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.”
I can feel her stiffen with surprise. “Astrid never said anything about it.” Astrid is in charge of all of the aerialists. She calls the shots. No one has changed her choreography before.
“It will work better,” I insist. “And it changes nothing for you. The positioning will be the same. Just catch me.” Before she can say anything else, I climb up the ladder. I reach the top a second late, the spotlight already waiting for me. I wait for Gerda’s call. “Hup!”
I leap without hesitation. When I release there is a moment’s panic: I have practiced only once with Gerda as my catcher. Will she be able to manage as Astrid had? Catching is all Gerda has ever done on the flying trapeze, though. She grasps me easily, with forearms like thick sausages. But she is not skilled and lacks Astrid’s fire. Working with someone other than Astrid feels like cheating, a betrayal. I look around the ring, searching in vain for Astrid. Is she watching somewhere, hating me for going on without her?
I reach the board at the end of the first pass. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Luc. It is one of the first rules I had learned from Astrid upon coming to the circus: do not let the audience—or anyone in it—serve as a distraction. I can’t help it, though. Luc is here, watching me with those same dancing eyes as he had when I first spied him in town. He sees only me and I am happy and suffused with fear at the same time.
I square my shoulders. It is my act now, up to me to see this through. I nod at Gerda. I jump exactly as I had before. Only this time, right before I reach Gerda, I pivot midair so I am facing away from her. But the move takes a second longer than I planned and despite my warning, she fumbles. I am low now, almost too low for her to reach me. There is a slight gasp from the crowd. “Damn you,” Gerda swears as she catches me, fingers digging hard into my wrists to hold on as we swing back, gaining height. Applause thunders as she throws me back toward my bar.
The show breaks to intermission. I step into the backyard, still sweaty and shaking from my near fall. From around the side of the big top, Luc walks closer, looking for me. My pulse quickens as he nears.
“Bonsoir,” Luc says with a shy smile.
“Noa!” a voice booms before I can respond. It is Astrid crossing the grounds and bearing down upon me, her eyes streaking with fury. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she demands in German. She is even angrier than earlier when Herr Neuhoff pulled her from the show.
Luc steps forward to protect me but Astrid moves around him as though he is not there. “I told you not to add the twist,” she continues to berate me.
I raise my chin. “The audience loved it.” Astrid does not own the show. She does not own me.
“You were showing off for him!” She jerks her head in Luc’s direction.
My cheeks flush. “That isn’t true.”
Before I can protest further, Herr Neuhoff walks into the backyard. I hold my breath, waiting for him to ask who Luc is, and what he is doing here. “Nice job, Noa,” he says instead, smiling. It is the first time he has praised my performance and I can feel myself standing straighter, vindicated. “That variation was magnificent,” he says with a smile.
I look triumphantly in Astrid’s direction, wondering if she will now finally agree. But she seems to grow smaller. Guilt rises in me, replacing my joy. The ring had already been taken from Astrid. The control over the choreography was the one thing she still had—and I had stolen that, too. She turns and storms off.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” I tell Luc. Then I follow after Astrid, who has started away from the backyard and toward the train. I take a deep breath as she turns back to me. “You were right about the move being foolish. It was dangerous and it didn’t add anything.”
“That’s why I told you not to do it,” she sniffs, partially mollified. “But you were showing off for him,” she says again.
“Him?” Though I know she means Luc, I feign ignorance, stalling for time to respond.
She gestures toward the backyard, where Luc is waiting for me. “The mayor’s son—how do you know him?”
The mayor’s son? I gasp with realization. I recall then what Astrid had said about the mayor, that he is collaborating with the Nazis. Does that mean Luc is helping the Germans, too? It couldn’t be.
Astrid is still watching me, waiting for an answer. “I met him when I went into town,” I say finally. “I had no idea he was coming to the show.”
She crosses her arms. “I thought I told you to stay away from the locals.”