Hidden Colours Read online

  Yusuf sighed. Politics turned on a pin. They couldn’t risk displeasing Silberling, lest he withdraw his patronage. Lest he decided to invest his energies elsewhere.

  His mind spun through a reel of the latest indignities the circus had suffered: their own waste found strewn in the tent; the horses released from their paddock at night; crude images of buxom girls in compromising positions graffitied on the sweets wagon; the laughter of teenagers running away in glee.

  But his circus family—refugees all—had survived worse. The band’s energy leapt a notch, and the plaintive sound of the sousaphone jolted Yusuf into action. Never mind the disrupter in the crowd or the frowning presence of Silberling. It was time to take to the stage. In they all ran, beasts and performers alike, springing, turning, waving to the crowd, singing for their supper. Silberling, too, became merely one of the audience as the performers threw batons into the air and the goats danced and skirts became a whirr of colour. The girls threw small squares of tissue paper into the stands, which, in the blink of an eye, transformed into sapphire butterflies flecked with copper. The men blew into their cupped hands and bubbles emerged and floated away, growing ever larger, until they popped over the heads of the audience in a burst of raindrops.

  “Isn’t this just fantastic?” said Emir into the microphone in the midst of them all, his shirt straining across his belly as he hopped in excitement from one leg to another.

  The final moment approached, in which Emir pulled a lever that released a flurry of multi-coloured foils over the audience, never failing to make the children squeal with delight, a parting surprise the girls would later painstakingly gather up for tomorrow’s performance.

  He pulled the lever, but it stuck fast. Emir tugged it again to unleash the nets at the top of the tent. An avalanche of paper balls covered in stark print came turning through the air. Emir’s mouth gaped and he cried out, dismayed at the unwelcome surprise. Not one of them had noticed the change in the contents of the nets that morning. They’d been secure in the knowledge that all had been prepared for tonight’s show.

  The performers stuttered to a halt.

  The band momentarily lost its rhythm.

  Silberling’s security men emerged from the shadows.

  The audience clutched at the dirty projectiles as they tumbled through the air and onto laps. Silberling, too, unfolded his spidery legs and reached for a paper ball, as if it were a fortune cookie to be read. He unravelled it, eyes hooded as he read the page, mouth curled in displeasure.

  Yusuf’s ribcage contracted, as if the air had suddenly become thinner. He didn’t need to read the words—the sabotage spoke for itself—but he couldn’t help himself. He grasped a ball, unpeeled it, and read:

  Dirty rat.

  And another.

  Thieves. We don’t want you here.

  Around him, the performers stood still, faces painted in alarm. Emir, ever ready with cheer, appeared dumbstruck. With every moment, the buoyancy in the tent fizzled out. Circuses were stitched together from fantasy and could not survive the intrusion of the real world, the shades of grey and black and blue that track human existence.

  “Follow my lead!” said Yusuf to Zul the Clown.

  They ran around the arena, and the rest soon caught on, scooping up the offensive words, teasing the children, offering a peck on the cheek here, a handshake buzzer there, doing their best to ignore the expletives nestled on the page, the clues that to some they were not equal to the shit on their shoes.

  Inside, a leaden darkness settled over Yusuf, despite the cheer he showed in the tent.

  As the audience emptied the stands and the final sounds of the band died out, Emir excused himself, and his moustache drooped. “You understand, son. My heart can’t take such shocks.”

  “It’ll be okay, Emir. Leyla will make you one of her world-famous soups for supper and all will be well.”

  “You may be right.” The older man pushed through the heavy curtains of the tent, looking all of his fifty-seven years.

  Yusuf turned and found himself face-to-face with Silberling.

  “Goodnight, Herr Alam,” said the gravel-voiced minister. His stare, predatory and cold, sent a jolt of electricity through Yusuf. “You understand, these little disturbances cannot go on?”

