Frog Music by Emma Donoghue

we tripped over in the hall?” he asks Jenny.
    “Such a pleasure to study one up close,” says Ernest, “if only in the dark, with our shins. I saw one just like it selling for two hundred bucks the other day,” he tells Arthur.
    Blanche’s eyebrows soar at the price. “Jenny, ahem, found this one on Market Street.”
    “Ah, the divine workings of chance,” says Arthur, blowing a kiss toward the sky. “Five foot, is it, that front wheel?”
    “Four foot nine,” says Jenny fondly. “It shoots down California or Sutter at about twenty miles an hour. The next best thing to being an eagle.”
    “And on the flat?” asks Ernest.
    “Smooth as silk. The knack of it is, prop your feet in front of the handlebars so if you meet an obstacle you can jump free.”
    “An obstacle such as … me,” Blanche can’t resist adding.
    Jenny’s grin is devilish. “Well, even birds crash, the odd time. Those high buildings going up downtown, with their yards of plate glass—I’ve seen a gull break its neck against a window.”
    “Ah, you ain’t a true citizen of this city until somebody’s run you over,” Ernest says with a yawn.
    “Sounds as if you’ve had quite a night, ma puce ,” murmurs Arthur to Blanche, caressing her neck.
    Oh, she could ride him right here in the chair. Leaning back, Blanche straightens her stiff leg, rotating her ankle. “You owe me a spin on that machine of yours sometime,” she tells Jenny.
    Who grimaces. “I know you’re a dancer, but I’m afraid that, to master the high-wheeler, you’d have to be something of an acrobat.”
    Ernest and Blanche burst into simultaneous laughter.
    Blanche lets the visitor in on the joke. “The three of us happen to have forgotten more about acrobatics than you’ll ever know.”
    “My partner here was the best flier in the Cirque d’Hiver,” boasts Ernest, patting Arthur’s glossy shoe.
    “Ah, les jours anciens .” A dark edge to Arthur’s voice. “Ancient history now.”
    How much does her man miss being the lean aerialist of those past times? Blanche wonders. Arthur’s muscles aren’t gone, just softened, looser on his frame, and from his perfect carriage, you’d never know about his back. Who can take their eyes off him?
    “Well, I’ll be damned,” murmurs Jenny. “The Cirque d’Hiver in Paris?”
    Blanche spreads her hands as if to say, Where else? “That’s where we learned our English, from a pair of genuine Yankee cowboys in the troupe.”
    “The Cirque d’Hiver’s where our master Léotard invented the flying trapeze,” Ernest puts in, “no matter what charlatans claim otherwise.”
    “Hey, did you wear those skintight fleshings?” asks Jenny.
    “As the maestro used to tell us,” Ernest remarks, stroking his thigh, “if you want the crowd to love you, the trapeze is optional, but the fleshings are compulsory.”
    “Enough nostalgia,” commands Arthur, cutting through Jenny’s laughter. “We were always cold, underdressed, and underpaid.” He gets up and stalks over to refill his glass.
    “And you, Blanche,” Jenny pushes on, “what class of artiste were you? Wait, you mentioned horses earlier—”
    She listens, this one, Blanche notes.
    “An equestrienne?”
    Blanche smiles. She knows Arthur wants to drop the topic, but—
    “Bareback?”
    She nods. “Jumping ribbons, bursting hoops, scenic riding, Roman …”
    Jenny lets out a respectful whistle. “The Wilson Circus came to town when I was a kid,” she reminisces, “with this dazzler of a Creole rider, Mademoiselle Zoyara. Turned out after, she was actually one hundred percent man.”
    “Des conneries!” scoffs Ernest.
    “Just telling it as I heard it. Well, I guess this is my lucky night. Genuine stars of the Cirque d’Hiver,” Jenny marvels. “How high up was your trapeze hung?”
    She throws the question in Arthur’s direction, but he ignores it, sipping his cognac.
    She persists. “What was your riskiest trick?”
    “They’re called