Paulina puts down the looking glass and stares. “Are you naïve or just stupid?”
“I am looking for Paulina.”
The man brushes past her.
“Where is Paulina?”
A woman points vaguely toward the sea of tents that sit in the field behind the big top.
“Paulina. I need to find Paulina.”
A young boy shrugs and runs off.
Hannah feels the sweat build on her palms and forehead, although it is freezing and frost crunches under her feet. She opens a tent flap. “Oy!” A man pulls it down again.
She should be doing this logically, methodically. Going from tent to tent, or perhaps finding the man in charge and asking him to direct her, or to call out on his megaphone — Paulina, come and show yourself. You are wanted by a lady.
“Paulina?”
This way.
“Paulina?”
That direction.
“Paulina?”
Grass, night sky, gas lamps, stars, tent flaps, raucous fit of laughter, a distant roar of a tiger.
This one’s in print. Some of our best stories live in the magazine — subscribe to get Mishpacha every week.
