I am about to ask Anastasia what makes the Russian circus so special, but I don’t have to.
“Our Russian circus is like no other. We have never mocked a person. We have never used fat ladies or little people to make our audiences laugh. Russian circus performers are agile and daring, yes, but so are North American and”—Anastasia’s eyes land for a moment on Hana—“Asian circus performers. What sets us Russians apart is another skill: we know how to connect with an audience, how to build a relationship with every person in the stands.”
Though Anastasia was born in Moscow, she was educated at a posh boarding school outside London. Her parents wanted her to have other options—they thought she might become a lawyer or a doctor—but Anastasia says circus runs in her blood. “What’s the point in trying to fight destiny?” she asks me. “I did cartwheels over the stacks in the school library. Besides, I don’t much care for reading.”
Hana peers over the rim of her glass. “Tell us about Anatoly Bershov,” she says. “Please.”
Her famous family is Anastasia’s favorite topic, and, like the people sitting in the stands during a circus performance, we are a captive audience. I can hardly believe I am sitting here with a descendant of Anatoly Bershov, the finest tumbler in circus history. He is credited with inventing the act in which seven acrobats form a human pyramid, with the top tumbler balancing upside down on the head of the one under him. The act is a circus classic.
Anastasia reaches for her iced coffee. “Anatoly Bershov was born into a noble Russian family. He lived in a castle with dozens of servants and beluga caviar for every meal. But he was different from his brothers and sisters. Even as a boy, Anatoly was capable of extraordinary feats.” She looks at Genevieve and me. “He climbed the tallest poplar in all of Moscow. And he once vaulted across the Volga River. In 1792 a traveling circus came by caravan to Moscow. Anatoly and his family attended the performance. For once, Anatoly felt he belonged. He never went home.”
“Do you really think that part about his never going home is true?” Genevieve asks. “Wouldn’t he have at least wanted to pack a few things? Some rubles, for example? Or some rubies? Or maybe some of that caviar?”
Anastasia ignores the question. Her voice turns dreamy. “Catherine the Great fell madly in love with Anatoly. He was much younger than her, but she liked younger men. Her husband, Peter the Third, was younger than her too. Catherine and Anatoly couldn’t marry, of course. In the end, he fell in love with another acrobat. They had a son, Vladimir.”
Hana’s mouth falls open. “Vladimir Bershov.” The way she says it, the name sounds like a prayer. “I read a book about him. It was translated into Korean.”
“I didn’t bother with the biography,” Anastasia says.
“I guess you’re also related to Valentina Bershov,” Genevieve says.
“My third cousin,” Anastasia answers with another wave of her hand.
Valentina Bershov is a trapeze artist and one of Cirque de la Lune’s most famous stars. “My mom and I saw her perform last year in Vancouver. With the Cirque.” Now I sound like I’m the one praying.
“Wow,” Genevieve adds. “Can you imagine her life? Being part of Cirque de la Lune! She must make a ton of money.”
Anastasia groans. “To tell you the truth, I don’t understand the North American obsession with Cirque de la Lune. Yes, it’s big and the performers are paid a lot. But there’s more to life than money. There are hundreds of other circus troupes around the world, and some are more innovative than Cirque de la Lune. I’ve heard there’s an excellent troupe right here in Montreal called Cirque Viva.”
Genevieve crosses her arms over her chest. “Some of us need to worry about money. We’re not all from famous families.” She looks at me. “And we didn’t all grow up in fancy houses with giant trees in our backyards. My father isn’t some wealthy engineer. He drives a truck, and my mother does filing in an office. They’ve had to scrape together every nickel to pay for me to learn tissu. I want to pay them back one day.”
I feel tension in the air after Genevieve says all that, but it disappears when Hana looks at Genevieve and says, “That is most honorable of you.”
The waiter hands Anastasia the bill. “How much do we each owe you?” I ask, reaching for my wallet.
“Uh,” Anastasia mumbles, “let me see…” Her brow furrows as she looks at the bill.
