The Ladies of the Secret Circus Page 13

  Sweat beaded on my face and I wiped it. It was my third attempt and I was getting tired. The lack of strength caused my arms to shake a bit. Sensing this, Hugo shouted.

  “Try to get your knees on the bar this time. Your legs are stronger. Let them get you over here if you can.”

  I’d seen the move hundreds of times, so I knew what he was talking about, but the strength to hold on to the bar while my legs hooked around it seemed nearly impossible. I took too long to execute the motion and dangled until the trapeze bar came to a stall at the bottom.

  “There’s a rhythm to it,” Hugo called. “One swift movement quickly, then turn your body to look up for me. One movement.” He held up a firm finger. “Un.”

  He came down and met me at the bottom after I’d fallen. “Come back tomorrow. Now go rest.”

  April 19, 1925

  My arms ached, but I returned the next day. The second day went much like the first. It was yesterday, the third day, when I finally felt comfortable enough with the swing that I could focus on my legs. On the fourth attempt, I hooked them. I remember the sheer fear I felt in letting my arms go, net below me or not, but also the delight. I had done it. And if I’d done it once, I could do it again. As I came up to meet Hugo, who was waiting for me on the other bar with outstretched hands, I’d never felt so free. And the look on Hugo’s face—and the faces of everyone—was something that I’d never seen directed at me—the look of admiration.

  As Hugo patted me on the arm encouragingly, the crowd parted, and I heard the tapping of the cane before he materialized. Father had gotten word of what was happening and was furious. There was always a commotion around him, people trailing after him, seeking favor, like he was a king. Immediately he focused on Hugo, threatening him with all kinds of dreadful things, including the White Forest. A hush fell about the circus, and I could see the troupe looking to me. I wasn’t sure what had happened with Curio, but I felt that I was the cause. I would not let this same fate befall Hugo.

  “I wanted to do this,” I said, stepping in front of Hugo protectively. “I am not a doll.”

  “You are too weak.” I could see his face shift, the varnish giving way to the real him.

  “Let her try, Althacazur,” Hugo said, wiping his hands on a cloth. He held firm, calling Father by his real name. Everyone kept their heads down, hoping Father’s wrath wouldn’t extend to them after he’d finished with Hugo. “I’ll be responsible for her. It will keep her out of your hair. Yours and Esmé’s.”

  His comment stung: I needed to be kept out of people’s hair. To my dismay, it seemed to be the exact thing that Father needed to hear. His face softened and I knew he was working up a proper response in his head. Father sized up Hugo a moment.

  “Let me do this. Please,” I said. That I was being treated like a nuisance who needed a babysitter was hurtful, but I would prove them all wrong.

  To my relief, sweet Hugo remained in one piece and Father went back to his office shouting to my catcher behind him, “If anything happens to her, you won’t have any arms or legs to swing from that trapeze. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  And I could see that Hugo was visibly frightened.

  May 9, 1925

  Over the weeks, I became stronger. My arms went from skin and bone to a delicate curve below the muscle.

  Beyond my body, I felt I finally had a place here at the circus. Hugo and Michel, the other aerialist, took me under their wings, allowing me to play croquet with them in the gardens when we weren’t practicing. Until this point, I hadn’t realized how much I’d been an outsider in my own home. I had no mother, an absent father, and a sister who detested me, and so Hugo and Michel quickly became my family. Given the nature of what we did, I found that I grew to trust them, and they, me.

  After weeks of being locked away in her room, Esmé emerged and stood with her hands on her hips, watching my entire practice. The rest appeared to have restored her. Her shiny black bob had been newly trimmed against the jawline, her skin glowed again, and those bright, round blue eyes took note of every connection that I made with Hugo. I could see that as the small audience clapped for me, she was shocked.

  Later, I got up the courage to make several attempts at a knock on her door. After wiping my sweaty hands on my skirt, I rapped on the wood. She cracked it open a bit, but she kept her arm braced across the door, the sleeves of her purple kimono fanned dramatically in front of me like a shield. “What do you want?”

