Page 16 of The Ringmaster’s Daughter

‘Who is that?’ The man pointed at Michel.

‘This? This is Michel.’

‘And why is he here? Does Werner know?’

‘Not yet.’

‘You need to speak to him.’ Serge did not take his eyes off Michel.

‘Why should I? I have no doubt you will relay the message before I have a chance.’ Jean said.

‘You need to learn your place, Jean.’

‘I do?’ Jean got to his feet, towering over Serge who stood his ground.

‘Tell him. Or I will.’ Serge turned from them both, his large thighs rubbing together with a swish-swish sound as he walked away.

Michel heard Serge speak once more, and he turned to look. Serge was talking to a slight man who swayed as they spoke.

‘You owe me money,’ the slight man said.

‘And you’ll get it.’

‘When?’

‘When the boss says so.’

‘I want it now.’

Serge smiled at the man. ‘You’ll get it when you get it.’

‘How about I just leave, eh? Everyone’s scarpering. Why don’t I? Who’ll put your tents up? Feed the horses?’

‘Then leave.’ Serge’s smile was stuck in place.

‘When I get what I’m owed.’ The slight man lit a cigarette, blew the smoke into Serge’s face and laughed.

Serge grew bigger, outwards and upwards, and then pushed him hard against the carriage doors.

Within a second everyone had left their seats to either watch or stop the fight. Suddenly, the veil had lifted and the carriage held a drab collection of everyone the world no longer wanted; their colourful costumes hiding their fears, their voices too light, too high, masking who they truly were. The triplets so elfin and sweet now looked like scared, skinny orphans; Odélie, the woman with the auburn hair, seemed much older as she pushed her way towards the fight. Even the monkey was not funny and endearing anymore; he had transformed into a wild animal, jumping from seat to seat, afraid and excited, squealing and screeching at the melee.

In that moment Michel wanted to leave, yet he could not, as something or someone appeared, changing the kaleidoscope once more, back to the burning colour of light and life, muffling the pitch of voices, silencing the caustic tongues. She had arrived.

At first, all Michel could see was the top of her head – raven-black shining hair that glowed in the muted light of the carriage. Her presence had stopped the fight and within moments people returned to their seats. Odélie’s face, no longer contorted, was beautiful and young again. Gino the monkey was quiet, and the triplets were now back to being otherworldly. As the crowd dispelled, Michel saw more of the woman. Her forehead, smooth and a light olive tone, then her eyebrows, black as her hair and perfectly arched; underneath, her eyes were green, but not any green Michel had ever seen before. Emerald, he would have called them, but even that did not seem to do them justice. She spoke quick, quiet words to Serge, then surveyed the rest of the troupe. As she did, her eyes stopped for a moment and lingered on Michel’s face. Serge swiped his head to see what she was looking at, and she smiled ever so slightly at Michel, then turned on her heel and beckoned Serge to follow.

‘Who is that?’ Michel asked.

‘Who?’ Jean did not look at Michel and instead shuffled a deck of cards with quick, expert hands.

‘That woman.’

‘You should go and see him now,’ Giordano muttered to Jean, taking the cards from him.

Jean stood and walked in the direction of the next carriage, where the woman with the emerald eyes had taken Serge.

‘Is it his wife? That woman?’

‘Who? Serge’s wife?’ Geneviève smiled over at Michel. ‘Hardly!’