It was several nights before I joined my father on the balcony again. We tiptoed carefully around each other, metaphorically, not daring to mention the subject again. For a while, that stiff, lifeless face haunted my dreams and waking hours, that face which was so like the one I knew, and yet nothing like it. It was not Mother; that much I knew, and I hoped Papa was beginning to realise that too.

At school, I would be trying to concentrate on the lesson, and that image would swim across my mind. There was one day that it was particularly vivid - I could see those arms reaching out for me as it walked towards me, wearing that same dress that Mother had died in...

"Gustave!"

That jolted me out of my daydream.

"If you know so much about long division that you can afford to stare out the window while I'm talking, would you kindly come up to the blackboard and work out this sum, please?"

"Yes, Miss Mackenzie," I muttered distractedly, still trembling a little. There were a few stifled giggles behind me as I got up and went to the board, my teacher's beady gaze never leaving me. Thankfully I was able to solve the complicated sum and sheepishly returned to my desk. I just sat there trying to get that stupid automaton out of my mind. It was so unfair. Why did I have to have a father like that? No-one else did.

At recess, Miss Mackenzie asked me to stay behind for a few minutes, just as I'd dreaded. She told me that I'd been daydreaming a lot lately and while I was bright, she did not tolerate lazy students. She ended by saying that I needed to apply myself more. It was true. I could not let her write a letter home to my father, telling him that I wasn't listening in class, regardless of the reason. And I certainly did not want her turning up at the house. She was not as sympathetic as Miss Philips, and I did not want to imagine the conversation she would have with Papa. Dejectedly I made my way out to the schoolyard.

"Are you all right, Gustave? Miss Mackenzie's a grumpy old thing, isn't she? "

It was George Kimmel, who sat next to me in class. We'd started to become friends since the start of term, when he'd moved to the area and he was my first proper American friend of my own age.

"Just told me not to daydream in class, that's all. It was fine."

We played marbles together until the bell rang and we had to go back inside. I sat down, determined to work hard in school and make Papa proud of me. But I knew I could not tell George what had happened. Whenever he, or anyone else, asked I just replied that I didn't sleep much last night.

George and I walked some of the way home together as we often did. He talked about how his stepmother was baking cookies today for after dinner and how he was looking forward to them. When we parted company, I headed to Phantasma and to the Aerie where my father was working as usual. He did not walk me home from school or church as often now that I was eleven and could be trusted more. But he still worried about me.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

One day, just before Thanksgiving, George asked me if I would like to come to his house for dinner and to play.

"Thank you, that sounds great!" I replied, without thinking.

When I left him, I wondered how I was going to tell Papa. Usually after school we spent time in the Aerie together, where I would do my homework and we might spend some time working on our designs or on other Phantasma business before walking home together for our dinner. Afterwards we would play music together or read. We had settled back into a nice routine by now, following the Automaton Incident. And this would be the first time I went to another child's house since I began living with him.

While I dried the dishes I planned how to ask him. Realising it was best to do it when he wasn't busy I waited until we were settled down with our books.

"Papa.."

"Yes, dear?" He looked up at me.

"Erm.. It's just that.. this boy in my class, George.. you remember, the boy I told you about?"

He nodded.

I rubbed the back of my neck, which was becoming a nervous habit of mine.

"Well, he's.. invited me to his house on Friday and I was just wondering if I could go?" I spoke quickly to get it out of the way. He put down his book and looked at me.

"This Friday?"

I nodded.

"Well..of course you must go, if he's invited you. Does he live nearby?"

I named the street. It was no more than ten minutes away.

"Well, I don't see why not. I will come and walk you home though as it will be dark when you are leaving."

I breathed a sigh of relief.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

It was a lovely afternoon. We were able to play out on the street for a while and then George's stepmother, who he called Aunt Jane, made us a lovely meal with apple pie for dessert. He lost his mother when he was three and did not have many clear memories of her. I suppose that brought us together in a way. His stepmother knew about my history – was there anyone on Coney Island that didn't? – and fussed around me, not really sure whether to sympathise with me at this stage, I suppose.