Genevieve grabs the bill from Anastasia. “With the tip, it comes to $4.50 each.”
If I hadn’t been sitting so close to Anastasia, I might not have heard her sigh. Why is she relieved Genevieve took the bill? What was it Anastasia said about not caring for reading? She may be a Bershov, and she may have gone to a British boarding school, but Anastasia’s life isn’t any more perfect than any of ours. Not if she has trouble reading.
“Why are you looking at me funny?” Anastasia asks.
“I’m not looking at you,” I lie.
Soon, thank goodness, we are talking about other things. Hana wants to know whether there were Bershovs who died during circus performances. It’s a grisly thought, but we’re all curious to know the answer.
Anastasia looks down at the pine floor. “Ivan Bershov broke his back when he fell from the top of a human pyramid. Natalya Bershov was mauled to death by a lion.”
Genevieve makes a gulping sound.
“Tragic, yes,” Anastasia says. “But as we all know, danger is part of circus life. If regular people could do what we do—form human pyramids, fly on the trapeze—and if there were no chance of things going terribly wrong, the stands would be empty.”
Anastasia is right. That danger she’s talking about? It’s one of the reasons I’m hooked on circus.
Seven
Tuesday after breakfast, we have flex training in one of the small studios downstairs. Gillian, our flexibility coach, has arranged the mats on the floor. She isn’t one for small talk. “Let’s get down to work!” she calls out as we file into the room. “On your mats! Let’s go! Now!”
Gillian looks strong. She’s short and muscular, which makes me think she was probably a circus tumbler.
Unless, of course, she was an army sergeant. Because that’s how Gillian runs flex class—like it’s boot camp and we’re soldiers in her private army.
“Start by loosening up your wrists and ankles,” she commands. We press our wrists down on the mats, then shake out our hands. Next, we stretch our ankles, then shake those out too.
Gillian barks out one instruction after another. “We’ll begin with the pike stretch. Sitting up tall, legs stretched out in front of you, toes pointed. Now keep your backs long and reach for those toes! Or better still, past them! Let’s go!” She counts off the seconds. “One, two, three…get deeper into that stretch…five, six…deeper still!”
The stretch is making my hamstrings sore, but it’s a good sore—and it’s waking me up. I reach for my toes and then a little farther.
“Eight, nine, nine and a half, nine and three-quarters”—Gillian is trying to be funny by counting halves and quarters, but we’re working too hard to laugh—“ten!”
Hana is on the next mat. I heard her sobbing again last night. At breakfast, I asked whether she had phoned her parents. She shook her head. “I sent a text message saying I am well. If we speak by telephone, I am afraid I will become weak and want to go home. I must try to be more strong—for my parents and for me.”
Six more pike stretches in a row and soon my muscles aren’t just warm—they’re on fire.
Gillian circulates around the room. She shakes her head when she sees Cécile’s toes, which are not pointed. “In gymnastics class, you probably learned to do this exercise with flexed toes. But you’re training for the circus now, and I said point your toes. Pointed toes look prettier than flexed toes. Details like that matter in circus. Seven, eight, nine…”
Genevieve, who is in the row in front of me, turns in my direction and smiles when Gillian says the word prettier. I know what she’s thinking: I told
you so.
Gillian only gives us thirty-second breaks between exercises. It’s a good thing I filled my water bottle before class. I take a quick swig. Water dribbles down my chin and onto my chest, but there’s no time to wipe it off. Gillian is making us do another pike stretch.
After the pike stretches are done, Gillian explains why flex training is so important. “In this room, you won’t only be developing flexibility, but also strength and endurance.”
I think of what Hana said about trying to be stronger.
“As circus performers,” Gillian continues, “you’ll need all three of those skills. And, of course, the more flexible you are, the less the chances are that you’ll injure yourselves.”
