. Once outside he took a deep breath of clean summer air and allowed Madame Rosie to lead him towards the others, who had set up tables and chairs, some food and drink. At the head of the troupe sat Werner, his smile radiant, his foot tapping in time with the music, his eyes on Michel.
It was after midnight when Michel fell into his small bed, his eyes closing immediately, his feet still encased in their heavy boots. He felt as though he was slipping into some deep sleep of the dead when he heard something. His eyes opened only a fraction – the lids heavy – and in front of him was a cloaked shadow. The figure moved towards him, and Michel could not sit up. The shadow then bent down and kissed Michel lightly on the cheek, stroking his hair and whispering sweet dreams to him.
‘Frieda?’ he asked. But already the figure was gone, and he was alone in the night.
His eyes closed, cementing themselves shut, and his brain danced about, dreaming of Frieda tumbling through the air, swimming in deep waters, and then appearing to him, cloaked in black, her voice soft, her kiss on his cheek.
Part Two: Autumn
On russet floors, by waters idle,
The pine lets fall its cone;
The cuckoo shouts all day at nothing
In leafy dells alone;
And traveller’s joy beguiles in autumn
Hearts that have lost their own.
‘Tell Me Not Here, It Needs Not Saying’, A. E. Housman
Eight
L’Amour
The light had changed. No longer did it rage down upon them from dawn until dusk; now, its subtle early September glow, which filtered through drooping leaves and dappled the ground with specks of warmth, signalled that autumn had arrived.
A fresh wind blew through the tent one morning, bringing the smell of crackly leaves, bonfires and crisp air. Michel climbed out of bed and sat on his chair outside, enjoying the cooler air. The change calmed him and allowed him to sit back and relax, enjoying the slower pace and the laziness that the season inspired.
Anton walked past, a beard now thick on his face, his eyes rimmed red, his radio tucked under his arm. Michel shook his head – he was tired of that radio. All summer it had been a constant noise of news and static, informing and yet irritating the troupe from sunrise till sundown. Bombing raids on England, retaliation with a bombing of Berlin, food shortages, death, war at sea; the news did not cease with the barrage. When Anton could not get a signal, he wandered frustrated around the camp, the radio always with him, humming with white noise until a voice could be heard.
The summer had dragged on. Each week they moved, pitched up on the outskirts of a new town, and as the summer reached its peak in August, the troupe settled for three long weeks in a field beside a farmhouse – a friend of Werner’s. Michel counted the months – now three – since he had been with them; he had not spoken to Frieda since the day on the riverbank when she fled.
He looked for her now, and within minutes she was in his eyeline, talking to Madame Rosie with a crimson costume in her hands. Rosie took it from her, and the two women hugged. She did not look in his direction.
He pulled out the paper Jean had given him months before, and once again wrote to Bertrand.
Dearest Bertrand,
I wrote you a letter in the summer telling you I was fine, telling you about my new job. I imagine you still, sitting at your desk and carefully asking me questions, telling me about your day, about Odette, about Paris.
I yearn for home still. No matter how much an adventure, no matter how much my heart must be here for now, it still beats for Paris, for home. You said once that home is where your family are, and my family is you.
We have travelled far since I last wrote, first further south and now towards the west. I imagine we will near the coast soon. I would like to see the sea – I do not like it when we are landlocked. Water makes me feel a little at home and whenever I see it, I imagine I am standing on the Pont Neuf, watching the Seine wind its way through the city.
Thankfully, just this morning autumn has arrived on a cool breeze that flaps against the canvas tents. I have not left, just as your voice told me not to do. With the advancement of the war, I truly have nowhere to go.
I still have not received pay – I know you will say he is a gypsy, but we all are now. Travelling in caravans, pitching up and playing tricks in town squares to earn enough to eat.
Tonight, we have a show prepared. Our first since July. It will be a small affair, yet it heartens me to see the red-and-white striped tent once more reaching for the sky.
It has been hard these past months, I cannot lie. More and more people have left so that we are stripped back to the bare bones.
We reached a town in the east and foolishly set up camp, not realising that it was full of German soldiers on leave. Felix went into town that night with two others. He did not return.
The boss told us Felix was arrested for fighting, but his face was pale and his hands trembled. Then he barked orders for us to leave. He never once mentioned Felix’s name and has not since.
I miss Felix, Bertrand. His gruffness had become a sort of kindness. That sounds strange, I know. But I understood him, I think. I knew that he meant well, he meant for me to be safe.
I told you in my last letter about a woman I cherish. I want to tell you now that I believe I may love her. Even though I have not spoken to her in months (!) it does not seem to matter – it is as though every day is a good day as long as I see her. On those days I do not, I am like a teenager again – sullen and unresponsive. I wonder sometimes if I am going mad – one day so happy, and the next I can wish for never-ending sleep.
Sometimes she watches me when I train Beau, just far enough away that my voice does not carry, but she will wave at me and I will wave back and I imagine that she is smiling at me.
