This was not the response that either Émile or I wanted. Since dinner, I’d longed to talk with him alone, but Sylvie tagged along behind us, making it clear she wouldn’t be leaving without me. As we ascended the stairs, the memories of that evening came flooding back to me and I paused. Émile, who was opening the door, looked stricken. It was the same angle—him at the door and me on the stairs. A dreadful déjà vu overtook me.
If the memories were so bad that I was unable to even walk up the steps to his apartment then I could not go through that door; I could not laugh with this man again, kiss him, certainly not make love to him again. Sadly, I knew it was impossible for me to forgive him.
Émile’s dire condition, however, prodded me on up the stairs, Sylvie in tow. While the color had returned to his face, he was clearly not well. Tentatively, he opened the door and I walked through, Sylvie following. The room was in complete disarray: canvases broken in two, their wooden frames splintered all around the bed; empty and broken liquor bottles littering the floor; records smashed into sharp pieces.
“What on earth—?” Sylvie was so shocked by the state of the place that she grabbed my hand.
“Go, if you cannot bear it.” His tone was sharp. “I will understand, Cecile. I deserve it.”
“You do,” agreed Sylvie. Her heart-shaped face and pursed lips fixated on him.
“Sylvie.” I shot her a look. Never had I seen her so hostile to anyone.
Sensing my disgust with her, she turned and walked out the door, shutting it hard behind her. Next I could hear her heavy steps, and then the door at the foot of the stairs opened then shut.
We were alone.
Despite Émile’s appearance, his pride returned and he composed himself, straightening but unable look at me. “Can you forgive me?”
“I don’t know.” I shrugged.
“Could you try?”
I wanted to say no and then turn on my heels and follow Sylvie out the door and return to my life and my trapeze. There would be other admirers, I knew that now. Émile Giroux was too much trouble for a simple girl like me. The words were on my lips. But then I recalled the last two weeks without him; the emptiness. Some moments, when I pictured him out there in the world, without me, I’d wanted to retch. Until him, I hadn’t been aware of the hollowness inside me. How quickly he’d wormed his way into my small life and heart. “I guess I could try.” It had been so simple to say.
“That’s all I ask.” There was no satisfaction on his face. I got the sense that he didn’t believe me.
“What did you do with her painting?”
“I threw it in the trash.” He ran his hands through his hair, considered the shamble of a room around him.
It was a lie. “You shouldn’t have done that. It might be valuable one day.”
“I want nothing to do with her.” I could tell that he longed to punish Esmé for his moment of weakness, but it was no more her fault than his.
“I will come when I can, Émile.” I stepped over the broken glass pieces and turned the doorknob, leaving him standing amid the ruin.
June 27, 1925
A strange illness has plagued me for days. This morning I decided to leave the circus to determine if it is the circus that is making me sick. The longer I stay on the other side, the more I wonder if I wouldn’t be better over there. To my dismay, I am sick on that side as well, throwing up all over the sidewalk in Montmartre.
When I returned, it was late and I met Esmé at the door. I was surprised by her appearance. The dress she wore was quite revealing, enough to see that she was not wearing a bra. Her eyes were glassy from crying and heavily lined with kohl. If I did not know her, I would have thought she was a prostitute.
“Get out of my way.” She nearly knocked me over. Her voice gave her away—she was surprised to see me.
“Are you okay?” I reached my hand out to touch her.
She stopped and peeled my fingers from her arm. “I will never be okay again.” She choked the words out as little heaves emitted from her body.
“I don’t understand—”
“Émile,” she said, cutting me off. “You have everything.” When she turned to face me, it was not the usual veneer. Her face was gaunt; her eyes glassy and dead. “Why him, too?” Those few words seem to have drained her. Spent, she turned and pushed through the front doors of the circus and into the night.
After Father had sent her away to the White Forest, I’d sworn that I would never harm my sister again. Whether she accepted it or not, we were connected in body and spirt. To see my twin so broken has made my decision easier. I will not be the cause of her suffering any longer.
June 28, 1925
I went to Émile’s apartment. Thankfully, the place was cleaner. He looked at me standing outside the door and pulled me in. “What is wrong?”
From his face, I saw that Émile had hoped that we were reunited so he could focus on things like his canvases again. In the corner there was a new painting, a nude of a woman. While she was not a beautiful woman, he had discovered the spark inside of her and drawn it out and onto his paintbrush. I could only wonder how he had achieved this. He was an artist, after all. If he seduced his models, it was only part of his craft, perfecting it as he did his brushstrokes. While I had come here with the sole intent of
