clown
A novel
Elena Fedorova
Illustraitor Tatiana Kosheleva
Translator Tibor Kramer
Technical editor Darya Chernuhina
Technical editor Vyacheslav Fedorov
© Elena Fedorova, 2017
ISBN 978-5-4485-2020-4
Created with Ridero smart publishing system
Elena Fedorova is a poet, writer, member of the Russian Union of Writers, a member of the International Union of Writers, Playwrights and Journalists, Internetional Guild of Writers. She is Honored Cultural Worker of Lobnya (a town in the Moscow region), an author of more than two hundred songs for children and adults, an author of thirty five books whichinclude nine books for children in Russian and three books in English. The genres of her works are diverse: fantasy, urban novel, detective, romance and adventure, mystery, verse novels, ballads, proverbs, tales, stories, and short stories.
Elena began to write poetry and prose in high school. The first book was published in 2000. She became the finalist of the award “Writer of the Year 2014”, was included in the list of the top 100 best writers; was nominated for the National Literary Prizes “Poet and Writer of the Year” and “Nasledie” (Heritage).
Her Golden Country Children Song Project (“Zolotaya Strana”) in collaboration with the composer Vyacheslav Gridunov became the Laureate of the Prize of the Governor of Moscow Region in the category “Care for Children” in 2013.
Elena worked as a flight attendant for Aeroflot Russian Airlines, then later as a journalist for the television and radio company “Lobnya”. Elena is the author and hostess of literary and musical evenings, film director and performer.
She was awarded a letter of Appreciation from the Deputy of the State DumaA. Baskaev “For selfless devotion to dramatic arts”.
Elena lives in Lobnya in the Moscow Region. She was awarded a medal “For contribution to the development of Lobnya”.
Site: http://efedorova.ru
Red-haired clown
You do not fit the mantle of a dolt,
Why do you dress it up and why
do you scuttle,
And the audience at the fair why
do you chuckle
You need not that kind of role,
not that role….
It’s worthwhile for you to be a peregrine,
Who sings the songs to the sunshine
at dawn,
Do not get carried away by fancy tint,
It’s really no use in square stardom.
Simone was sitting at the open window of the motley circus show-booth and with a smile on her face was looking at the field that was stretching to the horizon.
“Just think,” she was exclaiming mentally. “The whole field is full of sunflowers! This is the triumphal procession of small solar brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, close and distant relatives of the sun that have descended to earth to please us. How can one petals, fluttering in the wind? Can one imagine something more wonderful?”
The door creaked. Simone turned around, saw Charles, and whispered: “How?”
“Divinely”, he smiled, removing a red wig from his head. He sat down in front of the mirror and pulled a funny face.
“Everything is fine, dear”.
“I do not dare to ask you, why do you need all this?” Simone said, looking at the reflection of Charles in the mirror.
He straightened his back. The face became very serious, and the voice sounded like they were not in a small show-booth, stuffed to overflowing with different costumes and props, but at the huge circus arena.
“For the motley it is easier
To hide our own stupidity.
Tell me, please, who will dare
In this disguise to suspect the lie?”
Charles got up, threw the royal mantle over his shoulders, and frowned. Simone crossed her legs and clasped her knees with her arms not to interfere with the procession of the lord in the throne room of the tiny show-booth. The voice of Charles changed. It became bossy, strict.
“Tell me, who in this disguise will suspect
fabrication?
I’m so great that it causes vibration
My view, my moral admonitions,
For you my scorn is the great verdict…”
He smiled and confidentially whispered in the ear of Simone:
“And I’m just someone who does a silly trick,
And I am just a silly, nasty jester
I am covering with beautiful attire,
(the mantle flew to the floor.)
Amusing you, I find comfort in desire
To make you fool, confuse and shame
With floridity of my clumsy word frame
With dear to all of us, beloved “kind-of”word!”
Simone began to laugh.
“That is sharper than a rapier,
sable, snee, sword,
Steel and blade, or even
a double-edged spade…”
Charles came down squab on the floor, doubled up with pain, held out his hand to Simone, and groaned:
“I’m, wannabe, wounded… dying, wannabe,
I’m, wannabe, bleeding before the eyes…”
Simone got up. Charles winked at her and sat down on the floor, clasping his knees with his arms, as she had done a moment before. His voice became softer from the bottom up to her, looking at him with regret.
“Are you startled?
You shout sobs and sighs!
Forgetting that here is the theatre, stage,
All, wannabe, is fun, all is in a flash
Now it will change all of a sudden
And, wannabe, it will be time for fun.”
Charles jumped up, hugged Simone by the shoulders, and winked:
“And you agree with me, don’t you?”
“I kind of agree. Yes,” she said. Then shout: “Bravo! Bravо,” Simone said inertly. She did not want to fool around.
“And glorify a stupid clown!” Charles clapped his hands several times.
“I control you with my hands down.
Puppets are far and wide, far and wide,
far and wide…
Did I frighten you, my child?
I’ll do no more, I beg your pardon,
And let the curtain on the window down…”
Charles hugged Simone, ran his hand through her soft hair, and asked: “Did I satisfy your curiosity?”
“Not quite,” she replied, moving away.
“Really?” Charles smiled, sat down on the chair, threw one leg over the other, and looked at Simone quizzically.
“And