‘It’s here!’ Bertrand exclaimed, jumping up and pulling Michel with him. ‘You must be quick, Michel. The train will reduce its speed at this junction and will be slow enough for you to run alongside and jump aboard one of the wagons. Do not hesitate. This is your one chance!’
‘Me? But you too?’
‘No. No, not me.’
Michel looked towards the junction and saw the dim lights of the train heading for them. ‘I don’t understand.’
Bertrand grabbed Michel by the shoulders and turned him to look at him. ‘I am old. I cannot leave – I had no intention to leave. But I had to get you away, to be safe. I promised your mother.’
‘But I don’t want to leave you alone.’
‘Michel, you must. This is your adventure. You are a man now. No longer a stuttering boy who has only horses and an old neighbour for friends. You can be whoever you want to be! Now go! Quick! The train is coming.’
Michel looked at his friend and then took him in his arms, smelling the spicy cologne and earthy tobacco smoke for the last time.
‘Write to me. Tell me of your adventures so I can pretend I am having one too!’ Bertrand quickly kissed Michel on both cheeks, then pushed him away.
The train slowed at the junction and Michel ran alongside. He could see a red cargo carriage, the door slightly ajar. The train was already beginning to pick up speed and Michel could hear Bertrand shouting at him. He ran, his legs feeling as though they would crumple beneath him, his bag slapping against his back. Soon he was there – almost, two more strides – then he reached out his arm and grabbed hold of the door and scrambled inside just as the train rounded the bend, its pace quickening. Michel sat down, his legs dangling outside the carriage, watching as Bertrand waved, growing smaller and smaller, his hat in his hand, his violin case at his side.
Michel did not cry, even though he wanted to. He felt exhausted and exhilarated all at the same time. He looked about the carriage to see what else was in there, but the compartment’s darkness prevented it. So, he leaned back against the cold wood of the door frame, and as the train rocked gently from side to side, he felt himself drifting to sleep, the familiar, yet unexpected, musty scent of horses on the air.
Three
Le Clandestin
The brightening dawn woke Michel and as he stirred, he smelled the rich musk of coffee coming from Bertrand’s apartment. He opened his eyes, expecting to see the whitewashed ceiling of his bedroom streaked with spider cracks, but instead over him stood an exceedingly tall man in a purple suede suit with a cravat at his neck, and a short man no larger than a ten-year-old child, in brown chequered breeches and a waistcoat, his shirt matching the sunflower yellow of the tall man’s cravat.
Michel wondered if he was still dreaming and did not move, expecting the vision above him to disappear. Yet, as the seconds passed by, nothing changed. The tall man stood erect, a fixed smile on his face, a piece of wood in his large hand, resting against his long leg. The smaller man drank from a chipped mug, his lips puckering from the bitter coffee or at the sight of Michel.
‘Do you speak?’ the giant asked.
‘I do,’ Michel answered, stifling a laugh. This was certainly a dream.
‘So, who are you?’ the small man asked.
‘Michel, Michel Bonnet.’
The giant laughed and tapped the wood against his leg. There was something in the movement, the noise, which was so real to Michel, it wiped the sleep completely from his brain. He sat up and shuffled backwards until his spine rested against the wood of the carriage. The small man continued to sip at his coffee and gave the giant a long look, raising his eyebrow conspiratorially.
‘I’m just trying to get away,’ Michel explained, raising his palms in surrender.
‘And you chose us,’ the giant said.
‘I didn’t choose anyone, I just needed to get away.’
Again, there was a look between the two, and Michel glanced at the partially open carriage door with the trees and track rushing by.
‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you,’ the small man said, following Michel’s line of sight. ‘You’ll be dragged underneath or break every bone in your body on the fall down. Either way, not a nice way to go.’
‘Who are you running from?’ the giant asked.
‘The same as everyone.’
Perhaps only a minute passed, but it felt to Michel like an age. The clack, clack of the wheels was all he could hear, and in his mind was the image of being dragged underneath, onto the tracks.
Finally, the giant held his hand out to Michel, ‘Jean-Jacques,’ he said.
Michel took his hand and gently shook it.
The small man grabbed Jean’s arm and turned him away. Michel could hear urgent whispers between them – ‘the boss… forbidden’, then ‘it will be fine… trust me.’
Jean turned back to Michel, a smile on his face, but the small man refused to look at him.
‘Ignore him,’ Jean said. He sat down next to Michel, folding his long legs underneath him, resting his enormous hands on his knees, and with his tapered fingers he tapped his bony kneecaps in a jaunty rhythm. ‘Are you hungry?’ he asked.
‘A little…’ Michel answered.
‘Giordano, go and get us some breakfast. Come straight back.’
‘And what will I tell the others, eh? That we eat with the animals now?’ Giordano turned around so quickly, his coffee leapt out of the mug and fell with a slop onto the wooden boards of the carriage.
‘Tell them nothing. They won’t care what you are doing. If anyone does ask, you tell them we are working on our act in the stock car.’
‘As if they would believe I’d spend my time in here! My suit would get dusty and smeared with dirt.’
‘Hush now. They don’t pay as much attention to you as you think.’ Jean raised a hand to silence Giordano as his mouth opened, full of protestations. ‘Just a few pieces of bread, some cheese and some more coffee.’
The soft lilt of Jean-Jacques’ voice was at odds with his huge frame, and held some power over Giordano who nodded and quickly departed, stirring up a swarm of dust motes with his heavy tread, which danced and swirled in the early morning light.
‘Thank you,’ Michel said once they were alone.
Jean shrugged. ‘I have been where you are.’
‘Where are you going?’ Michel asked.
‘Wherever the train takes us.’
‘Who is us?’
‘Our troupe. Do you not realise what train you have stowed away on?’
Michel looked at the crates, most of which were hammered shut, yet a few revealed small secrets: colourful material – perhaps a suit, a dress; some sequins spilled out from crates that had been badly closed. Suddenly, Michel heard a low rumble partially disguised by the screech of the wheels as they clattered onto a new track, taking them further away from Paris.
Michel looked at Jean, who smiled. ‘Can you not smell them? I am surprised they did not wake you earlier. Monsieur Aramis is an early riser and usually much louder than this.’
‘Monsieur Aramis?’
‘The lion. You just heard him roar, did you not? Come now, do not tell me it is not obvious to you? The costumes, wild animals, a dwarf and a giant?’