Time dragged. It moved with a painful slowness that was accentuated by his loneliness. He missed Katarina, missed her with all his heart, longed for her. He'd read and re-read all her letters, memorizing them. The twins had been born; one was male, the other female. Katarina had named them Marc and Louisa. They were growing slowly and steadily. It pained Giovanni to think that they would be a year old when he would see them. He was missing so much. They were his children, his babies, and he couldn't even hold them in his arms.
Dante and Musetta were behaving relatively well. They were active children, just as he and Katarina had been; Clopin and Esmerelda were forever chasing after them, begging them to sit still, if only for a moment. Giovanni knew that he should find this amusing, but it filled him with guilt. His uncle was getting old, as was Esmerelda. Giovanni should be the one chasing after Dante and Musetta. They were his responsibility.
He could not stand his grandmother, and he felt guilty for this as well. She was his grandmother, the only living link he had to his mother. He was supposed to love her. She did nothing to mask her hatred of Gypsies; she had practically slandered everyone in his family, and he couldn't say anything against her. He hated the fact that he needed money so badly. He hated being so poor.
He knew that Theresa loved Paris, though, and he tried to let her joy infect him. They'd been in Paris for about five months or so, but she was still awestruck by it. She seemed to find new, interesting things every day, and she told him about them in great detail during dinner. Her happiness was refreshing, and it made him forget his own, if only for a few moments.
~xXx~
He'd seen Theresa more often. He was starting to wonder if he was seeking her out without knowing it, searching for her without realizing what he was doing. He loved to watch her dance. He stood at the back of the crowds that gathered around her; he knew that if she saw him, she'd leave. She hated him, and he knew he couldn't blame her for it. She'd probably been taught to stay away from soldiers. Still, he found himself wanting to change her mind, to prove to her that he wasn't a bad person.
René was tempted to talk to her again, but he did his patrols with Jean-Claude, and did not want to risk his wrath again. Jean-Claude had been right, of course; he was being paid to keep the streets of Paris safe, not to flirt. Still, one conversation was harmless, wasn't it? Surely Jean-Claude knew that Paris would not fall apart if he spared a few minutes to talk to a pretty girl in the street.
Jean-Claude had been preoccupied lately. He had a strange, distant look in his eye, as though he wasn't really in Paris at all but lost inside of his own thoughts. This made René uncomfortable. He had tried to figure out what exactly was going on with Jean-Claude, but to no avail. Jean-Claude was a very private person. If something was wrong, he'd never admit it.
René glanced back over his shoulder. He'd heard the bells on Theresa's sash and knew that she was somewhere in the crowd behind him, twirling gracefully. She always smiled while she danced. Jean-Claude had gone on ahead of him; he was dealing with some dispute between two grocers in the marketplace, and was not paying the slightest bit of attention to René.
René turned to Theresa, watching as she continued to dance. She smiled while she danced, and he found himself wondering if she would ever smile at him. If he could talk to her, surely he could make her smile for him. Thunder rumbled, and René felt the first few drops of rain. The crowd around Theresa seemed to evaporate, and she dropped to her knees immediately, scooping up the coins that had fallen around her hat. René went to her, kneeling to help her.
Her head snapped up the minute she noticed someone else touching her money, and she glared at him. "This is my money," she said, "I earned it."
"I know," he said, handing her the coins. "I'm just helping you collect it."
She snatched them from him. "I'd rather you didn't."
"And why's that?"
She stared at him. "What do you want from me?"
"Nothing."
She glared at him again. "That isn't true. Soldiers always want something."
"Now who told you that?"
"My father," she replied. She stood up, clutching the little purple hat filled with coins. René stood, glancing over his shoulder at Jean-Claude. The rain had begun to fall somewhat steadily, but Jean-Claude did not appear to notice. He was standing before the two grocers, nodding and listening while they argued.
