This was madness, I thought. And then I felt sleepy. My head was heavy and I nestled into the horse’s mane. He seemed to anticipate this.
The first image hit me. Émile sitting with me at Le Dôme Café. I could smell the cigarettes in the air above us. I touched his hand. This version was warm and healthy. Then the image shifted to his bed—the one he’d just died in. Only he was very much alive and on top of me. I could touch the sweat on his back as he entered me. I lingered there, sensing that this image would remain as long as I wanted it to, but then another moment revealed itself and I thought my heart would break leaving my Émile. The scene was him sketching me at the circus. The way he looked at me. Then Émile, breaking the cheese on a steaming bowl of onion soup. Me, walking at Les Halles. I could see how much he’d wanted to hold my hand, though I hadn’t noticed it then. The woman in a silver gown with a tiara scurried by with a man in a black evening jacket chasing after her. I envied them their happiness and my eyes recalled the wonder at the market in the wee hours of the morning. Next I was standing in the Rue Mouffetard market, where he handed me an apple. With this scene I felt the energy of the world shift. Father was wrong. Émile could have painted me or not painted me; the outcome would have been the same. I loved Émile Giroux. The horse slowed and light began to leak through the image of him as though he were a curtain eaten by moths. And then he was gone.
When I finally looked up, satiated from Émile’s images, Father sat on the control box. “Well?”
“It’s not the same,” I said. “It’s not him.”
“You said you’d take him in any form.”
I slid off the horse and stepped down from the carousel, passing him as I walked down the Grand Promenade.
“You didn’t ask the price,” he called after me.
“It’s because I didn’t care,” I replied.
November 30, 1925
For the last few months, as my condition has become more pronounced, I have been unable to perform. Instead I now ride the carousel. Once, I found Esmé descending from the carousel’s platform. She looked forlorn and in what appeared to be a drunken stupor; then she saw me. I was livid to think that she was on the carousel lost in her own images of him. Émile and my carousel do not belong to her.
Had I not been pregnant with our child—with his child—I believe I would have killed Esmé with my bare hands and taken Father’s punishment. I have never felt such anger. I hadn’t spoken to her in months. As she passed me, I said, “Now neither of us has him.”
“And I prefer it that way,” she said, yet the pain in her face was evident. Émile was both the bond between us and the very wedge that divided us.
“Because you knew you’d lose.” I had never hated her the way she’d hated me, but for once, I finally understood and matched her contempt. I didn’t think that this emotion had existed in me until now. “He was never yours, Esmé.”
She seemed wooden and turned rather stiffly before heading back to her room. “And he’ll never be yours again, dear sister.”
July 24, 1926
I haven’t written much. I guess I don’t care to tell my story anymore. My story—my life—has little meaning without him. Tonight is my first night back performing. I know that I don’t look good, but everyone insists that I do.
The last week in February, I went into labor. I languished for two days. From the looks of Madame Plutard, who did her best for me, and even Father, I could tell this was not a good thing. I could see everyone gathered in corners and speaking in hushed tones. At this point, I didn’t care if I died. In fact, I think I preferred it. The pain was unlike anything before, as though I were splitting in two. There was something about giving birth to this child. As the child grew inside me, I could feel my own essence draining. This baby is powerful, but it has weakened me. Through my haze, I asked for Sylvie. She looked fresh and crisp, in her white outfit. By contrast, I was soaked through with sweat and sitting in my own urine.
“Promise me that if I die, you will take my child away from here.”
“You aren’t—”
But I could read her. I saw the tightening around her eyes and I knew she was lying. I had just told the same lies to Émile months ago. I knew them well. I don’t fear death. I don’t know where our kind, cambions, go, but my hope is that it is near him. I’d love to see him again. “If I die and my baby lives you must promise me that you won’t let her raise my child. Promise me, Sylvie. She will not raise his baby!”
“I promise.”
But I lived. And so did my daughter. I named her Margot, which was Émile’s mother’s name. She was perfect: wiggly, pink, healthy, and screaming.
