Serge grew bigger, outwards and upwards, and then pushed him hard against the carriage doors.
Within a second everyone had left their seats to either watch or stop the fight. Suddenly, the veil had lifted and the carriage held a drab collection of everyone the world no longer wanted; their colourful costumes hiding their fears, their voices too light, too high, masking who they truly were. The triplets so elfin and sweet now looked like scared, skinny orphans; Odélie, the woman with the auburn hair, seemed much older as she pushed her way towards the fight. Even the monkey was not funny and endearing anymore; he had transformed into a wild animal, jumping from seat to seat, afraid and excited, squealing and screeching at the melee.
In that moment Michel wanted to leave, yet he could not, as something or someone appeared, changing the kaleidoscope once more, back to the burning colour of light and life, muffling the pitch of voices, silencing the caustic tongues. She had arrived.
At first, all Michel could see was the top of her head – raven-black shining hair that glowed in the muted light of the carriage. Her presence had stopped the fight and within moments people returned to their seats. Odélie’s face, no longer contorted, was beautiful and young again. Gino the monkey was quiet, and the triplets were now back to being otherworldly. As the crowd dispelled, Michel saw more of the woman. Her forehead, smooth and a light olive tone, then her eyebrows, black as her hair and perfectly arched; underneath, her eyes were green, but not any green Michel had ever seen before. Emerald, he would have called them, but even that did not seem to do them justice. She spoke quick, quiet words to Serge, then surveyed the rest of the troupe. As she did, her eyes stopped for a moment and lingered on Michel’s face. Serge swiped his head to see what she was looking at, and she smiled ever so slightly at Michel, then turned on her heel and beckoned Serge to follow.
‘Who is that?’ Michel asked.
‘Who?’ Jean did not look at Michel and instead shuffled a deck of cards with quick, expert hands.
‘That woman.’
‘You should go and see him now,’ Giordano muttered to Jean, taking the cards from him.
Jean stood and walked in the direction of the next carriage, where the woman with the emerald eyes had taken Serge.
‘Is it his wife? That woman?’
‘Who? Serge’s wife?’ Geneviève smiled over at Michel. ‘Hardly!’
It felt to Michel that mere seconds passed before Jean reappeared, his face pale. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
Jean was suddenly pushed roughly aside as two strong arms lifted Michel from his seat. He heard Madame Geneviève gasp as he was dragged down the aisle, away from the frightened-looking giant and the solemn dwarf.
Once in the next carriage, a door was opened and the arms, which Michel had realised belonged to Serge, threw him into an opulently decorated parlour.
Michel scrambled up, steadying himself on a gilt-edged chair.
‘A stowaway then?’ a voice said.
Michel looked around the compartment to find the source of the voice; at the back of the carriage was a compact four-poster bed, thick purple curtains hung around it; nearby stood a rich mahogany writing desk and seat, then the chair Michel was leaning on, and across from that a sofa of the deepest reds and purples, strewn with heavy cushions coloured burgundy and stitched with gold thread.
‘You won’t answer me? You come onto my train, infiltrate my troupe, and you won’t answer me, the ringmaster?’ The voice was loud, the person near.
It was then that Michel realised the voice was coming from the mound of pillows on the sofa. In fact, the voice was the mound of pillows. It moved and shifted towards Michel so he could see now that the sofa’s occupant was dressed in a burgundy jacket and riding breeches, a white shirt unbuttoned to show a red potbelly. The speaker’s face was lined with crimson spidery veins, and Michel was reminded of those clients of Odette’s who drank her cheap wines and beers late into the night.
‘I’m sorry,’ was all Michel could think of to say.
The man managed to heave himself into a sitting position. His black, twirled moustache rivalled Serge’s for its lustre and movement as he spoke. ‘And what are you sorry for?’
‘For being on your train?’
‘Are you asking me or telling me?’ The man lit a pipe, and as he did the flame illuminated his face, showing Michel cool black eyes under heavy brows and the puffy skin of one who did not often get to bed before late. ‘You woke me from my nap. I do not enjoy being woken from my nap prematurely, do I, Serge?’
‘No, you do not.’ Serge was leaning against the adjoining carriage door. ‘You certainly do not.’
The ringmaster leaned towards a low side table where a cut-crystal decanter sat next to a matching tumbler. He poured a thick measure of brown liquid into the glass then knocked it back in one.
‘Serge tells me you were fighting. Not only do I have a stowaway on my hands, I have one who is so confident that he thinks he can harass my troupe?’
‘I didn’t—’ Michel began, and Serge reached over and grabbed his upper arm so tightly that Michel thought he would rip it off.
‘No need to argue. I do not deal with stowaways. Or at least, I deal with them in only one way. Serge! See to it that our friend here finds his way home.’
‘Yes, Werner,’ Serge answered, and made to pull Michel from the cabin.
‘Oh, and Serge?’ the small, rotund ringmaster said. ‘Bring that Jean to me later. He has much to answer for.’
Moments later, Michel was facing an open door between the two carriages. He saw the trees rushing by, could feel the air on his skin as Serge tipped his body towards the opening. Michel pushed his weight backwards, feeling the warmth of Serge against him. He tried to speak, tried to beg, but the wind caught in his throat. The trees were slowing now, the ground that was once a blur of grey and brown was now dirt, pebble-stones. The train’s brakes squealed beneath them as they rounded a bend. Then Michel saw the trees grow closer, felt the wind once more as he sailed through the open door towards the sky; then to the ground, the pebbles, the stones and the dirt as the train click-clacked away from him, the giant and the dwarf watching from a window as their stowaway rolled in the dust and mud, down a bank and away from sight.
Four
La Campagne
As Michel lay on the warm, damp afternoon earth, he listened to the train as it headed away from him. He groaned and moved first to one side, then the next. He lifted one leg, then the other, repeating the movements with his arms. Nothing broken, nothing too badly damaged. His right side ached – it had taken the brunt of the landing – his palms were bloodied and grazed, his knees similarly ripped, but otherwise he was, in most respects, in one piece.
He stood and took in his surroundings – a small shelf of land above a steep green hillside, that below held a silvery snake of river between blots of verdant woods, brown roofs and ploughed criss-crossed fields surrounding the plain, with a church spire announcing the village.
He stretched a little and managed to walk a few steps towards a tree. Leaning against it he looked left, right and above to the train tracks, and then he spotted it – his bag. Carefully, he made his way over to it and hefted it onto his back. Although not heavy, the weight pulled at his shoulders and the muscles surrounding his bruised ribs, made him wince.