Page 139 of The Ringmaster’s Daughter

Miriam comes to my apartment on Christmas Eve at five o’clock. She is early. Too early.

‘You are early,’ I say, letting her in.

‘It is much nicer now, Michel.’ I see her looking around approvingly.

I have decorated, bought rugs, cushions, pictures. All from flea markets. I want it to look like Frieda’s caravan – full of colour and life.

There is a charcoal drawing that hangs in a gilded frame that you can see as soon as you walk into the room.

‘That is her?’ Miriam asks.

‘Yes. I asked one of the Poles who is an artist to do it from my memory. It took us almost a month to get it right.’

‘She is beautiful.’

‘She is.’

In the drawing, Frieda is staring at the viewer, her long hair trailing over her shoulder, her lips parted as if at any moment she is going to laugh or speak.

Miriam sits in a chair and I get her a drink.

‘Do you think you will fall in love again?’ she asks.

‘Maybe. But not like with Frieda.’

‘That’s what I think too. It won’t be the same again. It can never be the same, can it?’

‘Maybe that’s OK, for it to be different.’

‘Maybe,’ she says, then throws her wine back in one go.

I pour more.

‘Do you think that jazz singer will be there tonight? Do you?’

Part Four: Spring

Nothing will die;

All things will change

[…]

A spring rich and strange,

Shall make the winds blow

Round and round,

Thro’ and thro’,

Here and there,

Till the air

And the ground

Shall be fill’d with life anew.