Page 61 of The Ringmaster’s Daughter

I wrote you a letter in the summer telling you I was fine, telling you about my new job. I imagine you still, sitting at your desk and carefully asking me questions, telling me about your day, about Odette, about Paris.

I yearn for home still. No matter how much an adventure, no matter how much my heart must be here for now, it still beats for Paris, for home. You said once that home is where your family are, and my family is you.

We have travelled far since I last wrote, first further south and now towards the west. I imagine we will near the coast soon. I would like to see the sea – I do not like it when we are landlocked. Water makes me feel a little at home and whenever I see it, I imagine I am standing on the Pont Neuf, watching the Seine wind its way through the city.

Thankfully, just this morning autumn has arrived on a cool breeze that flaps against the canvas tents. I have not left, just as your voice told me not to do. With the advancement of the war, I truly have nowhere to go.

I still have not received pay – I know you will say he is a gypsy, but we all are now. Travelling in caravans, pitching up and playing tricks in town squares to earn enough to eat.

Tonight, we have a show prepared. Our first since July. It will be a small affair, yet it heartens me to see the red-and-white striped tent once more reaching for the sky.

It has been hard these past months, I cannot lie. More and more people have left so that we are stripped back to the bare bones.

We reached a town in the east and foolishly set up camp, not realising that it was full of German soldiers on leave. Felix went into town that night with two others. He did not return.

The boss told us Felix was arrested for fighting, but his face was pale and his hands trembled. Then he barked orders for us to leave. He never once mentioned Felix’s name and has not since.

I miss Felix, Bertrand. His gruffness had become a sort of kindness. That sounds strange, I know. But I understood him, I think. I knew that he meant well, he meant for me to be safe.

I told you in my last letter about a woman I cherish. I want to tell you now that I believe I may love her. Even though I have not spoken to her in months (!) it does not seem to matter – it is as though every day is a good day as long as I see her. On those days I do not, I am like a teenager again – sullen and unresponsive. I wonder sometimes if I am going mad – one day so happy, and the next I can wish for never-ending sleep.

Sometimes she watches me when I train Beau, just far enough away that my voice does not carry, but she will wave at me and I will wave back and I imagine that she is smiling at me.

Other days I ride Claudette the horse past her caravan and I see the curtain twitch and wait for a quick glimpse of her face, her smile.

There are times when we walk past each other, and once or twice I imagined that our arms had touched. I think they did – I hope they did.

These moments are what I seem to live for. I know her routine – how she visits the horses at dinner-time – and I have delayed myself so many times and missed a meal just so that I could nod hello, then watch her as she speaks to the horses, patting and fussing over them.

The boss still does not talk to me unless it is something to do with the horses. I have friends though: Jean and Giordano, Madame Rosie and Geneviève, Hugo and Vassily. These friends are dear to me now; they are almost like family. We share what little we have and cheer each other on the days when things do not go so well.

I told you of another woman in my last letter, Odélie. A woman who liked me. I think I failed her in a terrible way. She liked me more than I liked her, I see that now. And my rejection, or rather my ignorance, has caused some tension. She has an ally, her friend Serge, and between the two of them they enjoy teasing me, hiding things, talking about me to the others. Yet they do not realise that my childhood was full of these things – my stutter set me apart, alone, and I endured. So, I will endure this.

As sparse as the circus has become, people still flock to us, eager to see some colour, some fun, just something different. Kacper plays his accordion, and Gino the monkey dances and brightens children’s faces; Frieda tumbles and turns, bedecked in sequins, and high up she looks just like a star about to fall to earth; Serge swallows swords, bare-chested and muscles bulging; Hugo the clown delights everyone by balancing on a child’s tricycle and throwing cheap bon-bons to the crowd; and Jean and Giordano do their new act, where they sing and dance and act like fools. The finale is always the ringmaster himself, fending off Aramis our elderly lion. Then he rides Beau who dances, whilst Odélie and the triplets twist, turn and flip, all the while with Frieda still overhead grasping the trapeze, spinning in the air – then with the crash of cymbals she lets go and allows Anton to catch her. It carries on, night after night, like a recurring dream, and one which always ends the same way – with Frieda spirited away from me, leaving me with only the scent of her lemony perfume lingering in the air, and the memory of her.

If I were sitting across from you now, you would tell me I had become a romantic, which has made me foolish. You are right, of course you are. I am a fool.

I must go now, my friend. I hope this letter finds you well. I hope you write me back. Tell Odette I said hello. Tell Paris I will see her again.

Michel

Michel folded the letter and wrote the address on the envelope. He sealed it with a stamp given to him by Madame Rosie and placed it into his bag to be posted.

The crimson feathers stroked Michel’s palm as he dragged them across it, ready to put into Claudette’s new headdress. He felt the softness of each feather, and the hardness of the quill, almost bone-like, that held them all together. That night they were performing in a small town outside Médis. There were no food stalls this evening, simply the Big Top and a few scattered tents holding Madame Rosie, Serge and Madame Geneviève – a sorry rag-tag bunch of players, who all clung together because they had no other option.

Michel left his tent and meandered about, admiring how, despite the lack of money, the company had managed to transform this small town’s field into an evening of magic and mystery. Lights were strung in trees and along posts, though every few bulbs were dark and needed replacing.

The Big Top still stood proud, red-and-white striped, a small flag on top with a picture of a horse and rider; Werner sitting atop Beau. There were no tiered seats anymore, just a roped-off section so the few who managed to visit could stand and watch.

Michel turned towards Rosie’s tent, from which the comforting scent of lavender wafted towards him on the cool air. He was busy admiring her newly painted sign – her name peeking out from amongst twists and turns of green ivy and small rosebuds – when he walked into something. Something warm and large.

‘Serge.’ Michel took a step backwards.

‘Where are you going?’

‘I thought I’d talk to Odélie about tonight,’ he lied.

‘She’s busy.’