He wasn't sure of what irritated him more, the fact that the Gypsy harlot had slapped him or the fact that Jean-Claude had found it so hilarious. He supposed that breaking Jean-Claude out of his cloud of misery had been a good thing; perhaps he should find the Gypsy girl and thank her. And it had been rude of him to assume that she was a whore. He remembered the way her eyes had changed with her emotions, flowing from startled to hurt to furious. He remembered the hurt in her eyes and wondered if anyone else had made the same mistake he had. How many times had she been propositioned because of her dancing? Perhaps she wasn't trying to be seductive. After all, she couldn't be older than seventeen; she was awfully young and probably naïve.
Part of him wanted to find her and apologize, though he couldn't say why. The girl was a Gypsy. She didn't deserve an apology or his respect for that matter. Of course she thought him a pervert, but why should it bother him? Why should a Gypsy's opinion even matter? He would go out later and find her, and he would not tell Jean-Claude, though it would undoubtedly send him into another fit of laughter.
René had never really seen Jean-Claude laugh, and it had been somewhat startling. Jean-Claude had a somber, serious attitude that somehow managed to carry over into his laughter. Everything about him was uptight and professional, even his laughter. It was somewhat disturbing, though René couldn't say why.
He left the Jean-Claude at the inn; he'd somehow convinced him that he needed to run an errand, and Jean-Claude had not offered to accompany him. He wandered through Lyon, noticing how the waning daylight created shadows in the city. The shadows reminded him of Paris, its long winding streets and hoards of people. Lyon was relatively crowded for a small town, but it was nothing compared to Paris. Nothing could compete with Paris, though.
He found the Gypsy on a side street. She was kneeling, picking up coins, probably from another performance. He watched her. She wore thin gold bracelets that clinked together, and there were tiny bells on the sash of her skirt. They jingled when she moved, creating music for her to dance to. She brushed her hair out of her face; she was really very pretty. She saw him now and glared, scrambling to her feet and clutching the coins.
"What do you want?" she demanded.
"I just wanted to apologize," said René. "For what I said earlier." She stared at him, her dark eyes wary and untrusting, and René suddenly found himself wanting to gain her trust. He wanted her to like him, to smile at him, though he couldn't fathom why. He held out his hands, showing her that he hadn't drawn his weapon, that he wouldn't hurt her, but she continued to look at him with anger and distrust in her eyes. "It was improper of me to proposition you like that," he said.
"Yes, it was," she said, her voice defiant.
"Well, I'm sorry," said René.
"What do you want?" she demanded again. She had not moved from the spot where she stood, but her dark eyes darted about; she was probably calculating escape routes, or possibly looking for other Gypsies to help her. René stepped back, away from her. He didn't want her to feel threatened. He had only wanted to apologize and for her to accept the apology.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Theresa." She still refused to move, holding the hat filled with coins to her chest, covering her cleavage. René had noticed her breasts while she had danced; it was impossible not to.
"I'm René," he said. "I…I'm new here – "
"I can see that," she said, "that uniform says you're from Paris."
"You can read?"
"Yes." She glared defiantly. "My father taught me."
All of the Gypsies that René had encountered had been illiterate. It seemed so strange to him that this one could read. He imagined her bent over a book, tucking an errant lock of black hair back behind her ear as she read, her dark eyes skimming over the words with ease. "Oh."
She continued to stare at him. "I need to leave," she said, "and you're in my way."
"I'm sorry." He stepped aside to let her pass. She watched him warily as she moved past him. The side street was narrow, and he could have reached out and touched her. Part of him wanted to touch her hand, to feel the warmth and softness of her skin. It would be stupid, though, and he refrained. After all, he'd just apologized for behaving inappropriately; grabbing her would only negate his apology. She was also the kind of girl who would scream bloody murder if a strange man touched her in the street. Her screams would be accompanied by kicking and scratching, and it would attract the attention of whoever was around.
He watched her leave, noting the way the bells on her sash jingled as her hips moved.
~xXx~
The sun was setting as they reached Lyon, and Heracles was more than relieved to be back. Life had felt somewhat hollow, though he couldn't figure out why. He lifted his weights before cheering crowds and smiled at them, but he secretly wished that Rosalie was part of the crowd, that she was clapping for him. He pitched the tents and slept alone in his caravan, wishing that she was lying in the darkness beside him. Thinking about her, knowing that she didn't love or want him, only made him depressed, but he found that every little thing reminded him of her.