So that brings me to tonight. Sylvie has just left my dressing room, fretting again. I assured her that flying for me is like breathing, but I didn’t tell her that even that has become more difficult lately since giving birth. Sometimes I have to sit on the way to the carousel. Doro has put a bench there for me. He hasn’t said that it is for me, but a bench arrived at just the location where he saw me leaning against the wall.
Last week, before Sylvie left my dressing room, she turned back from the door. “I lied to you.”
“About what?”
“You asked me when I fell in love with you. I told you that it was when you were sketching me, but that wasn’t true. It was the first day when you crawled up the ladder to the trapeze. You kept falling and you had such determination. I hadn’t seen that from you and something changed. I don’t know… it doesn’t matter, I guess.”
But it did. Her love for me was real, yet I didn’t love her in that way, and it broke my heart.
I am so weary tonight and a little distracted. It has been this way since Margot’s birth, but I anticipate that old tingle that comes from flying again. My costume hangs waiting for me, draped on the covered mirror. I want to pull off the cover, but the pitiful creature whom Father has trapped in there will be peering out at me. Hesitantly, I pull back the drape. To my astonishment, I don’t see one creature—but two—and they are familiar.
As I walk down into the center ring, I wonder who Father has invited tonight in the audience. He has begun sending out tickets again, thinking things will go back to the way they used to be.
But that, I fear, will never be.
Paris / Eighth Layer of Hell
July 3, 2005
After reading the final journals, it was taking Lara a moment to adjust to the fact that Althacazur—the daemon of really cool shit—was her… what? Great-great-grandfather? Oh dear. Lara felt herself sink.
Oblivious to everyone, Althacazur had his leg over the arm of the chair and was sitting like a petulant teenager, swinging his leg. “So,” he began. “Let me tell you a story. Once there was this really cool gent.”
“Gent?” Lara couldn’t help but mock his word choice.
“Short for ‘gentleman,’” said Althacazur, his eyes widening, like she was stupid.
Lara rolled her eyes. “I know that.”
“Anyway,” he said, annoyed at the interruption. “This gent who might have had some really great powers met this mortal actress—Juno Wagner. Such a beautiful name. Well, he fell head over heels for her—which for a major daemon is not something that happens every day.”
“Father,” said Cecile sharply. She was standing in the center of the ring with her hands on her hips. “Do we really have to get into all this?”
“She’s family, Cecile. I promised her that she would have all the answers to her tiny, stupid, human questions if she came to Paris.”
Cecile rolled her eyes.
“And so back to my story,” said Althacazur, striking a different tone to please Cecile. “Where was I?”
“That I’m family,” said Lara, trying to hide her distaste at the idea.
“Oh yes.” He put his finger up. “Nine months later… I think you know where this story is going. My dear Juno gives birth to…” He stopped and seemed to consider something. “… a lovely creature.”
“A creature?” L
ara wasn’t sure if she was supposed to be asking questions. She knew a bit of this story from reading the entry on Althacazur in The New Demonpedia.com. Juno Wagner and her child died in childbirth.
He ignored her. “Perhaps I failed to fully explain the rules to Juno, so enraptured with her was I. You see, my love was a human and I, a daemon. There are laws against this type of coupling. It’s frankly forbidden. I mean, I didn’t create the laws, but I was never much of a rule follower anyway. Well, Juno died in childbirth. All the women who bear my children die—it’s too much for a human to carry a daemon’s baby, no matter what Mia Farrow does on-screen. In fact, the offspring die, too. Except in this case, they didn’t. Before she died, my dear Juno gave birth to an imperfectly perfect creature—a rare cambion. It was the perfect amalgamation of good… Juno… and evil… well… me.
“Cambions tend not to survive for a reason. Given I’m not just a daemon but a major daemon, this particular cambion didn’t blend the mortal and daemon things as well as one would have hoped. It was all a bit messy. It’s hard to explain to a mortal, but Esmé and Cecile were fused.” Like a magician, he conjured a picture, then jumped up from his throne and presented it to Lara—a grainy, old-timey photo.
