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CHAPTER1
CAMILLE
The little girl’s eyes flash wide open.
I freeze again.
She glances at her mother for a clue on how to interpret the magic she just witnessed. But her mom is too engrossed in another street performer’s gig. The girl turns back to me. She tilts her head to one side and studies me, squinting her right eye.
Gradually, her facial muscles begin to relax. She must be telling herself she imagined it. Statues don’t shift positions.
I wink at her and stick out my tongue.
Gasping, she tugs on her mother’s sleeve. “Mommy, look, the golden Santa statue is alive!”
I dip my gloved hand into the front pocket of my coat and fish out an origami crane. We make eye contact. I smile through my fake beard. She smiles back.
She takes the crane from me. “Thank you, Santa!”
This right here is what I live for. Connecting, no matter how briefly. Smiling at kids and being smiled at. Hearing kind words. Not being recognized and snubbed or spat on by adults. Not being chased by gangs of teenage boys shouting, “Burn the witch! Burn the witch!”
If I really were a witch, I’d command everyone to stop hating me. And I’d bid Jeannette to rise from the dead. If those spells failed, I’d straddle my broomstick and fly across the Alps into France, Italy, or farther west into Spain. Any place where no one knows me. Away from Mount Evor, the beautiful, affluent, happy principality that’s become my prison.
The little girl’s mother finally turns around. “Oh, wow, what a great Santa!”
“Ho ho ho! Merry Christmas!” I chant, spreading my arms.
She feigns shock, mouthing so that her daughter won’t hear, “You’re a girl.”
“Well, nobody’s perfect,” I mouth back.
Whether or not she recognized the quote fromSome Like It Hot, she grins and drops a fiver into my collection jar.
And that’s another reason I love this gig. In an hour it will be time to wrap up and vacate my spot for the next performer, and I’ll go home to my trailer with at least eighty euros in my pocket. Pantomime pays better than any job I’ve had before, including much harder ones like night cleaner at the Pombrio Hospital.
The only problem with this amazing gig—besides the hecklers—is that it’s weather dependent. Rain and snow are my enemies, as are intense heat and chill. December through February, it gets way too cold in Mount Evor to stand still for hours no matter how many layers I wear underneath the gold-sprayed one.
Luckily, December has been unusually mild this year, and I am able to keep my living statue gig going. For the first time in three years, I’m doing Santa, and I’m thoroughly loving it. In addition to keeping me warm and eliciting goodwill from kids and grown-ups alike, the Santa costume comes with a beard and a hat. That means I can leave my hair and throat free of paint. Less paint to apply means less prep work. It also means less paint to wash off afterward, and less paint to pay for.
A win-win all around!
I strike a new pose and scan the incoming batch of pedestrians that just crossed the street to the Performers’ Square. Most of them are men in business suits. I ignore them. They never stop, never make eye contact, never leave a gratuity. Women in coats over business suits are the second worst. The best are families with kids. And the crème de la crème are families with kids and grandparents.
One such family passes in front of me. Grandparents, parents and two little boys. I blow a kiss to the grandma. She pinches the grandpa. They stop and smile at me. The rest of the family stops, too, and I entertain them by alternately freezing and coming alive in a dramatic or silly way.
When they wave goodbye and move on, I’m two origami cranes poorer but ten euros richer.
Suddenly, a heavy drop lands on my cheek. Then another and another.Damn!Even if I didn’t care about getting drenched, I can’t stay and risk ruining the costume.
As always in such cases, I do my best to exit the stage with grace. I make a show of looking for and opening my umbrella. After that, I climb off my folding step stool, pack my gear and beeline to the archway in a side alley. Here, shielded from water and view, I remove my costume and rub my face with wipes.
Ta-da!Exit Good Santa. Enter Bad Camille. The enchanted interlude is over. Mount Evor’s least favorite person, aka the Trailer Witch, dashes to the bus stop and gets on a southbound bus.
Fifty minutes later, I get off the bus in the outskirts of Pombrio and trudge to the RV park where I live.
It’s a nice one, maintained and cleaned daily courtesy of the management. Granted, no amount of cleaning can completely remove the lingering smell of exhaust, but the fact remains that this place is far better than the dingy campsites you see in movies. We have a fence with a gate, trees that provide shade in summer, amenities, a laundromat, and an exercise room for those with extra cash.
I’m the only permanent dweller. I mean, why would any other Mount Evor citizen stay here when they can afford proper housing? All the others are vacationers or pensioners touring Mount Evor in their own RVs. They’re domestic tourists, of course. What with our rich little principality being so keen on privacy, it doesn’t appear on any map, print, or online. We get foreign tourists by invitation only—usually special guests of the royal family or high-level diplomats. The rank-and-file earthling, including the citizens of the countries bordering Mount Evor, simply doesn’t know we exist.
