Page 3 of The Ringmaster’s Daughter

‘I didn’t – I thought we could hold them off. But I think now we have no hope.’

‘Maman says they rape women. She says we should be thankful we are not Jewish.’

‘Estelle! Enough! Go and help your mother. Tell her to stop filling your head with rubbish.’

‘Yes, Papa.’ Estelle retreated, but just before she closed the door, Michel was sure she winked at him.

‘I’m sorry, Michel. A handful, as you can see.’

‘She’s just young,’ Michel said.

‘Yes. Young. Young and stupid. I worry for her.’ Arnoud looked deflated.

‘She’ll soon settle down.’

‘What, like one of your horses, you mean?’ Arnoud laughed. ‘I doubt it. She’s wild, like you. No good having two wild ones together. I need to find her a nice boring man, like a librarian!’

Michel laughed along with Arnoud, and the dogs, sensing something had changed, tried their luck and poked their noses into the shop.

‘Gah! Out! Not yet!’ Arnoud shouted at the dogs, who slowly backed away. He then began to take the scraps of meat, gristle and bones from the tray and gather them into two bowls. ‘They drive me crazy, these dogs, every day wanting food. They’re not even mine, and yet here I am feeding them when my customers are disappearing one by one.’

‘The cafés and restaurants are certainly quieter.’

‘People have come to their senses. Like you say, there is little hope – and you and I will be left here with the dogs and the scraps and my daughter who draws pictures.’

‘It’s really going to happen, isn’t it?’

‘It is certain.’

‘Will you leave?’

‘What? Leave all this?’ Arnoud spread his arms wide. ‘My business is mine. I’d like to see them take it from me.’ He lowered his arms then stroked his moustache. ‘The way I see it, they still need food, no matter what. Those Boche love meat, sausages. Fat and lazy, the lot of them. All this about them being tall and strong – that’s just now. Wait till they get here. You’ll see, eating meat and drinking beer soon enough. They’ll leave me be as long as I feed them.’

‘And Estelle?’

‘I’m packing her off to her grandparents. She doesn’t know it yet. Neither does the wife – she’s going too!’ He chuckled. ‘They are going this evening, down to the coast. They’ll be safe there. And I’ll be safe here.’

‘I hope you are right.’

‘But you, Michel – you should go. Trust me. They’ll bomb and blitz the place first – show us who our new boss is. You don’t want to be caught up in that, especially with no job. Nothing keeping you here. If I were you, I’d go.’

Michel waited as Arnoud finished wrapping up his mutton and ham, and handed them over.

‘Merci, Arnoud. I will see you soon.’

‘Ah, and maybe not, eh? Let’s see. If I do not see you again, enjoy the meat, and find yourself a wife? A nice quiet one, not like my Estelle!’

Michel chuckled and for the first time ever shook Arnoud’s hand. The man grasped Michel’s shoulder and held on for a moment.

‘Your mother would have been proud of you, Michel. Always an adventurer. Just like her.’

Michel nodded and left Arnoud, who having changed his mind, began filling the dogs’ bowls with some of his finest cuts of meat.

Michel stopped again at the corner of Rue Crocé-Spinelli where Odette’s café sat, the laughter and the chink of glasses reaching out to him, enticing him to come inside for one beer, one chat, one laugh, until he inevitably stumbled upstairs to his apartment in the early morning, his meagre wage packet emptied by a friend he would never see again.

This evening, the way the sun hit the peeling white paintwork of the apartment block, and how it ignored the rusting of the wrought-iron railings, extracting the crimson peonies and violet alliums of the early planted window boxes, made Michel feel as though he were returning home to much more than his sparse apartment.

Michel saw his neighbour, Monsieur Bertrand, sitting on his balcony writing his daily notes into his diary, the space awash with colour from his planters, and a pair of finches chattering and singing in their cage next to him. Michel knew that later this evening he would be sitting across from his friend, enjoying a rich glass of red, perhaps some warm bread and cheese, and together they would dissect their days, discuss a book or two, and perhaps reminisce about Michel’s mother or Bertrand’s late wife.