Other days I ride Claudette the horse past her caravan and I see the curtain twitch and wait for a quick glimpse of her face, her smile.
There are times when we walk past each other, and once or twice I imagined that our arms had touched. I think they did – I hope they did.
These moments are what I seem to live for. I know her routine – how she visits the horses at dinner-time – and I have delayed myself so many times and missed a meal just so that I could nod hello, then watch her as she speaks to the horses, patting and fussing over them.
The boss still does not talk to me unless it is something to do with the horses. I have friends though: Jean and Giordano, Madame Rosie and Geneviève, Hugo and Vassily. These friends are dear to me now; they are almost like family. We share what little we have and cheer each other on the days when things do not go so well.
I told you of another woman in my last letter, Odélie. A woman who liked me. I think I failed her in a terrible way. She liked me more than I liked her, I see that now. And my rejection, or rather my ignorance, has caused some tension. She has an ally, her friend Serge, and between the two of them they enjoy teasing me, hiding things, talking about me to the others. Yet they do not realise that my childhood was full of these things – my stutter set me apart, alone, and I endured. So, I will endure this.
As sparse as the circus has become, people still flock to us, eager to see some colour, some fun, just something different. Kacper plays his accordion, and Gino the monkey dances and brightens children’s faces; Frieda tumbles and turns, bedecked in sequins, and high up she looks just like a star about to fall to earth; Serge swallows swords, bare-chested and muscles bulging; Hugo the clown delights everyone by balancing on a child’s tricycle and throwing cheap bon-bons to the crowd; and Jean and Giordano do their new act, where they sing and dance and act like fools. The finale is always the ringmaster himself, fending off Aramis our elderly lion. Then he rides Beau who dances, whilst Odélie and the triplets twist, turn and flip, all the while with Frieda still overhead grasping the trapeze, spinning in the air – then with the crash of cymbals she lets go and allows Anton to catch her. It carries on, night after night, like a recurring dream, and one which always ends the same way – with Frieda spirited away from me, leaving me with only the scent of her lemony perfume lingering in the air, and the memory of her.
If I were sitting across from you now, you would tell me I had become a romantic, which has made me foolish. You are right, of course you are. I am a fool.
I must go now, my friend. I hope this letter finds you well. I hope you write me back. Tell Odette I said hello. Tell Paris I will see her again.
Michel
Michel folded the letter and wrote the address on the envelope. He sealed it with a stamp given to him by Madame Rosie and placed it into his bag to be posted.
The crimson feathers stroked Michel’s palm as he dragged them across it, ready to put into Claudette’s new headdress. He felt the softness of each feather, and the hardness of the quill, almost bone-like, that held them all together. That night they were performing in a small town outside Médis. There were no food stalls this evening, simply the Big Top and a few scattered tents holding Madame Rosie, Serge and Madame Geneviève – a sorry rag-tag bunch of players, who all clung together because they had no other option.
Michel left his tent and meandered about, admiring how, despite the lack of money, the company had managed to transform this small town’s field into an evening of magic and mystery. Lights were strung in trees and along posts, though every few bulbs were dark and needed replacing.
The Big Top still stood proud, red-and-white striped, a small flag on top with a picture of a horse and rider; Werner sitting atop Beau. There were no tiered seats anymore, just a roped-off section so the few who managed to visit could stand and watch.
Michel turned towards Rosie’s tent, from which the comforting scent of lavender wafted towards him on the cool air. He was busy admiring her newly painted sign – her name peeking out from amongst twists and turns of green ivy and small rosebuds – when he walked into something. Something warm and large.
‘Serge.’ Michel took a step backwards.
‘Where are you going?’
‘I thought I’d talk to Odélie about tonight,’ he lied.
‘She’s busy.’
‘I’m sure she is. I just wanted to check on Claudette’s headdress, that it was right, but if you don’t think that Werner wants it to be perfect…’ Michel shrugged.
Serge stood aside and as Michel walked past, their shoulders brushed against each other. Michel turned to look at Serge, but Serge did not turn around.
Michel bypassed Odélie and the triplets’ caravan and made his way instead to Jean and Giordano’s. From outside, he could hear Giordano practising his newest song, and when he opened the door he saw Jean-Jacques copying Giordano’s movements as if they were a mirrored reflection of each other – yet one tall and one small. He stood and listened to the tune; it began with a story about a boy, a boy who longed to have a friend, and the friend he found was in his long shadow that followed him everywhere. The boy and his shadow grew together and eventually became one; at which point in their routine, Jean would appear and carry Giordano on his shoulders, a giant cloak covering them both – a nine-foot-tall boy who was now at one with his shadow.
Michel waited until Giordano had reached the point of his narrative when his shadow would take him and make them one, then entered.
‘No, no!’ Giordano shouted. ‘You ruined it! Almost there, almost at the end! Michel, what were you thinking?’
‘You performed it last week and the week before in the town squares; you’re fine.’
‘It’s still new, not perfect!’ Giordano threw his hat on the ground then slumped into a chair, his chin on his chest as he pouted.