  Yusuf’s throat thickened. How could it be that Silberling offered neither praise for the revelries nor solace for the night’s injustice? The man remained as cold as a fish. Far be it for him to explain something so obvious to a superior.

  “I’m sorry,” said Yusuf with a stutter. Even this foreign tongue that he’d taken pains to learn came to him less easily when he stood before Silberling, as if by the very virtue of being himself Silberling made others smaller. “I’ll pass that on to Emir. We’ll do better next time.”

  Silberling wrinkled his nose, and Yusuf became aware of the mild stench of bodily exertions and stale popcorn underneath the cloud of incense and sawdust. With a nod, the minister took his leave, striding into the night accompanied by his team to where his state car awaited him.

  He’d met men like Silberling before. Hadn’t his father been such a man, before it all came crashing down? Can’t they be found on every street, in every country, there where the wine flows, backs are patted and decisions are made? Some wore suits, others wore kurta, some carried guns, and some a briefcase, but the undercurrent of energy remained the same, and the hunger in the eyes.

  There, in the majestic tent full of possibility, oceans away from the troubles of his past, amidst the sweat and the sawdust, despite their talent and commitment, Yusuf knew the circus and its people to be pawns in a game of power and perceptions. Yusuf couldn’t trust Silberling even though the circus, in essence, belonged to him. Without the circus, Yusuf would have been lost, and Silberling could so easily take it all away.

  Chapter 3

  Rex Silberling liked to think of himself as a knight in shining armour. The Chancellor appointed him as Federal Interior Minister in the aftermath of her decision to provide a million Syrians with refuge from the war. Rex admired her bravery but the swell in anti-immigrant sentiment—particularly after the sexual assaults in Cologne—didn’t surprise him. No one liked to think their country had changed overnight; change could come too quickly.

  Then Rex had a brainwave that propelled him into one of the highest offices of state: the immigrant circus. His idea took on shape and colour, like an origami bird. Not that Rex was an idealist. No, he harboured no such illusions. He was a pragmatist. Germany couldn’t afford a repeat of its history; it had taken decades to move beyond the shadow of Nazism, and the country couldn’t fall prey to the nationalist surges across the globe. As the grand dame of Europe, Germany had a duty to lead or risked being toppled from her throne.

  What better way to ease tensions between the local population and refugees than by encouraging interactions in a frivolous setting while also enabling a livelihood, sense of community and a path to citizenship? It didn’t worry him that those absurd left-wing rags complained the immigrant circus reeked of exploitation. They always cried foul over something or other. This was about results, not sensitivities. A brave new world.

  Rex knew his strengths. He could sell oil to the Saudis. He grew the idea of the immigrant circus in gleaming boardrooms in which powerful, elegantly-suited men nodded sagely while secretaries tended to their every need. The Chancellor was taken with it. What an initiative! The immigrant circus would be a flagship integration project across Europe. It wasn’t without risks, of course. But were it to go well, they might win over those pesky nationalists. Rex had an uncanny ability of transplanting himself in other men’s minds, of understanding even the basest notions. If the Chancellor was willing to settle a large group of immigrants just a stone’s throw away from the Bundestag, the foul-smelling, uneducated lot couldn’t be that bad, could they?

  Once the circus had the right backing, it took flight and transformed into a real life breathing organism, its tents erect and bold at the h
eart of Berlin. The performers happily accepted their roles, awash with shame and gratitude. The circus tent’s blue and bronze fabric stood stark against the sky, a beacon to visitors across the city, like a minaret functions on more exotic soil. Rex pushed away his nagging concern at any similarities with the human zoos of the nineteenth century, where crowds had ogled black people, bearded ladies and conjoined twins.

  He really did have a lot to unpack with his therapist the next time he saw her.