He knew that the others had noticed his somber mood; they whispered about it behind his back. Frieda asked him about it point-blank, and her candidness was refreshing, but he couldn't bring himself to tell her what he felt. Frieda was a wonderful woman, and he loved her like a sister and knew he could tell her anything. He supposed that talking about his feelings for Rosalie would taint them, make them less important. Besides, Frieda would only tell him to move on, that there were plenty of fish in the sea. This was true; he'd had dozens of women, most of them prettier than Rosalie. Still, he found that he didn't want them. He wanted her.
They would make camp with the Gypsies and set up the tents in the unused fields. He would see Rosalie, and they would laugh and talk like old friends. She would listen as he told her of his travels, and that would be all. Heracles supposed that it didn't matter much; as long as he could still see her and talk to her, he'd be content. It was better than the aspect of never seeing her again.
Marie, as usual, was the first one to see the approaching circus caravans, and by the time they reached Lyon, a small welcoming party had assembled. Food was prepared and wine consumed, and eventually Dierk reached for his fiddle and everyone began to dance. Heracles sat beside Rosalie, wishing that she would dance with him.
"I really don't dance," she had once told him. He found this strange, because it seemed to him that all Gypsy women danced. Even Marie danced, and she couldn't hear the music. She twirled and clapped her hands, mimicking the people around her.
She was dancing with a boy, one of the Russian Gypsies who'd arrived in the camp a few months ago. The boy seemed as clueless and clumsy as she did; they made a perfect dancing pair, Heracles thought.
"I've missed you," he said to Rosalie. She smiled at him. The music was unbearably loud, and he slid closer to her. He could smell the wine on her breath and now noticed the sleepy look in her eyes that came with drunkenness. "I don't have anyone to talk to on the road."
"That's sweet of you to say," she said. Her speech was thick and slurred. He had never seen her drunk before, and it bothered him. She looked down at the wine bottle in her hands and took another swig. It was nearly empty. Had she consumed the entire thing? She turned her gaze back to the dancing crowd now, watching Marie. "I worry about her," she said.
"Marie?" He watched Marie. She looked so happy, laughing as the Russian boy twirled her in his arms. "She looks happy."
"It's the boy," said Rosalie.
"Oh, he's harmless," said Heracles. "And Marie's a smart girl."
"She's naïve about men. She doesn't know…" Rosalie's voice trailed off, and she looked down at the bottle again. She tilted her head back as she drank, finishing the wine. She let the bottle fall; it rolled across the grass.
"Rosalie," he said, putting an arm around her. He did this tentatively, hesitating, but Rosalie did not pull away from him. "You've had too much to drink." He stood up, attempting to pull her to her feet, but she refused to rise up to meet him. "Come on, let's get you home."
He lifted her now, and she groaned, resting her head against his shoulder. He carried her away from the fire and the dancing crowd, back towards her shack. She felt heavy, though no heavier than he'd expected. He was used to lifting objects much, much heavier; Rosalie was nothing compared to the weights he used in his act. It was pitch-black inside of Rosalie's home, and he moved through the darkness slowly until he reached the bed. He set Rosalie down then turned and groped for a candle and some matches.
He found a lamp on the table and lit it. Rosalie had fallen asleep in his arms. She lay there on the bed, her chest rising and falling with the rhythm of her breath. Heracles went to her, lifting her again to pull the blankets back. He placed her against the sheets and gently pulled the blankets over her. She groaned in her sleep, frowning at something in her dreams. He watched her, thinking about the empty wine bottle.
Heracles knew that Rosalie had a relatively high tolerance for alcohol. She could out-drink most of the men that she knew, but then again, most of those men weren't heavy drinkers. She must have consumed more than the one wine bottle to have passed out, and this disturbed Heracles. She obviously wasn't celebrating the circus' return. It now seemed likely that she'd started drinking before he'd even arrived.
She groaned in her sleep again, moving beneath the blankets. She squirmed, as though in some state of physical discomfort. "Stop," she mumbled, "stop…"
"Rosalie, wake up." He touched her shoulder, gently shaking her. "You're dreaming."