‘Ignore him, Michel – sit, sit.’ Jean directed him to the other chair, then sat on the end of his bed.
‘Your feet must hang off the edge when you sleep.’ Michel nodded towards the short single bed.
‘They do. I don’t think I’ve ever had a bed that my feet stay in all my life.’
‘Not even when you were young?’
‘My feet have always stayed in my bed,’ Giordano interrupted, keen to be included in any conversation. ‘They know where to stay. Give me a drink. I’m nervous. I must calm my nerves now.’
Jean stood and poured each of them a shot of Hugo’s génépy, which was stronger than ever. Michel placed his own glass on the ground, still mostly full.
‘Too bitter, he can’t get the right ingredients anymore,’ Jean said and followed suit, placing his full glass on the floor.
‘Tastes good to me.’ Giordano knocked back the rest of his génépy.
‘You would say that. You said that the first time I met you!’
‘In that bar?! In Montmartre? Yes. I probably did say that. I was in Paris three days before anyone spoke to me. “The small Italian”, they called me behind my back. Le petit étalon italien.’
‘They were calling you the small Italian stallion, my friend.’ Jean laughed, and Michel joined in.
‘Who cares what they called me? They were jealous. Jealous of the Italian who robbed the French of their women! Pour me one more, Michel, to numb the nerves.’
‘I was glad I met you that day,’ Jean said, a look of melancholy on his face. ‘Who knew we were to be friends? The giant and the stallion?’ He laughed again.
‘You needed me,’ Giordano said, between sips. He turned to Michel. ‘He had lost his job in another circus.’
‘So had you!’ Jean shot back.
‘I did not lose my job. I simply decided it was not for me.’
‘Let’s just say, we found each other, and we needed each other.’ Jean poured some more génépy into his own glass.
‘How did you come to be here?’ Michel asked.
Jean shrugged.
‘It was those people,’ Giordano blurted, ‘those ones, you know? The ones who said we were not right?’
Jean placed his glass on the ground and looked at Giordano.
‘You remember, Jean-Jacques? We were in that small apartment near the graveyard, and we would juggle and sing, and play hide the queen under the cups. The police, they told us to move; the people, our neighbours, they told us we were wrong and then that day, that day in the cemetery when we took our lunch against the falling grave, Werner appeared.’
‘Hush now, you’re drunk.’ Jean made to laugh but it rang false.
‘Tonight will be a good performance, I’m sure of it. Beau has mastered some more tricks,’ Michel said, seeing Jean’s discomfort and trying to change the subject.
But Giordano continued: ‘He was there. We were sitting, our backs against that grave. You remember? Pour me more, Jean. One more for the nerves. Pour me one more, I said! I’m small but not weak! Thank you, Jean, thank you. Where was I? Yes, the grave. We had our backs to it, and we ate bread and cheese. Then Werner came and said, “I hear you play tricks?”
‘We told him we did, and he asked us if we wanted a job. See, Jean? See? I told the story as it was. No more, no less. We got a job; it got us away from that mouldy apartment, got us back in the circus.’
Before Michel could ask more, voices outside, deep and authoritative, shouted
in muddled French with thick clipped accents. Madame Geneviève screamed out that her jewels were being taken.
Michel ran from the tent to be greeted by the sight of armed, uniformed soldiers, black swastikas on their sleeves like menacing spider legs, their shining boots too clean and too bright in the autumnal dusk.
The soldiers threw belongings from Madame Geneviève’s caravan, then moved on swiftly; they pulled Anton out of his tent and kept searching.
Dissatisfied, one solider kicked Anton in the stomach, then laughed as he howled and curled up on the ground.
Michel made to move towards the man, but felt Jean place a hand on his arm. ‘Don’t move,’ Jean whispered.
One by one, the performers were dragged from their caravans and tents, and made to stand outside as their belongings were thrown to the ground. Michel saw shadows in his own tent; then his beloved book was tossed onto the grass, the pages open and fluttering in the wind.
A man in a long grey overcoat smoked a cigarette nearby, his thin moustache twitching as he smiled at his soldiers’ handiwork.
‘What is the meaning of this?’ Werner appeared, his top hat askew, his bow-tie half fastened.
‘Papers, Monsieur,’ the man with the twitching moustache replied. ‘Papers. Do you have a permit for this…’ The man gesticulated to the few tents, a stall or two. ‘This thing?’
‘It’s a circus,’ Werner replied, drawing himself up to his full height, and righting his top hat to give him those few extra inches.
‘Quite. Well. Perhaps it once was…’
‘I have a permit. I obtained it today from the mayor. He said one night only.’
The moustached man took the papers from Werner and scrutinised them.
‘The mayor? Unfortunately, he is no longer mayor now. I am. I am mayor, policeman, judge and jury. Have you asked my permission?’
Werner shook his head with confusion.
The Ringmaster's Daughter: A beautiful and heartbreaking World War 2 love story Page 14
