The Orphan's Tale(42)
“I thought I might also look for some extra food for Theo in town,” I tell Astrid. “Some rice cereal or fresh milk.”
“It’s Sunday,” Astrid points out. I nod. That’s the catch: the one day that I can get away to town is the same day that most shops will be closed. “Of course there is always the black market...” I’d heard of such things from the time our village was occupied, as well as at the girls’ home and the train station, people selling goods illegally that one couldn’t get elsewhere at a higher price.
“I wouldn’t know where to begin finding that.” My shoulders slump. “Perhaps if I ask in town...”
“No!” she replies sharply. “You must not do anything to arouse suspicion. If you ask the wrong person, it could raise dangerous questions.”
Soon the forest breaks to reveal a stream. Willow trees rise from its banks then arch, not quite dipping low enough to break the glass-like surface of murky water. “There,” Astrid says, stopping and gesturing across the slight arc of a wooden footbridge that marks the edge of town.
“You aren’t coming with me?” I ask, disappointed. It would have been so much easier and more pleasant to go into town together.
She shakes her head. “Best not to be seen.” I wonder if she is talking about herself or Theo or both. Is she thinking still of the German who had come to the show that first night? But her eyes still look longingly toward the village. “Anyway, someone has to mind Theo,” she reminds me. “You have your papers, yes?”
“Yes.” I pat my pocket.
“Be careful.” Her brow furrows as she studies my face. “Speak with no one unless you absolutely must.”
“I’ll be back in an hour,” I say, kissing Theo on the head. He reaches out his tiny hand, as if to say: take me with you. More and more each day it is as if a veil has been lifted and he sees the world, understanding.
A tiny piece of my heart seems to break off then and there as I squeeze his fingers gently. “You should go now if you are going at all,” Astrid nudges. I kiss Theo once more then start toward the base of the hill on which Thiers is situated, and begin to climb the steep path that winds through the half-timber houses with shutters the color of ash set close to the road. Partridges call out to one another from the eaves. The main street is quiet on a Sunday afternoon, with most of the shops closed. A few old women in shawls make their way toward the Romanesque church at the top of the town square. It is the oddest sort of normal—a café with well-coiffed women sipping coffee and nibbling madeleines behind round windows, men playing boules on a grassy patch by the town square. A boy of ten or eleven sells newspapers at the corner.
The hotel is no more than a large pension, two tall adjoining houses that had been combined by knocking out the wall that had once divided them. I take the key from the proprietor, who seems to know without my saying why I have come. Had he been to one of the shows, or was there something about me now that marked me as circus? I make my way through the tiny lobby, packed thick with guests sitting in chairs and smoking as they lean against the walls. The circus had been lucky to get rooms at all; the hotel is filled with refugees who had fled from Paris at the start of the war or villages farther north that had been destroyed by air raids or fighting. L’Exode, Astrid had called it. Whatever the reason, they had not gone back but stayed for lack of a home or place.
The second-floor room is narrow and plain, with a poorly made wrought-iron bed and drops of water from the last guest not quite wiped from the basin. I undress quickly, brushing away a bit of the ever-present sawdust from the ring that had somehow found its way beneath my skirt. I pause to study myself naked before the mirror. My body has begun to change from all of the exercise, as Astrid had predicted, hardening in some places and lengthening out in others.
But it is more than just my physical shape that has been transformed from my time on the trapeze: since we’ve been on the road, I find myself working harder, constantly thinking about the act. For hours after a performance, I feel the air rushing beneath my feet, like a train I cannot get off. I even dream about the trapeze. Sometimes I jerk awake, grasping for a bar that is not there. I am obsessed during my waking hours, too. I’d even crept into the arena in the darkness one night. Though the stands were empty, eyes seemed to follow me from all directions. Only a bit of moonlight peeked in. It was foolish to practice alone without anyone to spot or call for help if I fell. But the hours of training during the day simply were not enough.
I told Astrid, hoping she would applaud my determination. “You might have been killed,” she spat. Whatever path I choose it is always wrong, too much or not enough. Still, the lure of the harder tricks calls me: if I can just add a pirouette, get a little higher to perhaps manage a somersault. I don’t have to do it. I am keeping up my end of the bargain just by performing. But I find myself wanting more, reaching for it.
A half hour later I step from the hotel, freshly bathed. I eye the row of shops, tempted for a minute to wander and enjoy. Perhaps despite what Astrid said, there might be a store or two open to find some food. Theo will be waiting for me, though. I turn to go.
Across the street a young man of eighteen or so with coal-black hair loiters in a doorway. He watches me in a way I’d almost forgotten, that I had felt only one time before. My skin prickles. Once I might have been flattered. But I cannot afford to have anyone notice me now. Does he mean to make trouble? I lower my eyes and hurry past.