Page 109 of The Ringmaster’s Daughter

‘What does that even mean?’

‘It was a private bar, Michel, run by people Giordano knows and we do not. I expect they run many a bar in Paris without a licence – they have for years. Now, I suppose, their time is coming to an end.’

‘They will let him go – they must. He’s not part of the resistance, he’s not Jewish, he’s no one of interest to them.’

‘Unless he talks. Unless he tells them who and where your friends are.’ Bertrand poured the rest of the brandy into their glasses.

‘He wouldn’t.’

‘They have ways, Michel.’

They both sat back and tried not to think of the ways in which they could make Giordano talk. Michel felt sick. His insides churned and his whole body ached.

‘We need to let your friends know – the troupe – just in case,’ Bertrand said to the shadows that played on the ceiling, jumping and flickering to one another in their game.

‘We?’

‘Tomorrow I will take you. We will tell them and then, Michel, you will hide until the Germans get bored and go home.’

‘When will that be?’

‘Only time will tell.’ With that, Bertrand leaned forward and blew out the candles. The pair sat, listening to each other breathe, until sleep finally took them away.

Michel woke, still sitting in the armchair, his head leaning on his left shoulder, his neck sore and stiff.

Bertrand was nowhere to be seen as Michel stood at the window and looked out at those leaving for work, going to school.

He suddenly felt nauseous. It rose up quickly, and he ran to the bathroom and vomited until there was nothing left but bile. He washed his face then looked at himself in the mirror – his eyes were red and puffy, the stubble on his face now thick.

He thought of Giordano, of his face, of what they may be doing to him. Then he thought of Jean – how could he tell him? How could he tell him his best friend might never return?

Michel sat on the bathroom floor and felt the bile rise up again. He retched until his ribs hurt, then slumped down, his head in his hands, and wept.

‘I have it. She says she wants it back in a day. I say we have at least a week before she gets mad.’ Michel looked up and saw Bertrand, hat on his head, satchel in his hand. ‘What’s wrong? Why are you down there?’

‘I was ill.’

‘We need to go. We need to warn them.’

‘How can I tell them, Bertrand? How can I? It’s my fault, I should never have brought Giordano here.’

Bertrand kneeled next to him on the cool tiles. ‘It is not your fault. It is this war that is at fault. They will understand. Please, Michel. We must do what we can, and what we can do is let them know what happened.’

Michel allowed Bertrand to help him to his feet.

‘I borrowed Odette’s car. She has a permit to leave the city. Her lieutenant gifted it to her. I had to give her my cognac as collateral, so I suggest we go before she sells it or worse, drinks it herself.’

‘What about Giordano? We can’t just leave. We should look for him before we go – maybe we can find him?’

‘Michel, there is nothing we can do right now. If your friend Henri is as important as you say he is, if he returns, if your ringmaster knows someone… they can help. But I am an old man. I don’t know how to get the Boche to change their minds. I don’t know tricks. And neither do you. The only thing we can do is leave, go to your friends and warn them. Then, let us see what happens next.’

Thirteen

Ringmaster Bonnet

Beneath the darkened cloudy sky, everyone slept soundly. Michel had broken the news and they had retreated to their caravans, slowly, quietly.

Jean slept stretched out on the sofa in Henri’s living room, his hand holding an empty bottle of wine. There was nothing left inside, but he had not wanted to let it go. Michel sat in a chair by the fireplace, leaning on his hand, feeling empty and exhausted.