Page 28 of The Ringmaster’s Daughter

‘One half of it. You would have seen her on the train; green eyes, tall?’

‘So… she and Anton?’

‘Not Anton’s, no. She’s Werner’s, so don’t get any ideas about her. Trust me.’

As the queue shortened, Michel could see crowded wood-slatted fold-out tables and chairs which were placed under a large awning. At one end was a larger wooden table, laden with blackened pots and pans that emitted curls of steam and were manned by a trio of cooks; kerchiefs tied around their necks, stained aprons around their portly bellies.

Michel took a plate, and a short cook with fat arms filled it with a thick stew and vegetables. He followed Jean and sat at a table with him, Giordano, and a thin man who ate with his face close to his plate, spooning in the food as if he was afraid it would soon be taken from him.

‘This is Felix.’ Jean nodded towards the thin man. ‘Sets things up, carries things and such.’

‘Hello,’ Michel said.

Felix looked up. ‘Yes?’

‘I’m Michel.’

‘Good. Eat your food, Michel.’

‘Not a big talker, is Felix!’ Jean laughed. ‘Don’t be offended.’

Michel ate and listened to Giordano lament the lack of good food, and how, perhaps, he would have to return to Italy soon if things did not improve.

‘Where are you from?’ Michel attempted to engage Felix once more. ‘Your accent – I can’t place it.’

‘I am Polish,’ Felix said.

‘When did you come to France?’

Felix stopped eating and looked at Michel. ‘A while ago. Why?’

‘I just wondered.’

‘Don’t bother yourself with wondering. I am here and that is that.’ Felix stood, took his almost empty plate, and found another table to sit at.

‘Don’t mind him,’ Jean said. ‘Like I said, not one for talking.’

Michel nodded and ate slowly, aware that now and again Felix looked over at him.

That night, Michel slept uneasily in a fold-out bed that dipped in the middle, the sound of horses breathing heavily nearby. He hovered on the edge of sleep, where dreams and reality merged; more than once he awoke to the sound of rustling, believing that it was Felix, there to challenge him or perhaps to tell him why he had looked so afraid.

Michel woke for good when it was still dark outside, and he was cold. He swung his legs out of bed and reached for the torch that Jean had given him. His winter coat was lying on his bag; he picked it up and wrapped himself in it. As he did, he heard voices outside. One voice, then another, low, murmuring. He cocked his head to the side to try and hear better, but the words were too muddled for him to make out what they were saying.

Michel crept out of the tent, the grass cool underfoot, and walked a few steps into the dark.

Then suddenly, he heard the crackle of static, another voice, then more static – it was Anton’s radio. Just as he was about to turn away, he heard another voice, this time clear – it was Werner.

‘What is it?’ Werner asked.

A whisper from Anton.

‘You know what I said!’

‘It isn’t that.’ Anton’s voice was firm.

‘Better not be. I told you you’d go. I told you. Do you think I lie?’

‘No.’