The Orphan's Tale(34)

“Impossible!” Peter snarls at the mention of the Vichy anthem. I jump back so as not to be seen. “I’ve never been told what to perform by the government, even during the Great War. If I didn’t kowtow to the czar, I’m sure as hell not going to do it now. It is more than just politics. This is about the integrity of the show.”

“Things are different now,” Herr Neuhoff presses. “And a little indulgence might go a long way toward...helping things.” There is no response, but the stomping of footsteps and a door slamming so hard the whole carriage shakes.

A bell rings, which Astrid had told me earlier was to summon us to the backyard, the area behind the big top where we will assemble and get ready to perform. I look longingly down the corridor of the carriage. There is no time to see Theo.

Outside, the once-barren field around the big top has been transformed with a half-dozen smaller tents that seem to have popped up like mushrooms. The midway is filled to capacity with men in straw hats, women and children in their Sunday best. At the entrance to the big top a day bill had been posted, touting the acts that one would see inside. Smaller acts, the jugglers and sword swallowers, give impromptu performances to lure the crowds. A brass band plays lively tunes to the queue at the ticket window, easing their wait. The air is perfumed with the sweet thickness of candy floss and boiled peanuts. Such treats hardly seem possible with rationing and so many struggling just to eat. For a moment I am giddy, a young girl once more. But the treats are here for those lucky few with the sous to spend—certainly not for us.

I skirt around the edge of the big top. A handful of young boys are lying flat on the ground trying to peek beneath the tent, but one of the seasonal workers shoos them away. The periphery of the tent has been adorned with tall posters of the starring acts. Astrid in her younger years looms above me, suspended midair by satin ropes. I am transfixed by her image. She must have been about the same age I am now, and I am so curious to know her.

I pass the beer hall they’d erected at the end of the midway, a bookend to the carousel opposite. Boisterous male laughter explodes from within. It is a delicate balance, Astrid had explained: we want to lubricate the audience enough so that they will enjoy the show, but not so much that they will become unruly and disrupt it.

Peter, whom I had seen just minutes earlier with Herr Neuhoff, sneaks from the back of the beer tent with a flask in hand. How had he gotten here so quickly? He eyes me uncertainly. “Just a quick one for the road,” he says, before ambling away. I am surprised—I had not imagined that performers would be allowed to drink before a show. What would Astrid say?

I reach the backyard. My eyes travel nervously toward the top of the tent. It seems impossible that the tent, nothing more than some fabric and poles, can possibly hold the hulking trapeze apparatus—and us.

Astrid, seeing my worry, walks to my side. “It’s safe.” But in my mind I will always see the time I had fallen toward the earth, ready to die. “How are you holding up?” she asks. Without waiting for an answer, she rechecks my wrist wraps and holds out the box of rosin for me to coat my hands once more. “We don’t want you getting killed,” she says. “Not after all of the work we’ve put in.” She adds this last bit with a smile, trying to make a joke of it. But her eyes are solemn, concerned.

“You don’t think I can do it?” I venture, not sure I want to hear the answer.

“Of course I do.” I listen to her voice, trying to gauge whether it is forced. “You’ve worked hard. You’ve got natural ability. But this is a serious business for all of us. There is no room for mistakes.” I nod, understanding. The danger is as real for Astrid as it is for me, even after so many years.

I peek inside the dark tent, which looms high like a giant cave. There is a ring in the middle, some forty feet across, set apart from the audience by a low fence. I’d heard from the other performers about the American circuses, great big ones like Barnum that had three rings. But here all eyes would be focused on the main act. The first two rows of seats are covered in a ruby velvet cloth with a satin gold star on each, designating that these are the good seats, the important ones. Behind these chairs, crude wood benches rise in concentric circles nearly to the rafters. It is the complete circus of the ring, spectators on all sides, that gets to me—there is nowhere to hide or turn away, eyes from every angle.

The crowd begins to trickle into the tent and I pull back so as not to be seen. The ushers and program sellers are in fact lesser performers who can scoot out as the auditorium fills to put on their own makeup and prepare for the show. I study the spectators as they take their seats, a mix of well-to-do townsfolk in the front and workers on the higher benches, freshly scrubbed but a bit ill at ease, as if they do not belong here. Barely a few francs for food yet they still found a way to get that ticket to the show. These are the lucky ones who can afford to forget for a few hours the hardships beyond the tent flaps.

As the sky grows gray and we near showtime, the chatter in the backyard silences and everyone grows focused, almost grim. The acrobats have one last cigarette. They are stunning in their sequined costumes and headdresses. Their flawless makeup and coiffed hair give no indication of the primitive conditions in which we’d dressed. Astrid paces in the far corner, deep in thought. Given the intensity of her expression, I do not dare to disturb her. Of course, I have no preshow ritual of my own. I stand to one side, trying to act as if I have done this my whole life.