Page 79 of The Ringmaster’s Daughter

‘Yes. He’s funny.’

‘He’s angry and bitter.’

‘It can be overcome. I just like the way he talks – Don’t you Monsieur me!’ she imitated Armand.

Michel laughed. ‘Very good! Who else can you imitate?’

‘But Giordano, please, please give me my necklace back.’ Her voice was high-pitched and whiny.

‘Madame Geneviève!’ Michel guessed.

‘I have de most beautiful hair in all the world!’ Her Italian accent was flawless but exaggerated, and she ran ahead of Michel and twirled around. ‘Can you not see how my hair, it glows, my feet, they dance? Why, I am so clever, so talented!’

‘Giordano!’ Michel laughed.

‘Do not tell him I did this! I love him, really. I do.’ She took his arm once more. ‘They are my family. All of them.’

‘And what am I?’

Frieda stopped walking and Michel faced her. As she opened her mouth to answer, Coquette barked and ran off towards Lucien’s farm.

‘Where have you been? Werner is beside himself!’ Jean-Jacques was running towards them across the field. ‘Aramis has died. Werner is drinking with Lucien and crying. He thought the German lieutenant had taken you both away! Come. Come quickly.’

Michel and Frieda hurried with Jean back to the farm.

‘Come, show him you are both fine. I have never seen him like this before. Never. Tears streaming down his face, talking of wanting to go home, of his mother! I did not know he even had a mother!’

‘Don’t be silly. Everyone has a mother,’ Michel said.

‘I thought Werner just, you know – appeared. Who knew?’ Jean raised his arms in the air as if waiting to see what else would fall from the heavens.

As promised, Werner was distraught, hunched inside his caravan, Lucien topping up his glass with a rich red every time Werner emptied it.

‘You’re alive!’ Werner shouted upon seeing Frieda. He grasped her in a wobbly embrace.

‘Shhh, don’t worry.’ She turned to Lucien and Michel. ‘You can go now. I’ll take care of him.’

‘No! No one leave! We are burying Aramis, is that not so, Lucien?’ Werner asked.

‘Yes, of course. There’s a spot under an oak at the bottom of the field. Bluebells grow underneath in spring, and in summer the field is full of wildflowers.’

‘Get Serge. Get him to dig a hole, and when it’s ready we’ll all go and say goodbye…’ Werner’s words trailed off, his lip wobbling.

Michel stepped out of the caravan, found Serge, and together with Jean they dug a hole at the base of the old oak.

No one spoke but Giordano, who sat on a blanket and barked orders. ‘Needs to be deeper! He’ll come up otherwise, when it rains.’

‘If it matters that much to you, you could help.’ Jean wiped the sweat off his brow.

‘Only one boss needed – me. Too many cooks otherwise. Come on now, Michel, dig quicker. It’ll be dark if you carry on like this!’

By late afternoon, the grave was dug, and Aramis’s body had been brought to its resting place by the strong arms of Serge, Michel, Jean and Vassily.

The troupe walked in pairs across the field, Werner at the helm, Frieda by his side. He held a crimson blanket, and when he reached the grave, he laid it on Aramis. ‘Goodnight, my friend. Goodnight.’

Michel stood next to the hole, a spade still in his hand, ready to fill it in. He felt the sadness they all felt, even though he had barely known Aramis. But it was a sadness beyond the death of the lion. It was everything – the death of the entire circus, of what it once was, of what it could never be again.

Kacper played a soft, mournful tune on his accordion whilst each member of the troupe threw a handful of soil into the grave.