Though only a few of the students in flex class are specializing in contortion, Gillian wants us to do some pretty advanced moves, starting with the bridge. She makes us lie on our bellies and then use our hands to push ourselves up from the mats and move into downward dog position. “Now bend your left knee and bring your left foot to your left shoulder. Grasp your foot with your hand,” Gillian says. “One, two…”
I feel Hana watching me, trying to figure out what Gillian wants us to do. I wish I could tell Gillian that Hana probably doesn’t know what the word grasp means, but I don’t want to embarrass her.
Gillian makes us go from the bridge into a position she calls the pretzel. “Without moving your legs, bend your arms and drop your chest to the floor. Eyes ahead of you! That’s right! Now you’ve got it!”
After those killer chest and back bends, we move into the splits. Gillian gets us to fold our mats up like accordions. Then we rest one heel on the mat so that the foot is about eight inches off the floor. My thigh muscles are throbbing.
“Breathe into the stretch,” Gillian tells us.
I inhale deeply and take an even longer time to exhale. The memory of how the tightwire performer did full splits on her wire the other night pushes me to go a little deeper.
When I look at Hana, I see that her thigh is pressed flat against the mat, her face perfectly calm. Leo and Guillaume are at the back of the gym, but I can hear their raspy breathing.
When Gillian comes to where I am, she pauses to watch me, then presses down on my hips and lower back. She’s telling me to go farther into the stretch.
When I look into the mirror at the front of the room, my eyes meet Genevieve’s, and I see she is grimacing. “It might be easier if you bring your foot in a little closer,” Gillian is telling her. Genevieve sighs.
I may not be as flexible as Hana, but at least Gillian didn’t tell me to bring my foot in closer. Wanting to be better than Genevieve makes me push myself even harder. I want to show her that pretty only goes so far, that what really counts in circus is skill—and effort. I’m working my thigh muscles so hard now they won’t stop shaking, even when I release the stretch a bit.
It’s as if Gillian can read my thoughts. “The only one you should be comparing yourself to is yourself. Every body is different,” she says from the back of the gym. “Flexibility training is not a competition. Circus camp is about improving your skills and having fun. It’s not a contest.”
But we all know that isn’t true. There is not much chance that Genevieve and I will both be picked for MCC. I need to be better than her in every way. And the truth is, I don’t know if I can be.
I press down harder. My whole body feels jangly, like I’ve gone too long without eating.
“Breathe deeply!” Gillian calls out.
I’m pushing so hard my breaths have become shallow, and they’re coming too quickly.
I don’t even notice that I’m crying. It’s Hana who does. She comes out of her stretch and leans toward me. “Oh, Mandy,” she says, reaching out her hand to wipe the tears from my cheeks. “Is something wrong?”
Gillian gives us a water break, and I head for the girls’ bathroom. I’m refilling my water bottle when Genevieve and Anastasia push open the bathroom door. The two of them are laughing. “Can you believe that girl?” Genevieve is saying. She brings her fingers to her forehead and makes the letter L. “What a capital-L loser!”
I cringe, because they must mean me. Did they notice that I was crying?
“Imagine being fifteen years old and crying for Mummy and Daddy. Next thing you know she’ll be wetting her bed!” Anastasia says.
My first reaction is relief that I’m not the capital-L loser Genevieve and Anastasia are laughing about.
My second reaction is that Genevieve and I both promised Hana we would not tell anyone she was homesick, and Genevieve has broken her promise.
Genevieve is probably not the best person to get into a fight with. But what she’s done isn’t right—and Hana has no one else to defend her.
Genevieve purses her lips and flips her dark hair in front of the mirror. Because I’m still standing at the sink, I speak to her reflection. It feels easier than speaking directly to her. “I thought you promised you wouldn’t say anything about Hana.”
Anastasia nudges me with her elbow. “Don’t be a sourpuss,” she says. “Genevieve was only telling me a funny story. Don’t you like funny stories?”
This time I don’t say what I’m thinking: laughing at someone else’s troubles isn’t my idea of funny.
Eight
For many of us, coming to circus camp is our first time in Montreal. So the directors want us to get a chance to experience the city. Thursday afternoon, camp ends at two thirty. A red double-decker bus, the kind you’d expect to see in London, picks us up in front of the college. We’re taking a private tour, with a stop in Old Montreal before the bus returns us to our dorms.
