The last bowl of soup, the one Sylvie had sneaked out of the kitchen and into my room, had been the genesis of my metamorphosis. As Émile took his first spoonful and shut his eyes in ecstasy, I considered that this broth just might possibly change my life as well.

What is it about soup? “Magnifique,” I said, smiling.

Émile wound his own ribbon of cheese. “You have not seen much of Paris, have you?”

I ignored him. “I hear you paint long arms and legs on women.”

He laughed. “If you let me paint you, I promise that I would paint normal legs on you.” The soup was messy and our spoons and hands were entwined. That we had both eaten the same thing, tasted the salty broth and red onions on our tongues, was an intimate gesture. He inched closer to me, and I began to notice details—his upper lip was thin, yet his lower lip was full. It was incongruous, making him look like he had the beginnings of a child’s pout. I saw the gold glint of stubble on his upper lip and I knew I was not meant to see these accidental sprouts of hair. Those details were personal, but we had now slid into intimate hours when such things were revealed. The day had gone on too long.

“Why don’t you talk about your circus?”

I hesitated, but there was something about him that seemed so honest that it felt wrong not to tell him the real reason. “We can’t.” I thought about my response for a moment and how lacking it was. I tried a different approach. “Hadley tells me that you could paint an exact replica of an arm or a leg, but you don’t. Is that correct?”

He smiled. “I have the skill to do an exact replica. I could give you an Auguste Marchant painting if that is what you prefer.”

While I had never seen a painting by Auguste Marchant, I think I understood the point he was making. “Like you, I see the world differently, but I cannot discuss it because you wouldn’t understand how I see it.”

“You’re a surrealist, then. Your mind is unknowable?”

I considered his question. “Not all of me, but yes. What I do is unknowable and mysterious, not unlike you.”

As I said this, I knew it was a lie. We were not producing art—although many people have accused us of being performance artists, like Kiki or Bricktop with their songs and dances, or illusionists, given to elaborate trickery like carnival fortune-tellers or mesmerists.

The performers of Le Cirque Secret were more than that of course, but I couldn’t—I wouldn’t—say what we were.

We both reached for the last bread and our fingers bumped into each other. I took in his muddy-green eyes, like the Seine when it hadn’t rained in weeks. I was frozen. After a moment, he insisted I take the last bit of bread.