Page 44 of The Ringmaster’s Daughter

Michel laughed.

‘I told you she would,’ Jean said.

‘You would think a lady with a beard like she has would know something more about hair!’ Giordano exclaimed, then reached up and took the jester’s cap off his head, where they could see a thick black stripe down the middle, the rest of his hair a mahogany brown.

‘I always thought I had black hair, and so she put black polish on it, and it shows I do not have black hair, I have brown! What kind of Italian man am I? No shiny black mane like Beau!’

Even though the man’s tone was light, Michel could see that Giordano was near tears. He stopped laughing and handed him the flask.

‘Well, the show goes on and I must perform,’ he said stoically. ‘I am a professional.’ He pulled the cap back onto his head.

‘Can you smell that?’ Michel asked suddenly.

Jean lifted his face upwards, his nose sniffing the air.

‘Smells of butter,’ Giordano said.

Michel closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. Then, opening them with a start, he said, ‘Pancakes!’

‘We shouldn’t – people are arriving,’ Giordano said, but his eyes were fixed on the direction of the scent.

‘We won’t be long. Five minutes.’ Jean was already walking away, and Michel stood up to follow.

Within seconds the trio were out of the camp and amongst the growing crowds. Multicoloured lights were threaded through the branches of trees and around posts, and blazing torches lit with petroleum led the way through the fair towards the Big Top. The small purple tent of the Mysterious Madame Rosie was lit with only small white lights and one torch, and visitors were assaulted by the thick scent of burning sage and lavender upon entry. Around the next bend was the tent of the Amazing and Strange. Later in the evening, Madame Geneviève would go there to groom her beard, the Great Vassily would astonish with his magic tricks, the strongman Maximillian would lift his daughter Adeline above his head, and Serge would delight by swallowing swords so long it astonished Michel that he was still in one piece.

A light breeze rippled the canvas of the tents, creating a flap-flap noise which reminded Michel of the pigeons fluttering in the eaves at the Gare d’Austerlitz. The breeze picked up the sweet smell of caramel, mingled with the peppery grease of the sausages cooking over large skillets of onions, and sailed out towards those who queued between two ropes at the ticket booth; small children standing on their tiptoes to try and see the magnificent curiosities awaiting them.

Michel stood aside to let a young family past, inadvertently leaning against the thick canvas of the Big Top, its red-and-white striped peak overlooking the many visitors. From inside the tent, he could hear the grumble of Aramis the lion.

It was remarkable to Michel how the circus had transformed itself. During the day it was empty and abandoned; far too quiet, the white canvas tents grubby and unloved, the Big Top fraying at the seams. Even the animals were duller, quieter and lethargic. The peeling paint on the stalls had not been restored, the lettering on the signs was beginning to fade, and the costumes had small tears, patched with any material they could find. But by night, the circus came alive. Its broken parts and worn paint were unseen, the animals woken from their stupors, and the performers became strange and magical creatures, glittering under the twinkling lights.

Michel walked past Kacper, who nodded a hello at him as he played his accordion, his small monkey Gino dancing, ready to be handed a banana for his troubles.

Jean-Jacques suddenly stopped the trio and pointed his long finger towards a stall awash with people. ‘Look!’

Michel followed the direction of the giant’s finger and saw a man laughing with his customers as he poured thick batter into a pan, adding butter and cloying syrups. They patiently queued until Michel was finally handed a pancake for a coin; he groaned with pleasure as he took the first bite.

‘It’s the butter,’ the vendor said proudly. ‘My own. My cows made it.’

Michel wiped the grease from his chin and walked after Jean and Giordano, who were making their way back towards Michel’s tent.

Madame Geneviève stood outside her own tent, dressed in a tight red bodice dress, her large bosom spilling over the top, her thick beard oiled and perfectly groomed. She held a handkerchief to her face and dabbed at her cheeks now and again. When she saw Giordano, she bawled at him. ‘You said you had grey hair and now you do not have grey hair! I did what you asked! I am no magician! You made me cry just before the show!’

‘Ah, come now, Madame, don’t cry,’ Jean soothed, while Giordano shouted something back at her in Italian, his face as crimson as her dress.

The Great Vassily walked past at that exact moment, producing out of thin air a fresh bunch of tulips for Madame and a new blue hat for Giordano. ‘Come see me next time.’ He winked at Giordano.

‘Michel!’

Michel turned at the sound of his name, and saw Werner stepping out of the train and heading towards him, followed by Frieda.

‘Michel!’ Werner waved at him. He was dressed, ready for the evening, his plump body decked out in striped trousers and a red jacket, finished off with a large black top hat, and his ridiculous moustache nicely waxed.

Michel made to move towards them but could not; his feet had planted themselves into the soil as soon as Frieda appeared. He could feel his heart beating faster and his mouth was dry. He watched every movement she made; the way she flicked her hair away from her face, her hand as it returned to her side, the way she gracefully turned, her whole body shimmering with sequins as she kissed Werner on both cheeks.

‘Michel!’ Werner shouted again. Finally, Michel had no choice but to respond. ‘Are you deaf? Could you not hear me? Is Beau ready?’

Frieda stood behind Werner and gave Michel the tiniest of smiles.