Page 124 of The Ringmaster’s Daughter

‘A whisky. Just one, then time for a nap. Don’t look at me like that, Werner, I said one more and then to bed. Thank you, dear Michel. Such a dear boy. Frieda is lucky to have you.’

Michel sat and allowed Henri to drink and calm himself, the grandfather clock ticking loudly, reminding them that it was almost tomorrow – almost the day of the show.

‘It is too quiet here. Too quiet. That damned clock keeps reminding me of each second of my life that is ticking away. I will leave here soon. Leave and never come back.’

‘It is almost tomorrow,’ Michel said.

‘Yes. Indeed it is. You must rest. It is a big day for you, for all of us. You know Werner saved my life that day? He took me in, cleaned me up, nursed me. He went to my wife and told her what had happened. She was a powerful woman, Michel. The widow of a judge, no less. She made sure that nothing happened to me, but poor Pedro’s death was classed as an accident – there was nothing she could have done to change that. Werner, he stopped me from going mad, from drinking myself to death or jumping from a bridge.’

‘Which you tried to do so often it kept me awake for months,’ Werner added.

‘And yet, you persevered. You are my friend. My very best of friends. I am so glad to have met you.’

‘Now you are becoming maudlin. I can’t have maudlin. Neither can Michel, not the night before the show.’

‘You are right, you are always right, Werner.’ Henri stood and helped him to his feet. ‘Michel, sleep well. I am putting Werner to bed. It is time we all had some peace.’

Michel watched Henri gently half carry and half walk his friend to the stairs. The two of them leaned on each other, holding each other up.

Fifteen

La Danse Macabre

The morning of the show, the wind grew stronger with each hour; the canopy of the Big Top concaved for a moment, and then the next it filled with air and looked bulbous against the sky. Michel welcomed the wind that brought the cold and iced rain from the east, a fitting scene for their final performance – dramatic, unnerving, a last goodbye.

The horses were skittish. The wind was different here, untamed and dangerous. They wanted to be free with it, run wild across fields without the constant eye of their trainers. The wind whispered to them, made them stamp their hooves and flare their nostrils, impatient for what was going to happen next.

Under the turbulent grey-black sky, Michel waited for Frieda to come out of her costume fitting with Madame Rosie. Trees swayed and dipped as the wind bent them to its will, yet people milled about, holding down caps, grasping shut jackets, as if the wind would give up and forget about disturbing them in their final preparations. Their clothes were muted by the cold sky, making everyone seem to Michel like characters in a dream he could not control.

Frieda came to him, as wild as the wind, her hair a stream of black behind her. Her green eyes looked luminous in the dimmed light and when she kissed him, it was as though she was sealing their bond – they were going to be together forever.

‘I was just going to see your father,’ Michel said. ‘Do you want to come?’

‘I can’t. Rosie is getting worried that she cannot do everyone’s make-up in time. We are all helping. Give Papa a kiss from me. I will see you soon.’

‘It’s almost time.’

‘It will be fine, Michel. Trust me. It will be fine.’ She kissed him again, then retreated to the caravan where he heard Rosie shouting at Bertrand for doing it wrong.

As Michel entered Henri’s house, he could hear a woman sobbing, and the rise and fall of Henri’s voice.

He tapped gently on the closed living room door and it swung open so quickly that Michel wondered if they had been waiting for him.

‘Come in.’ Henri’s face was tight with anger.

Michel walked into the room and saw Odélie in the corner, tears streaming down her face, her eyes puffy and red as if she had been weeping for days.

‘Tell him!’ Henri commanded.

‘Please!’ Odélie begged, then sobbed into her hands, hiding her face.

Henri approached her and grabbed her head, so she was forced to look at Michel. ‘Tell him!’ he shouted again.

‘I am sorry, Michel,’ she said, her voice not her own – childish, pleading. ‘I am so sorry.’ She fell from her chair and lay on the floor curled into a ball; her body racked with sobs.

Michel made to move towards her, but Henri grabbed his arm. ‘Don’t. Leave her.’

Henri walked away from her and took a bottle of whisky off a shelf, then poured two glasses. He placed one on the floor next to Odélie’s head. ‘Drink it and pull yourself together.’