Lara studied the old photograph mounted on thick paper like heavily sepia-toned Victorian images tended to be. In this one, an otherworldly, half-daemon child with two little heads was dressed in a single black lace gown. The girls, who appeared to be about four years old, were lovingly arranged on a chair, like dolls. Keeping with Victorian style, an oversize satin bow was perched on each of their heads, positioned carefully over tended curls—one blond set and one dark.
Whoever had commissioned this photo—likely Madame Plutard—had loved these girls and wanted them to be captured as she saw them. Studying the girls’ hopeful faces, Lara saw them that way as well. “They’re beautiful,” said Lara. Both of their small, heart-shaped mouths were slightly slack, as though something was distracting them beyond the camera. The photo was the most heartbreaking thing Lara had ever seen—no, felt was a better word—because she felt this photo pulling her in from another time. From their faces, she could feel the suffering of these poor children. Lara counted the tiny satin slippers that dangled down from the chair—three. Closing her eyes, Lara imagined them struggling to walk. Then she knew. A protective feeling overcame her. This child belonged to her—was imprinted on her as the origin of her family. She looked over at Cecile, whose hands were folded in front of her and whose face showed no emotion, like she had hardened herself to the story.
“I didn’t know what to do with my little creature… I wondered who would take care of it for me. I looked at my damned souls and thought, Well, Althacazur, that’s a pretty groovy idea. So I grabbed a group of performers and assembled them with the idea that they would care for it, along with Madame Plutard, who had proven herself so loyal to Juno.” He spun on his heels. “That worked until they began to grow up.” He looked at his nails. “I hate things that aren’t fun, Lara, really I do. So I cut them in half, creating two of them—liberating them from each other. Now, mind you, there were some issues. It wasn’t clean, but inside the circus, I created a place of illusion.”
Cecile looked down, like this part of the tale was painful for her to hear. Lara couldn’t imagine having to endure this story.
As if on cue, he said, “Cecile, my love, perhaps you’d rather not hear this.”
“No,” she said firmly. “Continue. For years, I longed for these answers and you refused me.”
Contrite, he motioned for Lara to join him. Cecile followed.
“Tisdale, Tisdale. It’s safe now,” said Althacazur as he left the center ring. “The monsters are all in their cages.”
As they walked, Lara couldn’t help but glance over at Cecile. She was beautiful, ethereal. “I read your diaries.” Lara wasn’t sure if this was a good thing or not, and she sounded like some fan or groupie.
“I know,” Cecile said, smiling. “I had him send them to you. All along, I was writing them for you. I just didn’t know it at the time.” In person, Cecile was shorter and slighter than Lara, but their faces had a similarity—the strong jaw, the upturned nose, the green eyes.
Cecile took her hands. The woman’s long silver-white hair hung in ringlets down her back. “Let me look at you.”
“I look like you.”
The woman put her hand to her mouth. “You do.”
“Touching though this little reunion is, ladies.” Althacazur was standing with Tisdale beside him, looking like Mr. Roarke and Tattoo. He motioned toward a door with a sign that read FERRIS WHEEL.
Lara stopped and turned to Cecile, remembering the entry from Cecile’s diary when Althacazur had built the Ferris wheel. “I recall this ride from your diary.”
Cecile looked down. “I don’t care for any of Father’s rides.”
“Oh, come now,” said Althacazur. “If you’re going to pout during this tour, young lady, then you should stay back.”
Cecile folded her hands and smiled, a little too warmly to be believed.
“Much better.”
As Lara contemplated getting on the ride, she couldn’t imagine what she was actually riding. You could call it a Ferris wheel, except it didn’t go up. The ceiling was quite low, almost like a basement, and as you got on the car it traveled beneath the underworld. It was as though the world were flipped.
The little monkey pulled a lever and jumped on the cart. Althacazur looked at Lara.
“It has a delay, but I wouldn’t stand there, girl. Get in. You do dawdle.”