  “I’ve heard you don’t want to speak to me.” My face was feverish. The words came tumbling out and I grabbed my throat, waiting for her reply.

  “You’ve heard correctly.” She cocked her head.

  Flustered, I didn’t know how to respond. I’d prepared for her to shout out at me, even strike me, but she was defiant and showed no emotion at all. “I’m so sorry. I never thought he would send you to the White Forest.” I burst into tears. “I didn’t know.”

  “You knew he would punish me.” Her voice raised; an accusing tone hung on it. “You wanted it.”

  I balked. She was right. I had known—hoped—that Father would make her stay home for a Saturday night—some childish punishment wished for by a child. My head lowered in shame.

  She laughed. It was a biting cackle. “Of course you did. You’re spoiled.”

  “I was so tired of the comments, the constant barbs, but…” I couldn’t finish my words and began to shake and snuffle, finally wiping my eyes on my dress. “I’m so sorry, you have to believe me.”

  She sighed and looked out in the hall, like the act of speaking to me taxed her. The White Forest had changed her. At first glance, I thought that she had returned to normal, but up close, I could see that she was thinner, gaunter. The Esmé standing in front of me was now hardened and hollow, a shell of my sister, not the real thing.

  “What’s happened to you?” I yelped, placing my hand over my mouth. From inside her room, I could smell sweet, fragrant flowers, like linden blooms. The scent was strong, as though it was needed to mask a rot forming within.

  “You happened to me, Cecile. With your childish tantrum, you made Father choose between us.”

  “Doro said—”

  “Doro shouldn’t speak of the White Forest to someone who hasn’t been there. Surely he’s learned his lesson. If he’s not careful, Doro’s puppet’s tongue will be removed as well.”

  And she meant it. The hollow spaces in Esmé had been filled with evil. In her purple kimono, she even resembled Father when he wore his signature robe. Shaking my head furiously, I said, “I’m so sorry, Esmé. You must believe me. Had I known he would send you there, I would never have done that foolish thing. It was awful. I was awful. I didn’t know, Esmé. I’m sorry.” I began swaying back and forth and repeating the words “I didn’t know.” I wasn’t sure that I could ever forgive myself for my part in this. She was right. I had been so young and it was clear that she had been hurt.

  “I know you didn’t know,” she said coolly after letting me babble for an eternity. “Father wants it that way. He’s made that clear.” She began to close the door. “Oh, I’ve requested my own dressing room. You can share our old one with Sylvie. While the circus is small, I don’t want to see you, Cecile. If you’re truly sorry, please do me the kindness of staying out of my way.”

  The door slammed in my face.

  I found my way back to practice that afternoon and missed all my handoffs as I attempted to twist into a roll out of my bar into Hugo’s waiting hands. It was the best trick I had, but it wasn’t a move that I could land each time; I plummeted to the net below if my timing was off.

  “You’re missing your transitions.” Hugo met me at the bottom.

  “It’s my sister—” I stopped. My sniveling was exactly the thing that had sent Esmé to the White Forest. I needed to grow up. “It’s nothing.” I lifted my head. “I’ll do better.”

  As I climbed the ladder again, Hugo called to me, “I’d like to use you in the
show tonight.”

  “I… I can’t.” I was overcome with a creeping sense of dread. Practice was one thing; a performance was beyond my skills.

  “Of course you can. You’re ready to do the basics.” With his hand, Hugo drew a net under me. “Just do what we practice. The net will be there to catch you. We’ll just enchant it so they can’t see it’s below you. Don’t worry. They’ll love you. Michel and I can handle the rest of the tricky parts.” He moved around under the net and climbed to the other side, facing me, then clapped his hands and rolled his muscular shoulders. His voice was sure and steady as he barked, “Come on, Cecile. This is the very thing that you need to do tonight, and you know it.”

  And he was right. Hugo was always right when it came to me. Almost innately, he understood my fears and my motivations before I could even begin to comprehend them. I suppose, as a catcher, he needed to hone that fine sense of his target, just as I could tell when he and Michel were out of sorts. From across the trapeze, I don’t know how, Hugo knew what had happened between Esmé and me. He could tell that my confidence was shaken and that I didn’t like myself very much.

