Page 132 of The Ringmaster’s Daughter

‘I’ve Lived to Bury My Desires’, Aleksandr Sergejevich Pushkin

Sixteen

New York

The air has changed once more. This air is cold – colder than I have ever known before. It blows over the Hudson River, bringing with it snow, sleet and that smell of river water – a rich, heady scent of decaying trees and ancient mud banks, a scent that to some is perhaps unfortunate, but it takes me back to my childhood, and to my home.

I wake to the cold and wrap a dressing gown around me – a worn old thing given to me by a kindly neighbour. A Polish woman, herself escaped to this strange city with little but her sick husband and a few treasures. Her husband is now dead. His skinny frame never recovered from the torment of the camp he escaped, and he died in her arms, wearing this gown. Some would think it morbid that I wear it, yet I think it an honour. He endured more than I have, even though my heart is perhaps more broken by love than his; at least he had his wife near him at the end.

I make coffee. Now I own two mugs: one blue and one white with a blue trim on the lip. I choose the white mug; it matches the colour of the sky and the snow that fell last night. I fill it to the brim with a dense black coffee that I found cheap in the deli two blocks away. It smells of chestnuts and perhaps chocolate – it is harsh, bitter, and too strong for most – yet for me it is perfect.

My chair. My only chair. My chair – I like to say these words. It is grey and patched in places, but it is stuffed with horsehair and this is the reason I love it so – it reminds me of the chair in Bertrand’s apartment in the 14th arrondissement, the chair I always wanted to own. I own it now. It cost me one dollar in a market that runs down the side of the block every Friday morning for people like me – for we who do not yet belong.

I sit, allowing the stuffing to sink and envelop my weight – not that there is much of it – and sip at my coffee whilst the snow falls, thinking as always about her; wondering where she is and if perhaps today is the day I will see her again, even though I know it’s impossible. A year has passed and yet it feels as though I have just arrived; as if this is all still a dream.

Each falling flake reminds me of her – when laughter and murmurings of love whispered their way into my ears.

I try every day to shake the memory from my mind, to concentrate on the present, but the snow draws me to it, leading me into a memory that is whitewashed as a dream – which takes me back to her.

* * *

It was as though winter appeared the moment we drove away in that car, in October 1940. The autumn leaves littered the road and a frigid rain hit hard on the windscreen. Frieda huddled into me for warmth and I held her close, every now and then feeling her body move as she quietly cried. As we drove, I realised I had not said a proper goodbye to Beau. I had dismounted and left him with Eliáš. I had forgotten my friend.

The car ride was a blur. The driver, a man Henri said he trusted with his life, had a scar from ear to cheek on one side of his face. He didn’t talk, other than to tell us to lie flat on the back seat every now and then.

He drove quickly, around bends, up hills, only stopping to fill the tank from a jerrycan he kept in the back.

Frieda cried for Werner, for the others. I held her and tried to soothe her. ‘They will be fine,’ I said. ‘Henri will see them all right.’

Eventually she fell asleep, her head on my lap, drained from the performance, the fear, the goodbyes.

‘Do you smoke?’ I asked the driver.

‘Doesn’t everyone?’

‘You want one?’

He nodded.

I tapped out two from the packet and lit one for him. He took it and didn’t say thank you.

‘Where are we going?’

‘The coast,’ he said. ‘Where else are you going to get in a boat? Your bags are in the back, by the way.’

‘I didn’t pack a bag.’

‘Someone did.’

At dawn, we reached a rugged outcrop. I could smell the sea before I saw it; the salty freshness that always made me feel excited. Despite our circumstances I felt my stomach flutter at the sense of adventure.

I woke Frieda, who was pale and still so exhausted. She sluggishly came around, and our driver told us we had to get out of the car.

‘It’s freezing out there,’ I said.

‘I can’t stay.’

‘What do we do?’