Papa came for me as he promised, surprising "Aunt Jane" and George's father with his strange appearance. He thanked them graciously for their hospitality although I noticed how he fidgeted a little and looked at the ground, his hat firmly set at an angle to hide the mask. He seemed anxious to set off so after saying goodbye to George, I took his hand quickly, not wanting him to feel any more awkward than he clearly did already. But despite this, it almost felt normal, to be honest; a father coming to walk his son home from his friend's house. And although he did not linger for a chat or a cup of tea as would normally be the case, it was progress.

"That poor boy," I could hear Mrs Kimmel saying to her husband, as we hurried away. How much longer will people see me as "the son of that dead singer"? I wondered.

Papa didn't say anything but I knew he'd been lonely. There was one solitary plate drying beside the sink as I entered the kitchen and I wondered if he had eaten much when I was not around to coax him. He gazed at me in that adoring way as we sat together on the sofa that night and I told him about my day. We were silent for a while and I leaned against his shoulder, feeling content. "I'm glad you enjoyed yourself today," he said gently.

"Did the Trio come over?" I asked hopefully.

"No, they were at some party, with a few of the other performers," he replied.

"So you were alone?"

"Gustave, it doesn't matter. I've spent most of my life alone. One evening is nothing really, and anyway, here you are back with me again."

"Can we go somewhere together tomorrow?"

"We'll see," he chuckled, kissing the top of my head, "Now, off you go and get into your pyjamas."

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

The weather in Coney Island out of season was often wet and stormy so if it was a weekend I usually stayed in and Papa taught me to play chess. Mother and I used to play draughts when it rained but she didn't know how to play chess and Raoul didn't have the patience to teach me. However Papa was a good teacher, as always. Both of us enjoyed playing with my train set and he also taught me to play the violin and the flute. I have never met anyone who could play so many musical instruments.

If the evenings were dry we would wrap up warmly and fly my kite from the balcony. The other balcony on the tower had been higher up and caught more of the wind, but it was still fun. No doubt local residents thought they were seeing things – a masked man and a young boy flying a kite at night in winter…

As Papa had promised, we celebrated Thanksgiving that year. Just like at Christmas, the Trio joined us and Miss Fleck surpassed herself as our cook. Indeed, all five of us knew we had much to be thankful for, and we would go on to celebrate many more such holidays together. The meal was delicious and the next day Joe and his wife Alice took me downtown to see the "ragamuffin parade" which was a popular, if rather boisterous, event at the time.

Winter was well and truly here and I caught a horrible cold that day. True to form, Papa fussed over me as if I were made of glass, reading to me and generally treating me like a three year old. This was the first time I'd been sick since I came to live with him and it was a new experience for him. He had a range of homemade remedies and seemed to know a lot about medicine and the human body. He was so learned and could not wait to teach me all he knew.

"What are these things ?" I asked him between sneezes, nodding at the jars on my bedside table.

"Most of them are old gypsy remedies," he replied, and I began wondering again about his life and how he knew so much about things like gypsy remedies.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

It became too cold to sit outside, but we always found plenty to do inside. One quiet evening as we sat reading together I decided to ask him how he knew so many things, thinking it would be a fairly harmless question.

He leaned back in his armchair and closed his eyes. For a moment I thought he'd gone to sleep, he was so still. When he opened them, he spoke with sadness.

"From books, mainly. But when I was a small boy, living in my...mother's house, I had a tutor who taught me all kinds of things."

"Like me!"

"Yes, child, but for very different reasons… He was a professor as well, and he taught me architecture, mathematics... I was thirsty for every kind of knowledge. It frightened my mother. And there was the local priest, Father Mansart. He used to come and visit me, bringing Mother Communion and teaching me the Catechism and my prayers. But most of the time, I was alone in my attic room and I read a lot."