  Still, as his political mentor used to say, good things don’t last, and in politics, two years is a long time. Marvellous though the idea had been, Rex had a panther’s instincts. He sensed it might be time to gift his patronage to another project, and tonight had proved his point. The immigrant circus was no longer the newest attraction in town and even Berliners, those most cosmopolitan of all the German people, had grown tired of it. Their curiosity had dwindled into apathy. The past six months had been marked by fewer ticket sales, grumbling neighbours, and an uptick in the number of assaults on the circus performers.

  The orbs of hate that had fallen from the rafters at the circus indicated a pattern Rex couldn’t ignore. He knew when to cut his losses. The nationalists had grown in strength, and had surprising staying power. They’d be bolstered by similar movements dotted across the globe. Their list of grievances demanded that their needs were placed above those of migrants. Such were their numbers that they could fell governments. Or worse. Even in the West, he’d seen how politicians and journalists had paid for their ideas with their lives.

  No one had ever accused Rex of bravery.

  He wouldn’t die for his ideals.

  He’d built his reputation on sensing the mood of the nation. It would be easy enough to convince the regional governing bodies that this little experiment had run its course. The voting public’s attention and compassion had moved onto other concerns, judging by the recent swing in polls.

  He stood, and his dog Jessy cocked her ears, alert to his every movement. She padded beside him, and he placed a gentle hand on her collar to restrain her from slipping through the door he opened.

  “Corinne, come,” he said, calling his aide. “We have work to do.”

  His aide swept up her papers and hurried inside. Her corkscrew curls formed a particularly unruly frame around her face this morning.

  Rex nudged Jessy’s rump towards the desk and shut the door. Yes, it might be time to polish his environmental credentials. After all, voters only had the capacity to care so much.

  The next evening, as the moon rose behind a bank of clouds, Rex strode into Mutter Hoppe, a brasserie in Berlin Mitte. He liked the hearty, old-fashioned food here, and he could count on it to be quiet enough for business meetings. As usual, Frauke, the waitress with a barrel-like waist, met him at the door to lead him to his reserved table. The dark wooden booths were perfect for what he had in mind: privacy and, if he spread himself out widely, a little discomfort for his guest. A useful combination for getting what he wanted while staying out of earshot of any passersby. It wouldn’t do to be recognised or overheard.

  When he saw Marina Schmidt already seated, Rex smiled. Arriving second signalled his importance. Ever dependable Corinne, hovering outside with his dog, had done her work well.

  “Frau Schmidt.” He nodded, and held out his hand for a cursory handshake.

  She fumbled in her purse for a moment then her clammy palm met his cool one.

  Was she frightened by his person or his role as Interior Minister?

  “Herr Silberling. You’re taller in person than you appear on television.”

  Rex waved a hand dismissively. There could be no illusions that the two of them were equals. “Appearances can be deceiving, my dear.” The endearment dripped off his tongue. She might be editor of Berliner Allgemeine Zeitung, a newspaper boasting the city’s highest circulation, but she was still a little girl in comparison to him.

  He slid into the booth and splayed his legs, one on either side of hers, and placed his folder of documents on the table. “You refused my invitation to the circus tonight.”

  “I would have loved to come, Minister, but I hadn’t yet given the green light on tomorrow’s edition. I hope you didn’t mind.”

  Her hair brushed against his hand. He blinked, surprised once again at how power brought out an awkward coquettishness. He was emotionally loyal to his wife, but the odd dalliance with the opposite sex re-established his prowess as a man. It’d been years since a woman had given him the brush off. It almost made him wish for a challenge. He harboured no vanities that Marina was attracted to him—in fact, Marina and her girlfriend were one of the most committed relationships on the Berlin high society scene—but there could be no doubt she hankered after his favour.

  Little wonder, when her newspaper leaked revenue. The losses it had accrued could hardly be sustainable.

  He fixed his china blue eyes on her. “Have you visited the circus before?”

  She shook her head.

  “A shame. It really is very good.”