  I’ve often wondered about Hugo. Who had he been in his life? What on earth did he do to earn a lifetime serving his penance on a trapeze with Althacazur’s daughter?

  Later, seeing the patrons all dressed in their finest dresses and coats made me nervous. In past performances, I just stood and watched. And I guess I’d thought that performing was easy. I’d envied everyone their jobs but didn’t realize that performing was a responsibility. I needed to deliver a solid performance tonight.

  Esmé went on right before us.

  There had been an inspiration for Esmé’s act. While walking on Boulevard Saint-Germain, she’d seen a postcard that featured a German lion tamer named Claire Heliot. Dressed in a silk gown, Miss Heliot had assembled a rather sophisticated dinner party complete with bone china and eight of her lions, who sat dutifully at attention as she sipped tea and fed them horsemeat from her fingertips. Esmé was entranced with this act, but Father refused to let her bring real lions onto the stage with her. My sister had shown an interest in illusion, so she began to toy with her own pets, changing their appearances. The first time he saw her ragtag act, even Father was fooled into thinking she was about to be devoured by Hercules, so good was her magic. But Father adored her performance, so he spared no expense for props and costumes.

  She’d copied Claire Heliot’s act, the one where she walked a tightrope opposite her lion. In this case, the cat is the lithe Dante. It’s a rather difficult illusion to achieve because there is no tightrope and there is no panther, simply she and a cat walking on the arena floor toward each other, but the audience thinks she is balancing on a thin piece of twine opposite a six-hundred-pound animal. As the audience jumped to their feet, it was clear why she was the star of our ensemble.

  Next, it was my turn. As I climbed the ladder, the spotlight followed me. My hands were sweating, which was not a good start. Gripping the chalk, I wiped my hands on my legs and looked at Hugo standing on the perch opposite me. Unbeknownst to the audience, he’d enchanted an invisible net under me.

  To the patrons, it looked like there was nothing between me and the ground. If I fell, however, they’d see that something had, indeed, caught me and realize they’d been duped. Whether they’d admit it or not, our patrons would be disappointed that we’d cheated and tipped the risk in our favor. That is the thing about the circus. Our potential for death is the entertainment, whether by fire, knife, lion, or trapeze. From my time of watching from the side stage, I could tell that each successfully performed trick allowed spectators to believe, for an instant, that magical things could happen and death could be held at bay, if only for an evening.

  I set out and the first handoff went a little shakily, but Hugo’s sure hands gripped me. Even for him, it looked like it was a struggle to hold on to my sweaty palms. The chalk had turned pasty. I slid a little out of his grip, but we held on. The problem was that we were on a rhythm with Michel, who was waiting to grab me on the other side. Michel’s hands weren’t as sure as Hugo’s. I would have liked another second or two, but I turned and switched with Hugo grabbing the bar. I never trusted the bar on the return since we didn’t practice our returns with as much frequency. As I went into the roll, I teetered, losing the propulsion needed to reach the angle that would allow me to meet Michel’s hands. Worse yet, the audience knew it. I could hear the sound of dull moans mixed with excitement as they anticipated what would come next. In a split second I felt myself sink in the air and my face became hot—almost feverish—as I waited for what would come next: the humiliation when the net below me was revealed to the patrons.

  My thoughts raced. “No,” I cried, loud enough that Niccolò’s orchestra paused.

  And as though I’d issued a command to my own body, I floated in midair. With the lights dimmed, I couldn’t see them, but I could hear the gasps from the audience. As I felt myself sink, I recalled the feeling of humiliation and found that my body rose with the intensity of my emotion. Knowing the timing necessary for the performance, I began rotating my torso in a vertical turn, like a corkscrew, so I could stretch enough to meet Michel’s waiting hands. To my surprise, as I focused on his hands, my body traveled. What was now clear to this evening’s ticket holders was that I spun without the aid of any prop in my hands—no bar, no Spanish Web, no hanging silk. I was floating. Then I met Michel and he pulled me over to the perch.

