‘I don’t understand…’ Michel began.
‘They are mine; they are!’ Giordano squealed. ‘But a long time ago I replaced the real stones with fakes. She has glass around her neck. But it amuses us every time, and every time she storms away we imagine this: she sits in her room, and then polishes her precious stones, and thinks she has won – but she has not!’
Jean controlled himself and sat up once more. ‘You think we’re crazy, yes? Perhaps a little, Michel. We have been on the road together for some years now. We must entertain ourselves. A thief is thwarted but does not know it, giving us a great many tricks and games to play. No one is hurt. No, Madame is happy – she thinks she has nice, real treasures, stolen like a magpie in the night. And we,’ he shrugged, ‘we have some fun, a laugh. What else can we do?’
Before Michel could answer, Jean held out a hand to pull him to his feet. ‘May as well meet the others. Madame Geneviève would have told them of your existence by now. No need to hide. We will take care of you.’
As Michel followed the pair to the carriage door, he heard the muffled stamp of a hoof on the floor, the familiar snort and whinny of a spooked stallion preparing to take flight. But before he could move towards the sound, Jean had pulled Michel’s arm through to the next carriage and with a quick sure hand closed the door behind them.
The carriage they entered was clouded with cigarette smoke that hung below the roof and made the daylight grey. Michel looked at the rows of blurred faces, talking, laughing, not noticing the new arrival.
Jean moved ahead down the aisle with purpose and Giordano followed. Michel hitched his bag over his shoulder and began to follow slowly, yet with each step taking in the faces around him. Here sat three identical young ladies – and yet no, one was male, he realised. All with short blonde hair, blue eyes and elfin features, they sat close as if they were stitched together, and looked and talked to no one but each other. Across from them was a woman with deep auburn hair and a beautiful open face, though there was a slight crease in her brow as she looked at Michel. Michel smiled at her as he passed, and the wrinkle disappeared. The woman smiled back and was ready to speak, when a voice from further down the carriage called out, ‘Odélie!’ and she turned to see who had called her name.
Odélie. It was a nice name, Michel decided. A name that befitted a woman like her. Michel turned to glance at her again. She caught his eye and winked.
Michel saw that the next row held a man with a thick grey moustache and wire-rimmed spectacles. He had a brown sack at his feet and a monkey perched on his shoulder. He did not take his gaze away from the window, but the monkey regarded Michel with its coal-black eyes, then stuck out its tiny pink tongue.
Michel took the seat that Jean offered him, next to the window and opposite the bearded Madame Geneviève and Giordano. Jean sat next to Michel, his large frame pushing Michel close to the carriage wall.
‘We have someone new then!’ Madame Geneviève exclaimed, her voice high and rich like an opera singer.
‘Not yet,’ Jean said. ‘I have to get approval first.’
The woman pretended Jean had not spoken. ‘So, what is your talent?’ she asked. ‘A magician? No. A musician? Oh, how I love someone who can play an instrument! Tell me, what is your talent?’
Seeing the glow of excitement in Madame Geneviève’s eyes, Michel wanted to lie and tell her he did indeed play an instrument – the piano, or perhaps the accordion. But he feared being put to the test. ‘I have no talent, Madame.’
‘Oh, you are not to be believed I’m sure!’ Geneviève looked heartbroken.
Suddenly the monkey appeared and climbed onto Geneviève’s shoulder.
‘This is Gino. Say hello, Gino,’ she demanded.
The monkey stuck its tongue out at her and scampered back to its owner.
‘Well, that’s pure rudeness, Kacper, pure rudeness! You should teach him better manners!’ Geneviève turned to reprimand the old man, who now held an accordion in his hands. With the wheezing soon came a flurry of notes, which silenced Geneviève and the rest of the carriage. Then, as if all the notes had now properly arranged themselves, a mellifluous jaunty tune emerged from the accordion with each push and pull. A fiddle joined in, then drumming hands, which kept a steady beat on the wood of the seat rests. Soon, the only person not joining in was Michel, as Geneviève sang, with Jean and Giordano accompanying her in sombre baritones.
Michel relaxed back into his seat, letting the music envelop him. He looked out of the window, which was now spattered with raindrops, the sun still shining as though reluctant to let the rainclouds win. He watched the drops shiver as the wind blew over them, almost as if they were dancing to the music. He thought of Bertrand, of his apartment, of the life he had left behind. He traced a drop as it made its escape and ran away down the glass.
Jean-Jacques pulled him out of his reverie. ‘Here, take this.’ He handed him a glass of water and two sweet crackers that were flavoured with lavender and orange, a taste of summer.
Kacper’s accordion began to slow, and he allowed the fiddle to take over most of the work – a slow, melancholic tune that had everyone nodding quietly, as if they all knew the lyrics but no one dared sing them.
‘It’s about love and loss,’ Geneviève said, taking one of the sweet crackers from Michel. ‘It was a French ditty but has spread all over, in so many languages, that there is not now one rendition.’
‘I like it,’ Michel said.
‘Good.’ Geneviève grinned. ‘I knew you would. I wouldn’t trust a person who didn’t.’
Geneviève ceased talking as a large man in a red shirt open to his waist, revealing bulging hairy muscles, and tight black trousers covering toned thighs, entered the carriage and stopped in the aisle; his long, black, curled moustache twitching as if it were counting the seconds before he would speak.
‘Serge.’ Jean finally acknowledged his presence.
‘Who is that?’ The man pointed at Michel.
‘This? This is Michel.’
‘And why is he here? Does Werner know?’
‘Not yet.’
‘You need to speak to him.’ Serge did not take his eyes off Michel.
‘Why should I? I have no doubt you will relay the message before I have a chance.’ Jean said.
‘You need to learn your place, Jean.’
‘I do?’ Jean got to his feet, towering over Serge who stood his ground.
‘Tell him. Or I will.’ Serge turned from them both, his large thighs rubbing together with a swish-swish sound as he walked away.
Michel heard Serge speak once more, and he turned to look. Serge was talking to a slight man who swayed as they spoke.
‘You owe me money,’ the slight man said.
‘And you’ll get it.’
‘When?’
‘When the boss says so.’
‘I want it now.’
Serge smiled at the man. ‘You’ll get it when you get it.’
‘How about I just leave, eh? Everyone’s scarpering. Why don’t I? Who’ll put your tents up? Feed the horses?’
‘Then leave.’ Serge’s smile was stuck in place.
‘When I get what I’m owed.’ The slight man lit a cigarette, blew the smoke into Serge’s face and laughed.