"Well, I suppose he was right," said René. "I do want one thing from you." She did not reply, but tightened her grip on the hat, clutching it to her. "I want your forgiveness."
"For what?"
"The way I treated you in Lyon," he said, "it was wrong of me to speak to you that way – "
"You've already apologized."
He had never been interrupted by a Gypsy before, and it made him feel awkward. Gypsies had no respect for soldiers (they had no respect for anyone, really), but they always made a show of being polite when he was forced to talk with them. He assumed that they did it out of fear. "Yes, I did," he said, "but you didn't forgive me."
"If I forgive you, will you leave me alone?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Fine," she said, nodding to him, "I forgive you."
"And I thank you for it." The rain was beginning to fall much harder. Theresa squirmed, flinching as the icy droplets hit her bare shoulders. "You know, you're much prettier when you smile."
"Excuse me?"
"I noticed that you smile when you dance," he said, "and it makes you look prettier." He threw another glance back at Jean-Claude, who was now attempting to prevent the grocers from starting a fistfight. "Damn. It looks like I'm needed." He turned back to Theresa, though only to say a proper goodbye, and saw her running in the opposite direction, her black hair flying. He watched her melt into the dispersing crowd, wondering what it would be like to run his fingers through her damp hair, then turned and went to help Jean-Claude.
~xXx~
Hans and Frieda loved to travel, but they always returned to their native Germany. They had a regular band of fans in Germany; Quasimodo had never learned their names, but he recognized their faces. The group of men and women who came to every show and hung around the tents afterwards, bringing bottles of wine and chattering in German. He didn't mind their company. He couldn't understand them, but he liked to watch them talking with Hans, Frieda, and the others.
They would not be moving back through France right away. They would first wind their way through Germany and the towns that dotted Switzerland's border. Heracles did not seem terribly upset by this, and this surprised Quasimodo. Lately he'd been in a good mood, despite being away from Lyon.
He loved Rosalie. Quasimodo could tell; Heracles denied it, of course, telling him to mind his own business. It was more than obvious. Quasimodo wondered why he didn't just stay in Lyon if he loved her so much. True, the circus wouldn't be the same without Heracles, but it wouldn't collapse either. Hans and Frieda would probably find another strong man, and the show would go on. Recently Heracles had begun sending letters to Rosalie. He never got a reply; she probably couldn't read or write. What was the point in sending letters to someone who couldn't read? What was the point in writing to someone who never responded?
It wasn't his business, and he left Heracles to write his letters. He wandered around the tents, finding Frieda and some of her German friends sitting around a campfire.
"Quasimodo! Come sit with us!" He settled down beside Frieda. She patted his knee, then turned to the rest of the group, saying something to them in German. "Viktor here – " she pointed to one of the men, " – noticed the carving you made for my birthday. He was quite impressed." The man said something. "He said it's beautiful. He wants to commission a similar portrait of his wife."
Quasimodo nodded. "I'd love to," he said.
Frieda smiled at him, and he lifted her up onto his lap; she'd been experiencing neck pains lately, and Quasimodo assumed that it was from constantly looking up at people. Perched on his knee, she was roughly at eye-level with the rest of the group. Plus, she wouldn't have to hold herself up on her hands, giving her weary arms some much-needed rest. She leaned against his shoulder, her curly red hair brushing against his cheek.
Frieda was fairly pretty. She did not have the delicate, graceful beauty that Esmerelda had; she had something else, something rough and solid and strong. The way she moved, racing across the ground on her hands, was amazing. She moved faster than people with normal, functioning legs. Her voice had a certain quickness to it, as though she was always in a hurry to say something, and it was loud. It was funny to hear a great, booming voice come from such a small woman.
Someone was passing around a wine bottle, and Quasimodo took it, handing it to Frieda. She thanked him, sniffing at the wine before taking a long swig. She handed it to him, saying something in German to the others. "Viktor here always brings the best wine," she said, handing the bottle to Quasimodo.