I felt sad that he'd been kept away from school. He went on to tell me about his dog, Sasha, and we marvelled at how we both liked dogs. "She was wonderful, my only friend, really. My face never bothered her. I've noticed that with animals"

"What happened to her?"

He swallowed nervously and I opened my mouth to change the subject but he continued.

"She was killed by a gang of local boys. They hated me you see, and they used to attack my mother's house, taunting us both and threatening her. Sasha was outside that night, and…" His voice trailed off and I sat on the arm of his chair and took his hand.

"That's... awful. I'm so sorry. Poor Sasha." I looked away sadly, thinking of Alfie.

"It was after that night when I ran away. I was about nine at the time, but I knew my mother would never be safe with those villagers threatening her and hating her."

Nine years old? I could not imagine running away at that age, or living rough as Papa was describing to me, sleeping out in the fields.

"I came across a gypsy encampment after a few days," he continued sorrowfully. "I crept up to it, thinking to beg for food, but I scared one of the horses and they found me. They.. beat me..."

I looked at him in horror.

"When I woke up I was in a cage. That was my new home. They had a travelling show you see, a sort of fair, and they travelled around France, putting me on display. People would come and look at me. They called me "The Devils Child". I had to sit in that cage, with people gawping and laughing, throwing things at me, spitting at me…"

"But that's.. how could they do that to you? You had to live in a cage?"

He described how there were lots of other "exhibits", people with various deformities, disabilities and freakish appearances, like the man without legs who did all kinds of gymnastics with his arms alone, or the Siamese twins. "The Devils Child" was just another exhibit, living and sleeping in that cage, to make money for his owner.

"You had an owner?"

He put his head in his hands and started to tremble. I wanted to tell him to stop, but he kept going. Perhaps he needed to tell me.

"I hated him. He was a drunkard, a violent thug... He beat me.. He made me wear a sack over my head, to cover my face. Except when there were customers around, of course."

He looked at me with such sadness that tears welled in my eyes.

"He used to beat me if I refused to let him take it off. Or if he didn't make enough money. He did.. oh God.. He did things to me.. t-terrible things.."

He was crying uncontrollably now and I put my arms around him. "It's all right Papa, don't cry, please don't cry.."

With all the strength that was within him, he held me against him, almost crushing me.

"My boy, my precious, innocent boy.. No one will ever hurt you like that, I swear it.."

He frightened me with this fierce affection. All this dark emotion within him, all these terrible things that had happened to him. And what could I do, except try to comfort him?

And I was angry too. How dare someone put him, or anyone else, in a cage? How dare someone call themselves his owner?

It would be several years before he told me, that he had been put on display again, only this time in America when he first arrived on these shores. That still makes me angry, even now, although I doubt that the people responsible are still alive. How could he be treated like a freak in the so-called New World? At any rate, there were other gaps in his story to be filled in before that, like a tantalising jigsaw puzzle.

But after this revelation about his life, no, his existence, with the gypsies I began to see him differently. He was not like other men, that was for sure. He created a replica of the woman he loved, he hid in the shadows of an Opera House and pretended to be an angel, he was full of dark anger... and perhaps this was why – his whole life had not been like other men's lives. I wondered how he'd managed to escape from that dreadful fair. That was for another day, though. In the meantime, I knew one thing.

He needed me, just as much as I needed him.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

I continued to settle into this new life, which did not feel as new as it used to. Although George became my best friend I made other friends at school, and we always played together at recess. I learnt all kinds of new games from them. In addition, a new sport entered my consciousness around this point – baseball. There was a similar French sport called le soule which was sometimes played in the village near my old home, but I'd never played it myself. At this time, baseball was starting to sweep the nation and I was carried along by this tide of enthusiasm. I learnt about the different teams, the players and the strange terminology. I collected baseball cards which Joe gave me from his cigarette packets and I eagerly swapped duplicates with my new friends. This was a proper life, a world away from my early years.

