Page 60 of The Ringmaster’s Daughter

‘Frieda is a mystery to me. She does not want to reveal her truth.’

‘But you said you could see the future?’ Michel’s tongue felt fat, his speech slurred.

‘There are mysteries everywhere, all around us. But we are lucky and have signs to follow – a painting, a photograph, a letter; mysteries, yes, but at the same time we will have our answer if we truly want it and look for it.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Michel said.

‘It is because you are not sure you want these answers. You need to look at what is everywhere – what is right in front of you.’

‘I do not understand,’ Michel said once more.

‘You will. You will. You must look, Michel.’

From outside came laughter, then Kacper’s accordion struck up a tune.

‘They are celebrating our new home. Hugo will have made génépy. Come, Michel. Let us join them.’

Michel followed the Madame, his head still clouded. Once outside he took a deep breath of clean summer air and allowed Madame Rosie to lead him towards the others, who had set up tables and chairs, some food and drink. At the head of the troupe sat Werner, his smile radiant, his foot tapping in time with the music, his eyes on Michel.

It was after midnight when Michel fell into his small bed, his eyes closing immediately, his feet still encased in their heavy boots. He felt as though he was slipping into some deep sleep of the dead when he heard something. His eyes opened only a fraction – the lids heavy – and in front of him was a cloaked shadow. The figure moved towards him, and Michel could not sit up. The shadow then bent down and kissed Michel lightly on the cheek, stroking his hair and whispering sweet dreams to him.

‘Frieda?’ he asked. But already the figure was gone, and he was alone in the night.

His eyes closed, cementing themselves shut, and his brain danced about, dreaming of Frieda tumbling through the air, swimming in deep waters, and then appearing to him, cloaked in black, her voice soft, her kiss on his cheek.

Part Two: Autumn

On russet floors, by waters idle,

The pine lets fall its cone;

The cuckoo shouts all day at nothing

In leafy dells alone;

And traveller’s joy beguiles in autumn

Hearts that have lost their own.

‘Tell Me Not Here, It Needs Not Saying’, A. E. Housman

Eight

L’Amour

The light had changed. No longer did it rage down upon them from dawn until dusk; now, its subtle early September glow, which filtered through drooping leaves and dappled the ground with specks of warmth, signalled that autumn had arrived.

A fresh wind blew through the tent one morning, bringing the smell of crackly leaves, bonfires and crisp air. Michel climbed out of bed and sat on his chair outside, enjoying the cooler air. The change calmed him and allowed him to sit back and relax, enjoying the slower pace and the laziness that the season inspired.

Anton walked past, a beard now thick on his face, his eyes rimmed red, his radio tucked under his arm. Michel shook his head – he was tired of that radio. All summer it had been a constant noise of news and static, informing and yet irritating the troupe from sunrise till sundown. Bombing raids on England, retaliation with a bombing of Berlin, food shortages, death, war at sea; the news did not cease with the barrage. When Anton could not get a signal, he wandered frustrated around the camp, the radio always with him, humming with white noise until a voice could be heard.

The summer had dragged on. Each week they moved, pitched up on the outskirts of a new town, and as the summer reached its peak in August, the troupe settled for three long weeks in a field beside a farmhouse – a friend of Werner’s. Michel counted the months – now three – since he had been with them; he had not spoken to Frieda since the day on the riverbank when she fled.

He looked for her now, and within minutes she was in his eyeline, talking to Madame Rosie with a crimson costume in her hands. Rosie took it from her, and the two women hugged. She did not look in his direction.

He pulled out the paper Jean had given him months before, and once again wrote to Bertrand.

Dearest Bertrand,