Page 123 of The Ringmaster’s Daughter

‘Come now, Werner, I have seen you be a romantic. Michel, listen, Werner and Éva were so in love. He would bring her flowers every day, just to make sure he saw her smile at least once a day. That is romance.’

‘I was young,’ Werner said.

‘And you, Michel. Are you a romantic?’

‘I’m not sure. I hope I am.’

‘Frieda thinks you are.’ Henri winked, and Werner shifted in his chair.

‘I hope to be everything she wants me to be.’ Michel was emboldened by the wine. ‘I hope to give her everything she wants. One day, I will have the money to buy her things, to be romantic.’

‘Money is not romance, Michel. It helps, of course. I have money, but I have no romance.’ Henri took a sip of wine, then looked above him at the painting of the man that hung above the fireplace.

‘You’re drunk,’ Werner admonished Henri. ‘And I’m tired.’

‘We are celebrating! Here, have some more, then you can fall asleep like a baby. I told Michel about my own great love.’

‘You did?’ Werner raised his eyebrow.

‘I did. His name, Michel, was Pedro, from Madrid. He could dance, you know. Oh, how we would dance together when no one was looking.’

‘You said he died. What happened?’

‘Now, that is a sad tale. A sad, sad tale.’

‘Not one we need to go over,’ Werner told him.

‘No. We must. It is romantic in its own way – just as Éva losing you and you gaining a daughter is romantic. So is the way our love ended.’

‘Do as you wish. You will anyway.’

‘Now, Michel, Frieda told you that one night in Paris, she saw me battered, beaten even worse than our friend Werner here. Well, that was the night Pedro died. You see, my wife, God rest her soul—’

‘And the others,’ Werner interrupted.

‘Yes, the others too – all my wives. God rest their souls. Anyway. She was poorly and took to bed. I told her that Pedro was in Paris whilst Werner got things organised for their next jaunt. Pedro and I spent many a day roaming Paris, buying gifts, eating and talking. We went to museums, he taught me to speak some Spanish, I painted him. In the evenings we sat, just as any couple did, and read by the fire, or listened to music. When my wife was able, she joined us, and we had dinner together. It was nothing obscene like people think. It was just love. Then, one night, we went to a bar where we could hear some singers. We ordered a bottle of wine and sat together. It was dark in the bar, very dark, so now and then we held hands under the table.

‘It was about nine when things changed. The singer was taking a break, and the barman accidently flicked on the main light, illuminating the entire crowd – and Pedro and I with our arms around each other.

‘It was a mere moment, a flicker of something that many would never have noticed. But to our distress, it was seen.

‘A group of men behind us saw. They approached us and asked questions – Who are you? What is your name, address?

‘We were committing no crime, so I refused to answer them. I told them it was none of their business.

‘I did not know that one of the men was a gendarme. A high-ranking official at that. He did not take kindly to my refusal, so they dragged us outside. The gendarme told me he would prosecute us; some sort of law about morality. I told him once more that we were committing no crime.

‘I remember that one of the men laughed. Then, before I knew it, I was on the floor, being kicked and spat on. Pedro tried to help, he screamed for others to help us, but no one came. He attacked the gendarme, who was kicking the hardest. The gendarme threw him to the ground and then Pedro was silent.

‘They grew weary of their game soon enough and left us alone, bleeding into the gutter. It had started to rain, and it was as if the whole pavement ran with blood. I tried to stand and finally found I could. I made my way to Pedro. His face was unrecognisable. His face. It was still. He did not react when I screamed, when I cried. Nothing. His face…’ Suddenly Henri began to weep. Holding his head in his hands, he cried and screamed as if reliving the nightmare.

Werner tried to get up from his chair but could not, so Michel sat beside Henri and held him close, rocking him like a baby until eventually the weeping became muffled sobs.

‘I told you not to talk about it,’ Werner said quietly.

Henri looked to Werner and smiled sadly. He wiped his tears away with the cuff of his jacket. ‘I know. And you were right, as always. If I would only listen to you, Werner, my life would be so different.’

‘Can I get you something?’ Michel asked.