The Orphan's Tale(48)

“But Herr Neuhoff...” Astrid begins to plead her case anew. Then she stops, seeing that she has lost.

“Can she rejoin us in the next town?” I ask hopefully.

“We’ll see,” Herr Neuhoff replies, unwilling to promise even that much. “Meanwhile you need to prepare for the show without Astrid. Gerda will catch for you.”

“But I can’t,” I protest. I’ve barely managed to fly with Astrid; there is no way I can trust anyone else. “I need Astrid.” I look from Herr Neuhoff to Astrid desperately, but she simply turns away.

“Prepare them for the next show,” he instructs Astrid. She has been removed from the act, but not absolved from the responsibility of having me ready. Astrid does not answer him, but turns and stares daggers at me, still not speaking.

“Come,” says Gerda firmly. “We must rehearse.”

I duck away and follow her from the train, grateful to escape Astrid’s wrath.

*

The next night, I stand alone in the dressing car, apart from the other girls. Astrid is not there and, despite the warmth and noisy chatter, the carriage feels empty without her. She has not spoken to me since the previous day, even at practice. She did not sleep in our carriage, going instead, I imagine, to Peter’s. When I passed her in the train corridor, I’d wanted to say something to make it better. But I couldn’t find the words and she’d walked past silently, averting her eyes.

I do everything myself now, the makeup and the chalk and the tape, my hands moving where Astrid’s had before. When I am fully dressed and ready, I start away from the train car in the direction of the big top. I scan the program posted at the entrance. My act has been moved to the first half of the show in order to give Gerda more time to cover both Astrid’s role and her own. As I read the program with no mention of Astrid, the events of the previous day and her rage at my betrayal crash down upon me anew. She had been removed from the show—because of me. My stomach leadens, first with guilt, then dread. How can I possibly perform without her?

As I start around the big top to the backyard, I see someone lingering by the edge of the fairgrounds. A man stands separate from the rest of the gathering spectators, kicking his foot against the dirt. Luc, I realize. I stop with surprise, jumping back around the corner. What is he doing here? He had mentioned possibly coming to the show but I never expected him to actually do it. And in my worry about Astrid being removed from the act, I had nearly forgotten.

But now here he is, standing just feet away from me. My heart skips with more excitement than it should. I start toward him, then stop. He is a stranger, and one who makes me uncomfortable at that. I step into the shadow of the big top once more. Wearing a crisp dress shirt, dark hair damp and freshly combed, he looks even handsomer than when we met. He seems uncomfortable, though, keeping his head low and taking in the scene from the corner of his eye. Out of his element, not at all like the confident boy I’d met in town. I want to go to him. But there is not enough time and we cannot be seen together.

The other performers are making their way to the backyard and as they assemble, Luc slips from sight. As he disappears into the crowd, I feel a slight pang, and I fight the urge to go after him. What if he realizes that coming was a mistake and decides not to stay after all?

Looking back at the performers as they stretch and ready themselves, I notice that Astrid is not here, and though nearly the whole circus has gathered, there is a gaping hole without her. I’ve performed only a handful of times, guided by her strong hands. I can’t possibly go on by myself.

A few minutes later, the bell rings and I hurry around the big top to take my place in the backyard. I peek through the curtain. Luc is in the first row and I wonder how he has managed such a seat on short notice. His arms are folded and he takes in the ring before him without expression. I want to run to him or at least wave. But the orchestra is nearly finished tuning and the tent goes completely dark. The opening note booms to a crescendo and the show begins. I peek out once more. Luc leans forward in his chair and a light in his eyes begins to dance as he follows the performers, scantily clad girls on horseback. My jealousy grows as he takes in their elegant, barely covered bodies.

The first half of the show, which is usually exciting and rushed, seems to take forever. To pass the time, I study the audience. In the row behind Luc sits a little girl with shiny blond curls holding a doll. She wears a pink starched dress and I can tell from the way she smooths the hem that it is her prized outfit, the one that comes out only a few times a year for special occasions. The man beside her, her father I guess, hands her a cone of freshly spun cotton candy and as she takes a bite her cheeks rise with wonder. Her eyes never leave the show.

The ring is cleared again and the clowns tumble in. Peter steps on stage and begins to perform his political routine—the very one that Herr Neuhoff forbade. He is actually doing it. Watching, I am suddenly angry: How can he choose his art, knowing the risk it brings to Astrid, and all of us? The fact that Astrid is out of the show does not mean that she is safe. The children in the audience laugh at his antics, unaware of the subtext. But the adults remain silent, some shifting uncomfortably in their seats. A couple slips out of the back of the tent.

The clowns finish to weak applause. It is our turn. Gerda and I start into the ring, finding our way in the darkness. “Gerda,” I whisper as I reach the base of the ladder. “I’m going to spin just before you catch me on the second pass.”