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“Are my questions that bizarre?” I ask.
“I worked for years as a traveling showman and then fun house operator at the Trône Fun Fair,” he says. “Are you a fellow carnie?”
“Not a carnie, but a mime artist. I performed as a living statue for three years.”
“I wasn’t too far off! Where?”
“In Switzerland,” I lie.
The carrousel stops, and his granddaughter runs toward us. Spotting me, she hides behind her grandpa’s legs.
I freeze into a pose, standing perfectly still.
She peeks out from behind his legs, wide-eyed. Cautiously, she pokes my thigh, and then prowls around me, poking some more. “Grandpa, what happened to her?”
“She turned into a statue.”
The little girl gasps and stares at me.
That’s when I sneeze dramatically. She squeaks and jumps backward, glancing at her grandpa for a cue.
He winks at her. “You woke up the statue! Well done!”
Delighted, she claps her hands.
“You’re good,” the old man says to me. “If you’re looking for a spot to perform, provided they allow street performers here, I suggest you talk to the duke.”
Louis?Does this man know him? Is he saying I need my husband’s permission before I can mime again?
Wait a second…Unless he’s an Evorian agent or a high-ranking diplomat, how does he even know Louis is a duke?
He chuckles, taking in my baffled expression. “Not a real duke, eh! It’s what everyone calls the guy that owns some of the attractions here and at the Trône Fun Fair.”
“Why duke and not king?”
He appears perplexed at my question. “Because ‘king’ is already taken, obviously. The great Marcel Campion is forever the King of the Carnies.”
“Marcel Campion?”
He turns to his granddaughter and pulls a face. “The Swiss can be so clueless sometimes! Must be all that fresh mountain air.”
“Sir, you are kind and you are knowledgeable. Please enlighten me!” I join my hands in prayer, making the girl tee-hee.
Her grandpa adopts a storyteller’s tone. “Marcel Campion, a carnie, businessman andmanoucheguitar player, will go down in history as this city’s most charismatic entrepreneur. Orphaned at three, he thrived against all odds. As a teen, he was operating attractions and rides, and putting bread on the table.”
I ooh and aah, impressed.
“As a grown man,” he continues, “the king’s influence grew, and he became the nemesis of soulless bureaucrats. A blue-collar hero, he stood up, over and over, to the high and mighty that hate to hear children laugh. Marcel Campion isn’t just a king. He’s a guardian angel protecting us from killjoys.”
“Really?” his granddaughter asks in an awed whisper.
“Oh yes! Some years back, the city hall banished the Grande Roue from Place de la Concorde which was its home. The bureaucrats wanted the wheel gone from Paris for good. But they had underestimated the grit of one man.”
He points at the Ferris wheel, looking from me to his granddaughter. “Who do think that man was?”
“Marcel Campion!” we burst out in chorus.
He carries on counting the king’s many accomplishments, but despite the reverence I’m filled with, my attention wanders. My mind is trying to track down a thought that popped into it when the old man mentioned “the duke” and the Trône Fun Fair. Unfortunately, the thought had flashed too quickly to register. It wasn’t even a verbalized idea, but an image…
