Page 23 of The Ringmaster’s Daughter

‘Thank you. Goodnight, Lucien.’

‘Goodnight.’ Lucien turned to walk away, then said, ‘Michel, you know the story is true. Not that the magician was Isabelle’s father – although he may have been – but it is true. If you fall in love, watch out for him. He is always there, waiting to take it away.’

‘Lucien!’ Isabelle shouted.

‘Ah, he should have taken this one away.’ Lucien grinned and closed their bedroom door.

Michel lay in bed, thinking that sleep would come quickly, yet when it did not, he lit the candle on the bedside table and lay back once more, thinking of Lucien’s tale of the magician and the woman he had loved. The candle flickered as the light wind that came from the open window teased it, and Michel watched as the flame danced, taking on the silhouette of a woman that moved and swayed her hips as if entertaining a guest. The shadows on the wall jumped, danced and somersaulted, and Michel imagined them to be the circus troupe – look there: the elongated shadow, that was Jean, and the smaller, grumpier, immovable shadow, that was Giordano. Michel scanned the dancing shadows, looking for the one person he wished to see more than anyone. And there – suddenly, against the cracked plastered wall of the cottage, she flipped mid-air, turning and twisting. There she was. The woman from the train; her emerald eyes gleaming at him. Just as Michel smiled, the wind, sensing the change in mood, blew out the flame, encasing him in darkness.

The morning woke Michel with its sounds of the country; first the crow of the cockerel, sure and confident as he stood on top of the barn, close to the iron weathervane, and sang his morning tune, hoping that the females would hear him and wonder at his magnificent voice. Next came shouting and swearing from the farmyard as Lucien meandered to the toilet at the bottom of the garden, shooing chickens out of his way and the twin cats who, after a night of hunting, were curling themselves around their master’s legs, asking to be fed before they would sleep the day away.

Michel lay in his bed, his face to the ceiling, which was covered with the finite tendril-webs of its resident spiders, and let the sounds of the morning wash over him. They were somewhat softer than he was used to in Paris. There, his morning wake-up call was the traffic, both human and vehicular, that arose before dawn had broken, as people shuffled and dragged themselves along the Parisian streets to jobs that required them to be up earlier than most. The baker, the butcher, the café owner – all were up early to prepare for the day’s customers. Michel had always listened to that hustle for half an hour or so before he would rise, wash his face, and meet Bertrand for a coffee before heading to his own job. Now, Michel had nowhere to be, no friendly coffee to welcome him to the day, so he turned onto his side and fell again into a dreamless sleep, whilst the cockerel crowed above him and morning life stirred all around him.

When Michel woke once more it was because of a nose, wet and cold, pressed against his own, snuffling loudly as if it were checking that Michel was still breathing. He opened his eyes to be greeted by the sight of Coquette. Upon seeing his eyes open, she gave him an enthusiastic lick, welcoming him back to the world.

Michel laughed and shielded his face, which made her all the more determined to complete her mission of cleaning him.

‘That’s enough, leave him!’ Lucien’s voice rang out and she obeyed, trotting to her master’s side, sitting close to his heel.

Michel sat up.

‘She wake you?’

‘I heard the cockerel.’

‘He is a noisy one. I’m surprised you found sleep again after that.’

‘I should be going.’ Michel climbed out of bed and tucked his shirt into his trousers, everything mussed and creased from his travels the day before.

‘Take some bread and coffee before you go. Isabelle has it ready. Then be on your way. Try and flag yourself a car if you find someone going in that direction. And, if you can, try to stop at a town. I’ll give you a few francs so you can take some lodgings; you do not want to find yourself outside at nightfall. Not these days.’

Michel nodded his thanks and Lucien shook his hand. ‘Take care of yourself. Perhaps we will meet again?’

‘Perhaps,’ Michel said.

‘If you need anything, you know where we are now. Just in case no one helps you where you are going.’

‘I am forever in your debt, Lucien.’

‘Ha, begone with you! Kindness costs nothing. Remember that one. That, and always drink the best wine: anything else will make you ill!’

Michel said a quick goodbye to Isabelle after breakfasting on bread, pastries and thick rich coffee. She had prepared him a picnic of sorts, as if he were taking a lady for a quiet walk in the country, to spread a blanket under the shady arms of a tree, where they would eat and discuss a happy future together. Lucien tucked their address and some money into Michel’s pocket. ‘Just in case you ever need us.’

It was a quarter past nine by the time Michel found himself in the small village square once more, the church clock dully chiming whilst the woman from the café decked the two outdoor tables in their chequered cloths.

‘You leaving already?’ A chuckle.

Michel saw the gummy man – Armand – who Lucien had been playing backgammon with, sitting down at one of the café tables, book in hand.

‘You’d better be. No visitors here, my friend. Unless of course you are a good Catholic?’ The man waved the brown leather book in the air, and Michel saw the dull gold of a cross on the front. Armand chuckled again, then accepted his small cup of café from the Madame. ‘Only Catholics here, my friend! You see any of those others, you tell the Germans where they are hiding – do your duty, man! You are French. Remember that…’

The man’s voice faded with each step Michel took, but he imagined that he would never stop – the words of hatred ringing out in the bare village square, bouncing off the quiet walls for no one to hear.

Five

Le Cirque Neumann

That night, in a field which sloped towards a valley of pine trees, Michel lay on his side, the earth warm from the day’s heat, the grass prickly underneath his bare forearm. As the light faded, he ate a sandwich and a boiled egg from the pack Isabelle had given him that morning, his stomach growling as he bit into it. When he could no longer see, he took his winter coat and, wrapping it around him, lay down once more, falling asleep before he could worry about his fate.