"Stop it…please…"
"Rosalie, wake up!"
Her eyes flew open and she jerked backwards, away from him. She stared at him, her brown eyes struggling to focus. She was panting as though she'd been running. "Heracles?"
"You were having a nightmare."
She sat up slowly, rubbing her forehead. "I have them often."
He wondered if she'd been dreaming about the rape. It had happened nearly ten years ago, but he doubted that any woman could forget such an event. He did not know the full details of the attack, only that there had been more than one man and that they were all dead. He was fairly certain he'd heard that Rosalie had killed one of them. Heracles suddenly realized that his hand was still resting on Rosalie's shoulder, that he hadn't shaken him off. She was staring down at her hands, her long dark hair hiding her face.
"I…I can't make them stop…"
He slid closer to her, sitting on the edge of the bed and brushing her hair aside. She glanced at him without turning her head, but did not push him away. "I would if I could," he said.
"There were four of them," she said. Her voice sounded thin, as if she was close to tears. "They tied me up, and they took turns raping me."
He suddenly found himself wishing that the men weren't dead, that he could find them and kill them. He would rip them apart with his bare hands, ignoring their screams. He would slaughter them, rendering their corpses unidentifiable. The ground would be forever stained with their blood, and their mangled bodies would be left for the rats and other scavengers.
"I didn't scream," continued Rosalie, "and I didn't cry. They wanted me to, but I didn't." He didn't know what to say to her, and this further infuriated him. He should be able to say something, anything, to comfort her. "I wasn't afraid of what they would do to me. I was afraid for Pierre and Marie. If they had caught them…" her voice trailed off, and the tears began to well up in her eyes. "I was so afraid they'd kill my babies."
She let him hold her while she cried, pressing her face into his shoulder to muffle her own sobs. He had wanted to hold her for so long, but he couldn't bear to see her in such pain. He wished that he could take it away from her, that he could turn back the hands of time and stop it from happening. He wished that her could reach into her heart and remove all of her pain; he would gladly place it within his own heart if it meant her happiness.
"I thought it would all end after they died," she said, "but it won't. Even in death they continue to hurt me…"
"I wish I could take away your pain," he said, "I wish I could take it from you. I'd do anything to make you happy again." She looked up at him. "I'd take your place if I could."
She reached up to wipe her eyes with her hand. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. It was the same one he'd let her use nine years ago when he'd first met her, when she'd started to cry from the relief that came with knowing her children were safe. She took it and wiped her eyes; he wondered if she recognized it. "You would?"
"Yes." He kissed her forehead. "I would do anything for you."
"I…" she was cut off by the sound of the door opening. Heracles looked and saw Marie standing in the doorway, her eyes wide with surprise. She shook her head, waving her hand as if to say she was sorry for intruding, then turned and left, closing the door behind her. "Oh," said Rosalie, "I really should talk to her."
She started to get up, her limbs moving slowly. It occurred to Heracles that she was probably still too drunk to stand properly. "I will," he said, "you need to get some sleep."
"Will you come back?"
"If you want me to."
She nodded. "Please."
"All right," he said. "I'll be right back."
He left, looking around for Marie. She was a few paces away from the shack, sitting her with her back to it, staring up at the sky. He went and sat down beside her. She looked at him. Over the years, Heracles had learned to communicate with Marie on a very basic level. He couldn't carry on an elaborate conversation with her like her mother and brother could, but he could understand her when she conveyed certain things. She was moving her hands, apologizing for interrupting him and her mother; she looked thoroughly uncomfortable.
"Marie," he said, "nothing improper happened between me and your mother. She had too much to drink at the party, and she fell asleep and had a nightmare."
Marie nodded, making more hand motions. Her mother had been having a lot of nightmares, and she wouldn't discuss them with anyone. It had occurred to Heracles that Marie and Pierre did not know what had happened to their mother. Rosalie and the others had probably kept it a secret; she would not want him to tell Marie now.
"I'm going to stay with her tonight," said Heracles, "to make sure she doesn't have any more nightmares." Marie only looked at him. "Nothing improper will happen, you understand?" She nodded, then reluctantly followed him back to the little shack. Rosalie was fast asleep when they arrived, and Marie sighed. She went to her mother, leaning over and kissing her cheek. She arranged the blankets, smoothing them over Rosalie's shoulders. It was a bizarre reversal of the mother-child roles, and Heracles felt strange watching it. Marie went to her own bed, a little cot in the corner, and lay down, pulling the blankets over her.
