Page 14 of The Ringmaster’s Daughter

The trio ate in silence for a few minutes, enjoying the crispness of the air that whistled through the half-open carriage door, smelling of wildflowers and now and again the scent of water, clean and fresh. As the carriage rocked gently from side to side, Michel felt calm, as if he were a child once more and his mother was rocking him to sleep.

‘Where are you going?’ Giordano suddenly asked, slurping his coffee.

‘Saint-Émilion,’ Michel said. ‘My grandmother used to live there.’

‘And you come from where?’ Giordano asked.

‘Paris.’

‘Ah, Paris!’ Jean leaned back against a stuffed woven sack. ‘I love Paris. The theatre, the romance, the life on every corner!’

‘You come from Paris too?’ Michel asked.

‘No. Not Paris. It was not really a home for me. I was the freak – I was the gossip.’

‘Me also,’ Giordano said. ‘But my home was in Italy, where the food and wine are far superior, but perhaps the thoughts are the same.’

‘Eh! Your food was inspired by the French! You would be nothing without it.’

‘You always say this, but how you think it could be true I can’t imagine!’

‘Come now, settle down, we have a guest. Although I wager that Michel, as a Frenchman, agrees with me. France is better.’

Giordano’s face reddened, and he looked to Michel like an overripe tomato about to burst its skins.

‘Have you always been in the circus?’ Michel asked, trying to defuse the argument.

‘I was eighteen – no, nineteen,’ Giordano began.

‘He asked me,’ Jean said. ‘But you can go first.’ He sat back once more against the stuffed sack and waved his hand languidly in the direction of Giordano, giving him permission to continue. Giordano swatted his friend’s hand away, poured himself another cup of coffee and spoke.

‘If you know Italy, it is shaped like the boot of a woman. I know this shape very well, not because it is my country but because my mother wore such boots and would kick me with them when I would tumble and fall as a child. My legs, as you see, are not like yours, but though my body is small, the rest of me is just like you – like everyone. But my mother, a woman who had five children – who were, as she said, normal – hated the way I looked, the way I moved and perhaps just who I was.

‘Yet, do not despair for me just yet, Michel. I was loved. I was loved by my father and his mother, my grandmother, who gave me everything I needed. My grandmother was the one who saw the opportunity for me to become famous in the circus – what else would I do? My mother laughed. Of course she did, and told me a lion would eat me or an elephant would trample me into the ground. But I did not stop trying. I joined every show, every visiting troupe I could. I learned magic, how to spin plates, how to tame a lion. I learned it ready for the day when it would be my turn. I found my way to this circus like so many others. So many others just like you. By pure accident.’

‘Or perhaps by fate?’ Jean said, and Giordano nodded.

Before Michel could ask either of them what they meant, the door to the carriage burst open, and in front of Michel stood a tall woman in a deep orange corset dress, peacock feathers adorning her long black hair, and – perhaps the strangest thing of all – a glistening curly beard covering her chin and above her top lip.

‘Oh my! Who is this? A stowaway?’ the woman cried.

She did not wait for an answer and strode quickly towards Michel, pulling his head into her bosom for an embrace.

‘It is all right now,’ she said. ‘A stowaway. A poor boy. I shall take care of you.’

‘He is no boy!’ Giordano laughed. ‘Young, yes. But a man nonetheless. You can’t have him this time, Madame.’

The woman let go of Michel, who was grateful to breathe air once more – her scent was flowery and spiced, with a hint of natural musk which made Michel’s head swim and dip.

‘What are you trying to say?’ Madame screwed her eyes into tiny slits as she addressed Giordano, who stood and stretched as if nothing important was happening.

‘I am trying to say that you collect things. And this time, you cannot have it.’

‘What? What do I collect?’ she demanded.

‘Oh now, let me think… my peacock feather I brought from Italy, the green gem presented to me on our last night in Venice, or perhaps,’ Giordano’s eyes were wide, ‘the diamond pendant currently around your swollen neck, given to me by a fair aristocratic lady in Versailles as we waved goodbye!’

‘How dare you! They are mine! Why would women give you – a man, and a small man at that – jewels and feathers? You are mad. That is what you are. Mad!’