  He’d expected as much. If Corinne’s research stood up to scrutiny—and she hadn’t failed him yet—Marina Schmidt’s reluctance to visit the circus aligned with her views. Funny how predictable people were when you learned to look for the signs. A horse-rider, whose bank account told of regular donations to animal rights charities, Marina had an instinctive dislike of the circus, and she had a gaping financial hole to plug. There was no doubt: Rex needed to control the press and Marina Schmidt was the right woman for the job.

  Frauke returned with menus.

  “A bottle of your finest Côtes du Rhône, thank you.” Rex waved her away and turned his attention back to Marina. “You’ve heard of the trouble, though?”

  Marina frowned. “Grumblings, perhaps. The usual stuff. Foreigners taking away our money, the state spending millions on them, thieving. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

  “Crime is on the rise. This week, the circus was targeted again. The police tell me it’s only a matter of time before the situation escalates. It’s not what I want.”

  “What can I do for you, Minister?”

  “Follow the story.” He arranged his features into a friendly expression. “Can the circus be saved?”

  Frauke returned with the wine and poured it, offering it to Rex to taste. He swirled it in his glass to check its viscosity, breathing it its aroma, before sipping some and letting it linger on his palate. He nodded his approval at Frauke, and they waited while she finished her task.

  When she had gone, Marina’s astute eyes searched his face. “The question is more, do you want to save it, Minister?”

  She was smarter than he’d given her credit for. He knew the limits of his own department’s energies. Should he throw more resources at the circus in the face of growing opposition, or abandon it and shore up his support? His resolve grew. Better to control the narrative and the outcome. Marina formed an integral part of his plan to accelerate the inevitable decline of the circus and close it down before the next election round. That way, he would save face when he brought the axe down and protect his international regard.

  He needed to be careful how he expressed himself here. It would be folly for any of these manoeuvres to be traced back to him. In fact, Corinne—whose unswerving loyalty matched Jessy’s—would be doing the running from here on out. Plausible deniability remained one of his guiding principles. The most effective politicians learned to weave lines that allowed them to twist in any direction.

  It all boiled down to this moment. Rex enjoyed this part of the game, the way his ambition unfolded, almost as if it were a game of puppetry. He leaned towards Marina, speaking in hushed tones, as if they were friends. “There’s only so far you can nurture the public’s better instincts. I fear the tide has turned. I trust you to do what’s best for the city,” said Rex. Flattery was a powerful tool. “I think this project has run its course and, of course, the Chancellor will be disappointed, but what can you do when the people rem
ove their support?”

  Marina’s fingers opened and closed around her pen: she had a journalist’s instincts despite being stuck behind an editor’s desk. “I need to be clear, Minister. What are we talking about here?”

  Time to seal the deal.

  He’d expected more subtlety. “An evidence-based story on crime and the circus, Frau Schmidt. We are so used to second-guessing our instincts in this country. And while we guard against the horrors of our past, we can’t be afraid to act in the best interests of our nation just because we are worried about being seen as xenophobic. I’m asking you to do what you do best. Courageous, no-nonsense journalism. Just run it by me first.”

  “What’s in it for me?”

  Rex grew impatient. Outside, Jessy barked, as she did when separated from him for too long. “You get to keep my ear. There might be some funding in it too. Channelled to you through a suitable project, obviously.”

  She leaned forward. “What timeline are we talking about here?”

  “Three weeks.”

  “And the circus people? What happens to them?”

  He sipped his wine and swirled it around his mouth before answering her. “That’s my problem, not yours.”

  She nodded. “Of course, Minister.”

  He placed a crisp fifty Euro bill on the table between them, and pinned it in place with the half-empty wine bottle. Then he eased himself out of the booth.

  “Goodbye, Frau Schmidt.”

  “Minister, your folder,” she said.

  “What folder?” he called over his shoulder, a smirk on his lips. “That’s not mine.”

  At the door, he turned to find her leafing through the documents Corinne had collated: police records outlining crime in the immediate vicinity. The evidence was woolly but Marina Schmidt had a knack for presenting stories in just the right way.