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.
At the corner, a man sells fruit on the back of an upturned crate. I see strawberries for the first time since the war, mottled and too green to be ripe, but strawberries nonetheless. Desire floods my mouth. I imagine Theo’s face as he tastes the unfamiliar sweetness for the first time. I fish in my coat pocket for a coin as I walk toward the crate. After I’ve paid the seller, I put the two strawberries I could afford into my pocket, fighting the urge to eat one now.
Behind me I hear a snicker. For a second, I wonder if it is the dark-haired man I’d just seen. Instead I turn to find two boys, twelve or thirteen years old, pointing in my direction. I glance around to see what they might be laughing at and then realize that it’s me. I look down at my sheer red skirt with patterned stockings and my low V-necked blouse. I no longer fit in with ordinary people. I raise my hands to cover my chest, my shame rising. On the trapeze I’ve learned how to hide behind the lights and pretend it isn’t me. But here, I feel naked and exposed.
A woman walks up to the boys, their mother perhaps, and I wait for her to scold them for their rudeness. Instead, she shoos them back, putting them behind her as if to shield them from me. “Keep your distance,” she warns them in French, not bothering to lower her voice. She stares at me as though I might bite. Seeing us in the ring is one thing, an encounter on the street something different entirely.
“Pardon, that’s quite enough,” a voice says behind me. I turn to find the man who had been watching me a minute earlier. He looks at me oddly and I wait for him to take her side. “The circus performers are our guests in the village,” he says instead. I wonder how he knows I’m from the circus, and then I realize it must be how I am dressed. I take a step back.
“But look at her,” the woman protests, gesturing in my direction with disgust.
I flush. Outsiders think of the circus as dark and sexual, Astrid had warned me once. In reality it is the furthest thing from the truth. If anything, life on the road is more strictly run—there is a chaperone in the girls’ tent and a curfew earlier than the one the Germans had set. We are too tired to get up to trouble. Still nosy fans stick their heads in the backyard, trying to get a glimpse of something exotic or untoward. In fact our lives are boringly simple—wake, eat, dress, practice, repeat.
The woman opens her mouth to speak, but the young man interrupts before she can say a word. “Au revoir, Madam Verrier,” he says dismissively and she turns and walks down the street with a huff.
“Bonjour,” he says to me when the woman has gone.
Remembering Astrid’s admonition about not mingling with the townsfolk, I turn to go. “Wait,” he calls. I look back over my shoulder. “I’m sorry that woman was so rude. I’m Lucienne,” he continues, extending his hand. He does not give his last name as people did back home when introducing themselves and I wonder if that is the custom here. “They call me Luc for short.” Closer now, he is taller than I realized. I barely come up to his shoulder.
I hesitate, then shake his hand lightly. “Enchanté,” he says. Is he mocking me? There is no guile in his face, none of the leering of the other townsfolk.
“Noa,” I say haltingly.
“Like the ark,” he remarks. I cock my head. “In the Bible.”
“Oh yes, of course,” I reply. From across the street, the boys snicker again, their mother having disappeared into one of the shops and out of earshot. Luc starts toward them, face thunderous. “Don’t,” I say. “You’ll just make it worse. I’m leaving anyway.”
“That’s too bad,” he says. “Can I walk you?” Without waiting for a response, he takes my arm.
I jerk away. “Excuse me,” I say. Is it because I’m with the circus that he has the nerve to presume he can do that?
“I’m sorry. I only meant to help you.” His tone is apologetic. “I should have asked.” He holds out his hand once more. “May I?”
Why is he being so nice? He is friendly—too friendly. No one is nice just for the sake of it these days, not unless he wants something. The German soldier appears in my mind. “I don’t think it’s a good idea,” I say.
“A boy walking a girl, what is so wrong with that?” he asks. His eyes meet mine, a challenge.