Quasimodo drank. The wine was sweet. He wiped his mouth, passing the bottle along. "He has excellent taste," he said.
The chatter continued. Quasimodo leaned back, gazing lazily at the dwindling fire as Frieda and the others conversed in German. The bottle was passed around and around until it was empty, then another was produced. By the time that bottle had been drained, the fire was all but out, and Quasimodo felt his eyelids growing heavy. Frieda turned to him, her green eyes sleepy from the wine and firelight. "Can you bring me back to my caravan?" she asked.
"Sure." He stood up, sliding her onto his shoulder. She gripped his back, calling out her goodbyes in German. The others waved, and Quasimodo smiled at them as he turned and left.
He climbed up the steps to Frieda's caravan and opened the door. He entered the darkened room, found a candle and lit it. "Here we are." He gently set Frieda down on the floor.
Frieda was looking at him. "You don't have your own caravan, do you, Quasimodo?"
"No," he said. "I sleep with Heracles and some of the other roustabouts."
"Why don't you stay with me a while," said Frieda. "I'm not tired yet." She turned and began to move towards a trunk that was on the other side of the narrow chamber. "Close the door, will you?"
Quasimodo shut the door. He turned around, stunned to find Frieda sitting by the trunk with her back to him. She had taken her blouse off and was rooting through the trunk, searching for something. Quasimodo turned around quickly. He had never seen a naked woman before. Oh, he'd seen paintings and pictures; he knew what women were supposed to look like. He'd just never actually seen one. He felt rude for having stared so long at Frieda's naked back.
"What's the matter?" He turned at the sound of her voice and instantly covered his eyes. Frieda was holding a plain cotton shirt; she hadn't bothered to put it on. She laughed now. "You don't have to do that!"
He found himself peeking at her through his fingers. She still hadn't put the shirt on, though she had folded her arms across her chest. "It…I'm just trying to be polite…"
"You've never seen a woman before, have you?"
"I've seen paintings."
She unfolded her arms and began to move towards him. "But you've never seen a real woman…"
"No." He shut his eyes. As she had moved from the shadows into the light, he had realized that she was completely naked. There were small, shriveled stumps where her legs would be. Quasimodo wasn't sure if he felt sickened by them or not; he'd never even imagined what the remnants of Frieda's legs looked like.
"Quasimodo." He felt her tugging on his pant leg and lowered his hands. He opened his eyes, staring down into her face. "I want you to see me."
He lifted her, placing his hands carefully on her waist. Her skin was soft and smooth, so unlike the rough palms of her hands. She touched his face, running her fingertips along his cheeks. He stayed perfectly still, almost afraid that the moment would end if he moved. He stared at Frieda, his eyes roving over the face he had practically memorized and down towards the parts of her that were still completely foreign. He was surprise to find that the freckles that splashed across her face dotted the rest of her as well. Her body was like the night sky.
"You're beautiful," he said. He saw her shake her head. "No, Frieda. It's like looking at Heaven…"
She looked down at herself. "I wouldn't call it Heaven," she said, "I'm sure if you saw the twins naked – "
"No," he said. "It's your freckles." He sat down, setting her on his knee as he'd done by the campfire. He traced his finger along the freckles on her stomach. "They're like stars."
She laughed. "You're tickling me!"
"I'm sorry."
She was still laughing when she leaned over and kissed him. He had never kissed anyone before, and the feel of Frieda's lips against his made his heart flutter. He closed his eyes, letting her lips guide his.
~xXx~
Cosette was pregnant. At first, the small bump on her stomach had filled him with joy, but now he felt worry and fear building up within him. What if the baby bore a resemblance to his Gypsy mother? What if it her dark, Gypsy eyes and complexion? He would be forced to tell Cosette the truth, that his mother had not been a Parisian woman but a Gypsy. He couldn't bear to do this. What if she stopped loving him? What if she grew to hate him? He needed her love, craved it more than anything; without it, he'd surely shrivel up and die.