  With the lights drowning out the audience, I could only hear their applause. As I bowed, Hugo held my hand tightly. “You’ve got to do that corkscrew move again tomorrow,” he whispered. “That was the performance of the evening.”

  At the end of the show, all of us—the horses, monkeys, elephants, bearded ladies, knife throwers, and lion tamers—took our final bow and walked around the arena. Standing in the center for the first time, I was surprised to find that I couldn’t actually see the crowd with the spotlight. Each performer stepped forward, and the noise from the crowed lifted and lowered. Hugo grabbed my hand and pulled me out from the line, and it was as though time stood still. As I bowed, I could feel the perspiration on my forehead and hear the whistling and roaring above me in the stands. When I returned to the line, I saw them—my fellow performers, imprisoned as oddities, but from the gratified looks on their faces, their eyes glistening with tears as the crowd clamored for them, I realized that when you’ve had a lifetime of adoration, you still crave it. Even if it required transforming into a bearded lady, a clown, or even a steed, adorned with a crown of plumes, they were given the ability to perform again. As I took a bow, I finally understood Le Cirque Secret.

  In the hallway where I used to stand with buckets of water for the horses—a place I would never stand again—I saw the outline of Father standing there. Applauding.

  And then to my surprise, tears began to roll down my face.

  After the performance, Sylvie and I headed to Montparnasse. We’d had some famous guests at the show that night: Hadley and Ernest Hemingway, Ezra Pound and his wife whom they all call Shakespear, and Marc Chagall. I heard these artists were all the rage. Rage or not, after the performance, they clamored to meet us.

  Even late into the evening, the cafés were packed. Montparnasse on a busy night was a symphony of sounds: conversations in French, English, and German; the clinking of cups against saucers; the street music of American jazz mixed with old-world accordions, both played with deft hands. Depending on where you turned your head, a different Montparnasse filled your ears.

  We moved around all night, finally settling at Le Dôme Café, known as the American café. Inside, I could make out the drawl of the Americans’ accents, which sound remarkably different from those of their clipped British cousins. Halfway through my second glass of champagne, Hadley Hemingway tugged on my arm.

  “That is the modernist French painter Émile Giroux.” She pointed to a man in the corner. “He wants to meet you.” The paint
er looked embarrassed and blushed. Then he turned his head and was fully absorbed in a conversation with the painter Chagall.

  “I’m not sure what a modernist painter is?” I had been to the Louvre several times, but painters were Esmé’s territory.

  “He’s defying convention,” she said brightly.

  When my expression didn’t change, she laughed. “The legs are long and out of proportion,” she said. “The colors are crude.”

  “So he’s not very good?”

  “Oh no.” She motioned for me to come closer. “He’s quite good. In fact, he’s the best here. It doesn’t take much to copy something—he sees it differently.”

  “Painters are my sister’s weakness.” I nodded over to Esmé, who came to the café on her own. She and a painter had struck up a conversation near the bar. With each drink they’d begun leaning into each other like rotting trees.

  While champagne flowed, couples circulated, coming in from the Ritz, the Dingo, and the Poirier. Everyone raved about the circus.

  “So was it real?” Ernest Hemingway lit a cigarette, and I could barely make out the words. I leaned toward him, straining to hear.

  “Yes, I was wondering—how did you make the building appear out of nowhere? Was it lighting?” This question came from the bearded Ezra Pound.

  Sylvie and I exchanged glances. We couldn’t reveal what went on inside the circus. Ever. People wouldn’t understand. Moreover, Father forbade it.

  Esmé answered from her perch on the bar, “We can’t say.” She smiled mischievously, knowing the comment only made her more alluring.

  “Ahh, you aren’t being good sports.” Hemingway pointed his cigarette at her and ordered a beer. “Just one secret, come on.” A big man, he pounded the table a lot when he spoke, quite confident that people wanted to hear what he had to say.

  “A French magician never reveals secrets.” I looked up to see Émile Giroux standing above me. “To the French, the circus is sacred. Your question is like asking you to unfurl your current story for us while it is being written or for me to unveil a painting before it is ready. You don’t ask too many questions about the process. It is bad luck. Am I right?”