Heracles quietly pulled a chair up to Rosalie's bed and sat down. He leaned back, watching as she slept, wishing he could do more to chase the nightmares away.
~xXx~
He did not want to leave Katarina, but the more he thought about it, the less of a choice he had. If his grandmother wanted to meet him, he would go to her. Her letter implied that she was relatively well-off; perhaps she'd be willing to loan him some money. One baby was expensive as it was. If Katarina bore twins, it would cost twice as much to feed and clothe them. It was his job to provide for his family, even if it meant leaving them for a time.
"I'll come with you," said Katarina. "Wait until I've had the baby, and we'll all go to Paris."
Giovanni shook his head. It was impossible for Katarina to travel in her current condition, and traveling with two babies, plus Dante and Musetta, would be difficult. "I'll be back as soon as I can," he said, kissing her forehead.
Katarina sighed. "Would you at least wait until I've had the baby?"
"I don't think I can." His grandmother had hinted at an illness that was consuming her; she might not be long for this world. It would do no good for him to wait and arrive too late. Katarina and the babies would still be here in Lyon when he returned. He would see them then. "My grandmother's an old woman," he said, "in her letter, she said she was sick. I need to go as soon as I can."
Katarina took his hand, placing it on her stomach. He felt the baby (or, perhaps, babies) move within her. He would miss her so much. He remembered the two of them in Paris, the way they had raced through the streets, Katarina constantly outrunning him. He remembered her dressed as a boy, smiling shyly at him. He remembered his own desperate feelings, his desire to kiss her overwhelming and terrifying; he had finally kissed her in Lyon, not Paris. He remembered the rush of pleasure and relief, the way the jumble of feelings had flowed through him and into her. He remembered gripping her hands, pulling her close to him, the way she had intertwined their fingers, how she'd smiled even as he kissed her.
He touched her face with his free hand, and she reached up to hold it there. "I'm going to miss you," she said.
"I'll be back before you even know I'm gone."
~xXx~
It surprised her that the soldier had sought her out and apologized to her. Theresa did not know what to make of it and wondered if she should tell her father. She hadn't mentioned the earlier incident – the soldier propositioning her, then calling her a harlot when she'd rejected him – to anyone. Well, if you shake your hips like that, of course men will think you're a harlot! She wondered if what he'd said was true; did men think she was a harlot because of the way she danced? If she told anyone, would they blame her? Would her father look at her and shake his head and tell her what he'd been telling her for years, that men looked at her when she danced and thought lustful thoughts?
If she was indeed pretty, and she had no grand delusions about her appearance, then she supposed that her father would come to that conclusion. She hated to think that he would think that of her. Perhaps she should not have worn the yellow dress. It accentuated her breasts. She should have known better than to wear something that would draw attention to her like that, but then again, should she go about dressed like a nun? If men saw her and thought vile, lustful thoughts, was it because she had enticed them or because they couldn't control themselves? Whose fault was it?
The soldier had been quite handsome. She supposed that she could have liked him if he hadn't been so rude to her earlier. He'd seemed very sincere in his apology; perhaps if she returned to the main street where she usually danced, he would not cause a scene again. No, she would not go out tomorrow and dance. She had managed to make a decent amount of money, plus her parents worked; surely they could manage without her additional income for one day.
Perhaps he'd only thought she was a prostitute because he'd been looking for one. It was common knowledge that the majority of men serviced by prostitutes were soldiers or sailors. He'd probably been thinking lustful thoughts before he'd even laid eyes on her; she'd only inflamed his lust, though quite by accident. It was strange to know that someone had looked at her that way, that he had wanted her. Theresa wasn't sure if she felt angry or flattered. Being flattered by a lewd remark sickened her. The idea that he wanted to pull her into an alley and have his way with her was disgusting, regardless of how handsome this soldier was.
The soldier probably wouldn't even stay in Lyon for that long. Soldiers never stayed anywhere for very long. They were constantly marching off to war. He would leave in a few days, and Theresa would probably never see him again. Once he was gone, she could dance as much as she wanted without having to worry about his vicious words or lustful gaze.