Jean-Claude tried to assure himself that the baby would not look like his mother. The baby would resemble him and Cosette. It would have her fine, chestnut-colored hair and his blue eyes. It would not look like a Gypsy. He told himself this over and over, but the fear still lingered in his heart.
He had noticed René talking to the Gypsy girl in the marketplace, and he was furious of course. René had disobeyed a direct order, and had done so flagrantly, in front of him. René was his friend, and he did not like treating him like an inferior. Still, it was René's job to follow his orders, and he'd deliberately chosen not to.
Perhaps René was not in control of himself. Perhaps the Gypsy was a witch and had cast a spell on him. It was certainly possible. Most, if not all, Gypsy women were witches. Jean-Claude was now convinced that his own mother could be one. She must have bewitched his father, tricked him into marrying her, then murdered him when she had tired of him. It was the only explanation he could think of. Now René was under a similar spell. Either that, or he desperately wanted to get into the girl's skirt.
The girl was pretty. She seemed to know it. She flaunted her beauty, shaking her hips seductively, practically begging men to stare at her. She had clearly inflamed René's lust. Perhaps she was trying to capture Jean-Claude's as well; lately he'd seen her everywhere, and he found himself thinking about her more and more. He closed his eyes and saw her dancing in his head, smiling as she twirled, her flame-red skirt swirling around her shapely legs. He felt guilty for thinking about her, for wanting her. He was married, for Heaven's sake! He had a beautiful wife, and he would soon be blessed with a child. He had no reason to want or even think about the dancing Gypsy girl.
Still, he did think about her, and this bothered him. According to René, she would not be staying in Paris long. She had said she would be in Paris for a year, and five months had already gone by. She'd be gone in seven months' time, and Jean-Claude was certain he'd forget her before then. After all, he had his beautiful Cosette and the baby they would soon be blessed with.
~xXx~
"I noticed that you smile when you dance, and it makes you look prettier."
She replayed the words in her head, despite the nagging voice that told her not to. René was a soldier; he was lying to her. He didn't mean a word he said. He only wanted to get into her skirt, and he would forget her the instant she let him. Still, she'd felt flattered by his compliment.
Theresa sighed, staring out the window. Part of her hoped that she'd see René again, that he'd pass by the street and smile up at her. Perhaps she would smile down at him, and he would tell her she was pretty. Theresa pushed the thoughts away. Thinking about René was a waste of her time. He would never truly love her. After all, she was only a Gypsy, and everyone knew how soldiers treated Gypsies; soldiers acted as though Gypsies had no dignity and deserved no respect. She'd seen her parents treated this way, and it infuriated her. It had been long ago, one of her few lingering memories of the Court of Miracles. She dimly recalled a group of soldiers searching their caravan, knocking things over, smashing them without bothering to apologize. She remembered a man approaching her mother, staring at her harshly and questioning her; she remembered her mother crying into her father's shoulder afterwards.
She told herself to forget René, that he would only treat her this way once he'd gotten what he wanted. She knew what he wanted, of course; he'd offered to pay her for it back in Lyon, and no amount of apologizing would earn her forgiveness. She'd lied to him, of course, about forgiving him. She'd hoped that he would leave her alone if she agreed to accept his lie of an apology; she knew, though, that he wouldn't. He'd continue to 'woo' her until she gave in and let him have his way with her, then he'd forget she even existed.
Her head told her to forget René, to ignore him, but she couldn't stop thinking about him. She wondered if he really was being sincere, and she found herself hoping that he was, though she couldn't say why. She could never love him, just as he could never love her. Still, she found that she didn't really mind seeing him. He liked to watch her dance, he thought she was pretty, and these things flattered her.
She turned away from the window now, wishing that Giovanni would hurry up and come back. Talking with him would distract her from her own confusing thoughts, if only for a while.