Page 4 of The Ringmaster’s Daughter

‘Michel!’ a high-pitched voice rang out.

Michel turned to see Odette herself, a curvaceous woman in a red wrap dress that made him think of a ripe apple. Her grey hair was escaping from its messy bun as if making a break from its owner.

‘You stopped out front but did not say hello? What is this about? Is it because that young lady from the other night did not come back?’

‘Madame Odette.’ Michel kissed both of her warm rouged cheeks, and caught the thick scent of flowery perfume combined with the potent glasses of wine she drank with her customers.

‘Come now Michel, come inside. There are far prettier girls than she. Why, there is a young lady at the bar right now, with long brown hair and a happy face. Surely you would like to meet her and buy her a glass of my finest cognac?’

Michel laughed. ‘Madame, you do keep a detailed calendar!’

‘I do?’ Odette lit a cigarette.

‘You always remember when I get paid.’

‘Oh! You have been paid?’ Odette patted a few stray hairs back into her bun. ‘Why, I had no idea! But now you have said so, come inside, see the lady.’

‘I have a prior engagement,’ he said with an air of importance, then looked up to Bertrand’s balcony.

Odette followed his gaze. ‘That old brute! Well, you tell him he owes me still for losing at cards, and he will not have his morning coffee tomorrow without payment.’

Michel smiled and watched as Odette huffily returned to the café, her large behind swaying importantly, yet he did notice that she threw one last glance at Bertrand before entering her lair.

He turned the key in the main door and climbed the small flight of stairs to his apartment. Before he could open his own front door, Monsieur Bertrand appeared.

‘Michel! I have been waiting. Come. Come in!’ Bertrand opened the door wide.

‘I won’t be long; I will just put this food away, have a wash—’

Bertrand cut him off with a shake of his head. ‘No. No. This is important, come!’ Bertrand then disappeared into his own apartment.

Michel followed and found Bertrand in the kitchen, fussing over uncorking a bottle of Burgundy. Then he turned to Michel and instructed him to sit in the living room. Michel chose his usual horsehair-stuffed crimson chair near the bay window. He felt himself relax into the chair’s deep embrace and leaned back to admire the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that surrounded him, the thick scarlet, blue and gold Persian rugs underfoot, and the photographs of Bertrand’s wife that adorned the walls and every available shelf. He coveted this apartment and wanted to be like Bertrand one day; well-read and travelled with bottles of the finest wines always in his kitchen.

Bertrand finally appeared and handed Michel a glass of the Burgundy – dense and aromatic. Michel did as Bertrand had taught him and sniffed the bouquet, which was woody and had a hint of chocolate, then took a sip, savouring the initial tang of alcohol followed by the notes of cherry on his tongue.

‘Good?’ Bertrand asked.

‘Very. What’s the occasion?’

Bertrand turned to the side table and switched on the radio, setting the volume low – the muffled voices became ghostly echoes.

‘Tell me about your day,’ Bertrand began.

Michel shrugged. ‘There isn’t much to say. I’m out of a job.’

‘Monsieur Abramowski…?

‘He left. Left a note – said he had to go. I don’t blame him. If what everyone is saying is true, he was not safe here.’

‘But he paid you, yes?’

‘Yes.’

‘Everything he owes you?’

‘Almost.’

‘Ha! See? I told you he would con you.’