be twins, wearing matching dresses and imitating each other’s every move. They were interesting to watch, but they made Charlie feel seasick.
“What do you do?” Charlie asked Pirouette.
“I am trapeziorista volante, ” she said with a proud little smile.
“Gosh,” said Charlie, because he felt he ought to. He could tell by Pirouette’s tone of voice that a trapeziorista volante was clearly fantastically cool, but he hadn’t a clue what it meant. “Gosh,” he said again politely. The bearded lady shot him a look and winked at him.
“You will see,” she said, “when we do the Show.”
“When will that be?” he asked eagerly.
“We go to Paris now,” said Pirouette. “We have a date for the big show in just one week. The Imperial Ambassador is having a big party, he invites all the eastern potentates, we are to be the fun for them. They all will come.”
Paris! He tried to remember where Paris was. Sort of in the middle, but north. Certainly nowhere near the sea. So, when they got to land he could find a cat and get more information, and move on . . .
Charlie, to tell the truth, was having contradictory feelings. With the circus, he realized, he felt safe. All the activity, and so many people, would give him some protection if Rafi was coming after him. So on the one hand, he was looking forward to snooping all over the ship, finding the animals and making friends, and above all seeing the Show, the real magic of the circus. He hoped (and hoped that this wasn’t disloyal to his parents) that there’d be chances to see and do loads of things before they got to France. On the other hand, running through this cheerful prospect like an icy current was the constant, repeating knowledge of his parents’ danger. And just behind that was the figure of Rafi: cool, unknown, frightening, challenging.
But until they reached France, there was nothing much he could do. Okay. It was frustrating, but he could handle it.
Pirouette was still talking. “We can only make the Show in the big top. We travel to where the people are, then they come on board and we make the Show.”
“They come on board!” said Charlie, who had been listening to his fears, not to Pirouette. He wasn’t sure if he was understanding right.
“You haven’t seen the big top?” said Madame Barbue. She wondered at this boy—so alone, so distracted, yet so accepting. “Oh, Charlie—we have the most beautiful circus ring here on the boat. With the seats and the sawdust and the flying trapeze and the striped tent-roof and everything.”
Now, Charlie very much wanted to hear more about how you could fit a circus ring onto a boat, and where it was, and when he would get to see it, but just at that moment another person entered the cabin.
He was not tall like Major Maurice, nor was he huge like Hercule, nor amazing like the bearded lady. He was a brown-haired, brown-skinned man of about forty, or maybe fifty—an African, well-built, quiet, and very calm. What was strange was that he seemed to bring a wake of calm with him. It was as if nothing that was not calm could get anywhere near him, and if it tried to, it became calm, no matter what its intention had been in the first place. Silence spread out from him, stillness formed a pool around him. As he walked in, the trick riders stopped laughing and the Italians turned their faces quietly to their plates. Pirouette and Madame Barbue stopped chatting. A forced gentleness descended on the company.
Charlie could not take his eyes off this man, and he could not understand why. Then the man turned to face Charlie, and looked straight at him. His eyes were deep wells of darkness, and then suddenly, from deep within these dark eyes, Charlie saw a flash, a reflection of light like from an animal’s eyes, as the man turned his head away again.
“Who is he?” Charlie whispered to Madame Barbue, huddling a little closer to her.
“Ah, he is our dear Maccomo,” she said. Charlie was
“What do you do?” Charlie asked Pirouette.
“I am trapeziorista volante, ” she said with a proud little smile.
“Gosh,” said Charlie, because he felt he ought to. He could tell by Pirouette’s tone of voice that a trapeziorista volante was clearly fantastically cool, but he hadn’t a clue what it meant. “Gosh,” he said again politely. The bearded lady shot him a look and winked at him.
“You will see,” she said, “when we do the Show.”
“When will that be?” he asked eagerly.
“We go to Paris now,” said Pirouette. “We have a date for the big show in just one week. The Imperial Ambassador is having a big party, he invites all the eastern potentates, we are to be the fun for them. They all will come.”
Paris! He tried to remember where Paris was. Sort of in the middle, but north. Certainly nowhere near the sea. So, when they got to land he could find a cat and get more information, and move on . . .
Charlie, to tell the truth, was having contradictory feelings. With the circus, he realized, he felt safe. All the activity, and so many people, would give him some protection if Rafi was coming after him. So on the one hand, he was looking forward to snooping all over the ship, finding the animals and making friends, and above all seeing the Show, the real magic of the circus. He hoped (and hoped that this wasn’t disloyal to his parents) that there’d be chances to see and do loads of things before they got to France. On the other hand, running through this cheerful prospect like an icy current was the constant, repeating knowledge of his parents’ danger. And just behind that was the figure of Rafi: cool, unknown, frightening, challenging.
But until they reached France, there was nothing much he could do. Okay. It was frustrating, but he could handle it.
Pirouette was still talking. “We can only make the Show in the big top. We travel to where the people are, then they come on board and we make the Show.”
“They come on board!” said Charlie, who had been listening to his fears, not to Pirouette. He wasn’t sure if he was understanding right.
“You haven’t seen the big top?” said Madame Barbue. She wondered at this boy—so alone, so distracted, yet so accepting. “Oh, Charlie—we have the most beautiful circus ring here on the boat. With the seats and the sawdust and the flying trapeze and the striped tent-roof and everything.”
Now, Charlie very much wanted to hear more about how you could fit a circus ring onto a boat, and where it was, and when he would get to see it, but just at that moment another person entered the cabin.
He was not tall like Major Maurice, nor was he huge like Hercule, nor amazing like the bearded lady. He was a brown-haired, brown-skinned man of about forty, or maybe fifty—an African, well-built, quiet, and very calm. What was strange was that he seemed to bring a wake of calm with him. It was as if nothing that was not calm could get anywhere near him, and if it tried to, it became calm, no matter what its intention had been in the first place. Silence spread out from him, stillness formed a pool around him. As he walked in, the trick riders stopped laughing and the Italians turned their faces quietly to their plates. Pirouette and Madame Barbue stopped chatting. A forced gentleness descended on the company.
Charlie could not take his eyes off this man, and he could not understand why. Then the man turned to face Charlie, and looked straight at him. His eyes were deep wells of darkness, and then suddenly, from deep within these dark eyes, Charlie saw a flash, a reflection of light like from an animal’s eyes, as the man turned his head away again.
“Who is he?” Charlie whispered to Madame Barbue, huddling a little closer to her.
“Ah, he is our dear Maccomo,” she said. Charlie was
Similar Books