Lara thought that somewhere in here was a bottle labeled DRINK ME. She heard the engine lurch and jumped in the gondola. Althacazur put the safety bar over their laps, which Lara thought was as curious a move as anything she’d seen given that they were in another dimension of sorts. The car descended into what seemed to be the center of the earth. There was a river of shiny black water beneath them.
“Styx,” Althacazur said, pointing. “This is a magnificent view of it, don’t you think?” It meandered past a thick forest of bare white trees that looked like birches. They reminded her of the trees near Wickelow Bend. With the white soil, white trees, and black river, Lara had to admit, it was a magnificent sight.
“That’s the White Forest,” said Althacazur.
Cecile stared at the forest blankly, her jaw tightening.
“This place gets such a horrible reputation as a destination, but I love it… especially in l’hiver. You won’t find me up there working in January.” He pointed up. “So where was I… oh yes. It all was quite messy, and that’s not even getting into the good-and-evil thing. Cecile has the uterus, but she has only one leg and one arm. And only one kidney.”
Lara lurched. She only had one kidney. She was horrified at the accounting that Althacazur was rattling off, but Cecile seemed oblivious to him, still staring with intensity at the White Forest.
“The other twin—Esmé—is missing her arm and is without a uterus, but she has two legs and all of her kidneys. Physically Esmé was the much stronger twin. But you see, cambions are only half human. There was a bit of daemon blood flowing through my creature’s veins, so I could do some things that could never have been done to a non-magical creature. I filled in the gaps, so to speak, with magic. Each girl looked… flawless.”
“You filled in the gaps?”
“I enchanted my fucking circus, so my girls looked beautiful inside of it. They were like dolls. Outside the circus, too, if they didn’t stay out too long. Oh, my beauties were the talk of Paris. Plutard made them costumes like little princesses, but I made a mistake.” He turned to Cecile and put his hand up. “I can admit when I’m wrong.”
Cecile flashed him a rather hateful look. “You were wrong on so many fronts, Father. It’s hard to keep track.”
“Well, yes, I made the mistake of putting the burden of keeping the illusion on Esmé, but she was a brilliant illusionist. Cecile did not fare as well when I
separated them, so I decided to wipe her memories clean so she had no recollection of being torn apart from her sister. However, Esmé needed that knowledge to keep up the illusion.”
Lara thought that sounded like an entirely unfair burden to place on a young girl.
“What Father is hinting at but not saying,” said Cecile, interrupting his monologue, “is that to keep his illusion that we were intact inside this circus, Esmé was forced to commit murder as a sacrifice—fealty—to fuel it.”
“Yes, yes,” he said, dismissing her. “She’s so judgy now that she’s dead. Perhaps I felt guilt that Cecile here looked so much like her mother. On her deathbed,” continued Althacazur, unaware of how upset his daughter was becoming at the story, “I’d made promises to my Juno that I would care for the child. Juno was never told the entire story of the birth—that there were two. Never thinking they’d live, of course, I agreed to it, but then she died, and I was bound, you see.” He looked sheepish. “It was a grave mistake as I would learn.”
“You never should have split us. We were happy as we were.” Cecile glared at him.
“Then that painter Émile Giroux fucked everything up,” said Althacazur, ignoring her. “Although Tisdale likes to remind me that I don’t know my own strength and that it was my fault. You see, because I’m an artist myself… I put a little spell on Giroux so that anyone he painted fell in love with him.”
“What you did was unforgivable,” spat Cecile, folding her arms.
Lara knew this from the journals.
“Yes, well, while I may have split you both in two physically, Giroux’s knife was sharper.”
“Thanks to you.” Cecile sank down in her seat and rested her chin on her hand.
Lara was fascinated at this strange familial argument she was witnessing. She tried to muffle a thought she had, much like trying to stifle one of those dry coughs you get at the end of a bad cold, but the thought wouldn’t stay down. This man is a lunatic. We’re placating a lunatic.
The Ladies of the Secret Circus Page 32