My father watched these developments with contentment, happy that I was settling in. And yet... sometimes I could see sadness in his eyes as I described our games and our exploits. Perhaps it was because this kind of childhood had been denied to him. Or because I was able to play outside, or walk down a street, or do anything, without feeling the curious stares of others. Once, when I told him I was invited to a birthday party on a Saturday, he tried to hide his disappointment. He'd been busy with meetings regarding Phantasma and wanted to spend some time with me. But he let me go and even accompanied me into the town to buy a present for the boy in question.

It was a great party, with a delicious birthday tea, a cake, some games and a treasure hunt where we solved fairly challenging clues to help us find various objects around the house and the garden. But the whole time I was there, I couldn't help thinking of my father.

He came to walk me home, but waited for me at a distance, so that the other children could not see him. There were too many people around this time. When we got home, he made me hot chocolate and listened as I told him about the party.

"It's good you are making friends your own age," he told me, with a hint of sadness. "I suppose you will be going to more parties now, and going to George's house, all that kind of thing. You need to have friends, I realise that." His voice trailed off and he stroked my hair gently.

"You should never feel awkward about asking me if you can go somewhere. I don't expect you to stay in all the time, just to keep me company. And how about you invite George here for dinner some night? You haven't returned his invitation yet."

I looked up at him in surprise.

"Can I?"

"Of course!"

"Thank you, Papa!" I hugged him and he chuckled.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Of course I worried about how the evening would go. Who wouldn't? But it turned out better than I'd hoped. We both agreed in advance that Papa would wear his mask and that we would use English even though it was one of our designated "French days". But still… He was so reclusive and strange, and what if he produced some new, scary looking invention, or played that dark, horrible music that he sometimes composed when he was angry? Or what if he lost his temper with George and he never came back?

But it was fine. George already knew about the mask from my visit to his house and promised not to ask questions about it. He was not the nosy or disrespectful type anyway. They actually got along quite well, despite my friend's initial nerves, with Papa greeting him with a warm handshake. Luckily we had just got our Christmas holidays and that gave us something to talk about. George told us about his aunt, uncle and cousins who were coming to stay over Christmas and how he was looking forward to seeing them, as they lived some distance away. And Papa was discreet, leaving us alone to play and later on, playing some nice music on the piano for us. He made us all a delicious chicken stew for dinner and managed eat a decent portion of it.

After my friend had left, Papa and I sat in the living room, happy with how everything had gone and reluctant to go to bed just yet. "Thank you," I told him softly, hugging him. He returned my hug, chuckling a little.

"My pleasure. You have a very nice friend. I'm so glad.."

He just held me for a while and I didn't have the heart to break away from his embrace. Then he spoke again, with a hint of that perennial sadness.

"You are such a good child, you know. And yet, you won't always be a child. I've missed out on so much of your life, ten whole years.. Some day you will be a man and you might want to get married and leave me.."

"I'm never getting married. Girls are silly."

He laughed, easing the intense atmosphere.

"I feel you will change your mind about that in a few years!" He ruffled my hair playfully, and I left him to go upstairs and get ready for bed.

When Papa came to sit with me, I listened to him tell me a story then lay down under the covers.

"Gustave, I was thinking.. perhaps you would like to go downtown tomorrow and go to a concert?"

"A concert? That sounds great! I've never been to a concert before."

I was happy that night. I'd had a nice day with my friend and now I would spend time with my father tomorrow.

Yes, those were happy years, despite everything. Just like my summers, the off seasons were full of adventures, discoveries and new experiences. All the little outings that my father and I had together, walking downtown, through crowded streets and past staring eyes, visiting parks, shops, cafés, travelling through a busy, vibrant city on trains, subways and streetcars, not to mention all the wonderful music we listened to in New York's concert halls. A good time to be alive and young.

Those were indeed some of the best years of my life... and the worst.