Page 87 of The Ringmaster’s Daughter

‘Isn’t this fun?’ Lucien appeared with Isabelle. ‘She could not be happier, could you, ma chérie?’ Before she could answer, Lucien continued: ‘The colours, the music! You are lucky, Michel. So lucky.’

Michel looked at the old man, whose cheeks were rosy as a child’s and his eyes just as wide.

By the time they reached the square, Werner was already chatting to the thirty or so villagers who had gathered outside the café to watch. Gehring sat in prime position, a glass of beer in one hand and a cigar in the other, his expression already entranced by the colourful spectacle. He was the only one, though. The other spectators had their hands jammed into their pockets, their faces blank, their eyes watching the strangers’ movements. Michel felt more nervous about the unfriendly crowd than he did about the five or so German soldiers who lounged behind Gehring at the café.

Children sat on the ground by their parents’ feet, chins in their cupped hands, waiting, ready for the show to begin. They too seemed bored and restless, as if they had been forced to come and see this menagerie of outsiders against their will.

Hugo, his face painted as an Auguste – his nose red, his wig a mass of ginger curls, with blue-and-white striped trousers – climbed onto stilts and waved to the children who littered the ground. Suddenly, they became more animated. To them, the troupe had become something else – magical creatures, not the downtrodden outsiders of before.

Their squeals of delight echoed around the square, and in an instant it seemed to Michel that the town relaxed. Mothers took their hands out of their aprons and began to talk gregariously to their neighbours; men lit cigarettes and went into the café, retuning with mugs of beer and short glasses of wine.

As the sky darkened, lights came on around the square, casting shadows on the performers’ costumes that made them appear brighter and more exotic.

Kacper played tunes on his accordion as the troupe performed all at once, so that the spectators were captivated wherever they chose to look.

Near the church, Gino the monkey danced and accepted coins from children in his small blue cravat. Outside the café, the triplets backflipped and somersaulted, whilst Odélie became Serge’s assistant, handing him knives to swallow, each one longer, sharper and shinier than the last. In the centre of the square, Frieda rode Claudette, standing up on tiptoes as the mare trotted, then jumping to the ground before springing back into the saddle with one deft leap. Jean and Giordano acted out their story of the boy and his shadow, the mothers dabbing at their eyes when Giordano sang of his lament at having no friends. Vassily went from child to child, magically pulling coins, scarfs and bon-bons from their ears, whilst Madame Rosie told fortunes and sold charms at the café.

Michel realised that Lucien and Isabelle had left him alone, and so he perched himself on a low brick wall, just far away enough to see the whole spectacle as it unfolded. He lit a cigarette and watched Frieda, who never tired, never lost her footing or her smile.

Soon a fiddler appeared, one of the townsfolk, then a villager with a French horn and one with a hand-drum. Each set up next to Kacper, and somehow they found common tunes they knew, and the air became filled with notes, high then low, fast then slow, which encouraged feet to tap against the cobbles, heads to bob in time with the music, until Gehring himself could not sit still any longer and grabbed the hand of the Madame from the café, and began to dance. More people joined in, and whilst the children watched Vassily, Giordano and Jean, the adults danced and laughed.

Michel saw Frieda tie Claudette’s reins to a railing and she too began to dance, her hair flowing behind her. Now and again her whole head tilted back, free and enraptured by the music.

Michel wanted to join her, but he did not want to disturb the vision of her wild, liberated and happy, laughing at her father Werner as he performed a complex tap dance, his little legs moving quickly. The triplets had for the first time separated from each other, and held the children’s hands to sway from side to side with them. Even Serge was taken by the merriment, and smiled when a young woman in a red coat asked him to dance with her.

Madame Geneviève had not wanted to take part in the performance, but Michel saw her rise from her chair at the café and proffer her hand to Monsieur Armand. At first he shook his head and waved his hands. But then, strangely, something came over him as the jolly tune slowed to an old folk waltz and each person paired off.

With his knobbly hand, he allowed Geneviève to gently pull him to his feet, and he danced slowly, rocking left to right, his head on her shoulder and tears in his eyes.

‘Will you dance with me?’ Odélie appeared at Michel’s side, a gentle curve on her lips.

He took her hand and allowed himself to be guided into the square.

‘Thank you for your apology, Michel,’ she said quietly as he spun her slowly. ‘I know I say the wrong things sometimes. It’s habit.’

‘I’m just sorry I did not say it sooner.’ His eyes strayed to Frieda, only for a moment.

‘She’s beautiful, isn’t she?’

‘She is,’ Michel agreed.

When the tune changed, he felt a tap on his shoulder. Frieda.

‘May I?’ she asked.

Michel turned to her as Odélie moved away. He took Frieda’s hand and wrapped the other around her waist.

‘You look happy’ she said.

‘I am.’

As Michel led Frieda around the square, as she laughed and then rested her head on his shoulder so her hair tickled his cheek, Michel spotted Odélie. She was talking to one of the young German soldiers, her body close to his, her hand resting on his forearm, but her eyes never left Michel and her smile had faltered – it was clear that his apology had not yet erased the hurt he had caused and he felt a pang of guilt.

Kacper changed his tune and Michel knew it well – a song he had heard in Paris, at Odette’s café – ‘La Java Bleue’. As he danced with Frieda, he began to sing the words – words full of love for the person you danced with, of not wanting to let them go, but hold them close and try to keep the promise of love.

‘I did not know you could sing.’ Frieda looked up at him and he stopped.

‘I can’t! Well, I can, but not well.’