Suzanne and Hugo will be our chaperones. They sit at the back of the bus on the first floor, where it is air-conditioned. The rest of us race to the top deck, which has no roof. It’s hot and humid, but after spending most of the week indoors at circus camp, the heat and humidity feel good on my skin.
I sit with Hana, who is wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat. Even though the bus isn’t moving, she is already snapping photographs with the smallest camera I have ever seen. Leo and Guillaume are sitting in front of us. When the engine starts and the tour guide’s voice comes crackling through the speakers, Leo turns and grins. I feel myself blush.
Guillaume drapes his arm around Leo’s shoulder and makes a show of pulling him close. “Will you stop flirting with the girls and pay a little attention to moi instead?” Guillaume says loudly. “Have you forgotten that I am your circus partner?”
“Those two are so funny,” Hana says to me. “I think the handsome one likes you.”
“He’s just teasing,” I tell Hana, but I hope she’s right.
The tour guide is giving us general information about the city. Montreal is an island. It’s the second-largest city in Canada, with a population of over one and a half million. French is the official language. Montreal is named for Mount Royal, the mountain in the city’s center. We’ll be driving through Mount Royal Park at the end of our tour.
There’s a lot of traffic on the Metropolitan Highway. When the bus comes to a halt, Leo and Guillaume wave at people in their cars. “Let’s see if we can make them laugh,” Guillaume says to Leo.
The two boys juggle invisible balls and pretend to duel and play the violin. Hana and I keep count of how many drivers laugh. Soon we are up to seventeen. It’s a good way for Hana to practice counting in English.
About twenty minutes later, the tour bus is winding its way through the city center. Sherbrooke Street is a wide boulevard where the Museum of Fine Arts is located. A narrower side street leads us down to Ste-Catherine Street, where all the shops are.
Genevieve peers over the side of the bus. “The girls in Montreal all look so stylish. I wish the bus would slow down so we could get a better look at the store windows.”
But when the light turns green, the bus picks up speed. Genevieve shakes her head wistfully.
“To your right is 1000 de la Gauchetière. At 205 meters—or 673 feet—i
t is the tallest building in Montreal,” the tour guide says. “There’s a skating rink inside that is open year-round. If you didn’t bring your skates, it is possible to rent a pair.”
Genevieve and Anastasia are sitting across the aisle from Leo and Guillaume. Leo leans over toward Genevieve. “How would you like to go skating with me sometime?” he asks her.
I can’t help feeling a little jealous that he didn’t ask me.
Genevieve squeals. “I’d love to go skating with you!” She says it so loudly the whole bus can hear her.
“I’ll be there too!” Guillaume chimes in. “Leo and I travel as a pair.”
The next attraction is the Notre-Dame Basilica in Old Montreal. “This church is one of the best examples in North America of Gothic Revival architecture. Notice the ornate towers at both ends,” the guide says. “Our next stop is the Old Port. There, you’ll have ninety minutes to explore the old city by yourselves. We meet back at the bus at six o’clock sharp.”
From the bus, Guillaume and Leo have spotted an ice-cream shop called La Crémière. They want to go there first. The rest of us follow. De la Commune Street, which overlooks the port, is full of tourists. Hana has never tasted maple, and she wants to try the maple ice cream.
I see Genevieve elbowing her way through the crowd, trying to get closer to Leo.
“Do you like maple?” Hana asks me.
“Sure I like it. I’m Canadian, aren’t I?”
“What does maple taste like?”
“It’s hard to describe. A bit like honey. But more buttery.”
“Do you mean butterscotch?” I can tell from the way she says it that Hana is proud to know the word butterscotch.
“You’ll have to try it and see for yourself.”
We sit on the benches outside La Crémière to eat our ice cream. Hana’s forehead is scrunched in a way that makes me think she can’t decide whether she likes maple. I’m having strawberry.
Learning the Ropes Page 3