Elena Fedorova

The red-haired clown. A novel


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boarding house.”

      “Good afternoon, Mr. Charles Benosh,” the girl slowly pronounces, holding out her hand. The hint of a smile appears on her face. The voice was dull. It sounded strange, distant.

      “Simone, you can go for a walk in the garden,” the lady says and leaves, rustling her chocolate skirt.

      “Simone, is that really you?” Charles asked in a whisper.

      “And is that really you, Charles?” she whispers. He nods. She smiles.

      “I did not think you were coming. Or rather, I was thinking about you but I was sure that you would never come. And you arrived…”

      “I did not arrive but came,” he smiles. “Where does a poor actor get money for the carriage?”

      “You look like a real dandy,” she said.

      “I did not recognize you right away. I was waiting for the red-haired clown, and you… At first, I thought that uncle Schwartz sent one of his clerks. I got confused. I got angry. Why did he do this? Why are strangers here? What will I do with a stranger? What can we talk about? I wanted to send you away, that is, that another clerk, but I did not manage to do this when Madame La Rouge called your name. I felt relieved. Can I hug you?”

      He did not manage to answer when she pressed herself against him with the whole body, froze, pushed him away, and whispered:

      “Hugs are the contact of the souls.

      To your chest I cherish,

      And to unknown for me your world,

      Along the secret path, I vanish.

      Let’s go for a walk to the garden,”

      she smiled, took Charles by the hand, and led the way. The path, on which they were walking, led to the mountain. A delicate summerhouse was hiding there, in the foliage of lush willow greenery.

      “Look how beautiful it is here,” Simone said, smiling. “There is a tiny brook with ice water down there. It is always ice, even in the heat. Once I dived into it right in a dress. I did it on purpose. I wanted to check whether it was really ice water.’

      “How was it?” having curiously looked at her, Charles asked.

      “It was ice. Even my teeth were aching,” she said, having shivered. Simone looked different in the light of the sun. Black colour was emphasizing the pallor of her face with subtle features. And her hair seemed neither gray, nor brown, but golden. Back then, in the circus, he could not see it because of the huge bows. Now, she did not have bows but a tight knot at the back of her head, which made Simone look older.

      “When I happily emerged from the water I was punished,” Simone smiled. “I spent the whole week in the tower covered with ivy. I was sitting by the window and wa imagining myself an enchanted princess, who must be saved by a knight on a white horse. It certainly should be a knight, he certainly should be on a white horse,” she began to laugh, having slightly thrown back her head.

      “I was fantasizing so much that I even got disappointed when Paula said that I was free, that I could go downstairs to my room. I just did not feel like going downstairs. I felt so good at the top next to the clouds that I decided to do something forbidden. I ran here and…” she looked at Charles. “And I realized that here, on the hill, it was not worse than in the tower. It was even better because here was freedom. And one can see things that cannot be seen from the tower. There, on the right the crucifixion. The bronze crucifixion, polished by the hands of the pupils. Everyone wants to touch the feet, the hands and the body of the Saviour. But I like the fat Angel most, who is hiding among apple and cherry trees. No one ever goes to him. He is very, very old, although, he looks quite young, younger than us. He is a plump three-year-old baby. And yet, he is completely lonely. He is the same lonely as I am. Do you want to see him?”

      And without waiting for a reply she rushed down the hill. Charles rushed after her. He wanted to laugh loudly. He had never had such a good and fun time. The wind was whistling in the ears. The skirt of Simone was rustling like a mouse in the corner. The music of nature was spreading over the garden like the song of a nightingale reaching from far away. Simone froze. Charles was standing next to her. In front of them, there was a white three-year-old baby with wings. He had the white plaster oval face, the searching lifeless eyes, and the plump lips.

      “Do you like it?” taking a breath, Simone asked, having firmly gripped his hand.

      “For you – yes, for me – no,” Charles replies.

      Simone flushed from running fast. Her hair had gotten out the sleek hairstyle, having formed two beautiful curls at the temples.

      “Tell me, why did you bring me here?” he asks, looking at her inspired face.

      “I thought you were lonely like this Angel, like me,“she turns her head and looks into his eyes. “You, the little red-haired clown, were standing on a big arena, the audience was laughing, and it was not funny to me at all. It seemed to me that you were the Angel, the three-year-old toddler with a strict look of the lifeless eyes, forgotten by everybody. I thought that when the music stopped, the audience left, the circus were empty, you would be all alone. It is easier for me. There are many of us here.”

      “I am not lonely,” Charles said. “I have friends-clowns, Bebe and Lele.”

      “But, in spite of this, you are a lonely man, aren’t you?” she looked searchingly and released his hand from her hand. Released. Freed.

      “Depends on what you consider loneliness,” Charles smiled, marvelling at astuteness of this child. In fact, he feels unbearably lonely among the crowds.

      “I am talking about the loneliness of the soul,” she whispered. “Now I do not feel it. And you?”

      “Me too,” he answered in a whisper.

      “So, you want to come here again,” she said, having smiled.

      “I suppose,” he said, having touched the plump hand of the Angel.

      “Simone, it is time to go back,” a stern voice peeled from the hill.

      “It is time to go back,” Simone sighed. “Paula is calling me.”

      “Who is she, this Paula” Charles asked.

      “Paula is a teacher. She is watching us, makes us wear these impervious, solemn and funerary attires. Even our legs are black,” Simone lifted her skirt, having shown Charles the leg in a black crude stocking. “I do not like Paula. She is evil and cruel.”

      “And what about Madame La Rouge?” Charles asked, having remembered the hazeleyed, penetrating deep into the heart, look.

      “I am afraid of her,” Simone confessed. “I am afraid of her beauty, her tender voice, her searching look. Sometimes I think that she is not who she claims to be. It is like she is playing a role, hiding her true face and feelings behind an impenetrable mask of coldness. You also put on a mask of the red-haired clown to be a clown, to hide your noble face from everyone and even from yourself.”

      “Simone!” the voice of Paula was heard nearby.

      “Let’s go,” Simone said, squeezing the hand of Charles. She captures him again. She wins. They go up slowly. They are silent. At the gate, she looks him in the eye and says softly:

      “Come here again, if you can,” she releases his hand. “Oh, I have forgotten to tell you that this attire of a young aristocrat suits you. Goodbye.”

      She turns and runs away. Charles opens the gate. He lingers there for a moment, thinking that he does not want to leave this amazing place, this quietest silence for his many-voiced show-booth. But he cannot stay here. Only young pupils in black dresses-traps live