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the ground, the oscillating blue of the sky, the deep green of a fringe of pine and skinny eucalyptus trees pulsed behind the children. In some photographs, they were costumed; in others, they wore street clothes. A team of boys in pink leotards, ribbons fluttering from their sleeves, soared, airborne, knees tucked to chests, arms clasped around legs, shadows like a flight of hawks against the blue canvas scrim at their backs. A quartet of girls in white held aloft a fifth girl, the older one who’d been the most extraordinary contortionist in the show in Copenhagen: once more, her weight rested on her arms and chest, and she inverted her legs above her torso so that her body formed a circle and her feet dangled beside her head, the arc of her legs echoed by the refracted halo of the sun.
    The children looked wholly absorbed in what they were doing, oblivious to the photographer or else ignoring him, the upheld girl’s expression dreamy. A young boy in T-shirt and jeans and running shoes was the same slim boy in blue who’d been the first to spring from beneath the blankets in the Copenhagen show and the last to fling himself over the rope of fire, only now he held aloft two blackened metal torches, flames quickening at their tips. His physical beauty was such as to be almost discomforting, the full lips and fine arch of his brows and almond skin, even as the photographs touched all the children with beauty yet did not objectify them. What shone through was their insistence on being taken seriously, as performers, professionals — either the photographer wanted to suggest this, or they did, or both.
    Someone called out her name. Juliet was approaching, pink-cheeked, without her video camera, in the company of the circus founder, who’d cast off his crowd of followers. Juliet looked, it had to be said, a little in love with him, and he, smiling, light on his feet, glanced at the photographs behind Sara before his gaze veered away.
    Alcohol had widened her veins and made everything drifty. She had to figure out what to do with her glass and plate. Green-eyed, now that was a surprise, and older than when seen at a distance, if still youthful: pouches beneath his eyes, flecks of grey in the tight curls of his black hair.
    Raymond Renaud. This is Sara Wheeler, Juliet said. Sara’s the one who told me about the circus in the first place. She saw you in Copenhagen.
    The grip of his hand in hers was warm and firm. Thank you for that, he said.
    I was there for a conference. I happened to see a poster. They’re wonderful performers. I’m not a circus person, but I thoroughly enjoyed the show.
    Sara’s a journalist, Juliet said.
    Not an arts journalist, though. I write about immigration issues. And immigrant communities.
    Maybe when we come here you can write something, he said, holding her in his green-eyed gaze. He had a supple physical presence, not slim but solid, taller than Sara, and projected a flexible strength. Or when Juliet’s film comes out. When we travel we often do outreach into the diasporic communities. Or maybe one day you will find yourself in Addis Ababa. Have you ever been there?
    I haven’t, no.
    You should come and see the circus in its habitat, or you and Juliet will come and you can write something then.
    Juliet stood beside him, taut in her silky skirt and purple tights and Australian desert boots. Raymond Renaud touched Juliet’s shoulder as if he sensed that she needed to be placated. Juliet says people here are very excited about her film, and I’m so glad to be bringing this momentum and awareness to North America. Now I have to ask you a question. When you saw the show in Copenhagen, tell me truly, what did you think?
    His insistence puzzled Sara: she’d already told him that she’d thought the show was good.
    They’re fantastic performers, exuberant, daring. Do any of them have any prior training or is this all thanks to you?
    What I’ve done is introduce the idea of circus and these