TEARS OF A CLOWN (A FRAGMENT)

Since Carlo—that matto cavallo—ate all the pages of my diary, mistaking them for apples (no doubt because I had spilled cider on them while writing drunk in my caravan at night), I am starting afresh. History, as it was recorded by your clown chronicler here, is now all but forgotten, and with it my past sins—masticated and ejected through the arse of a horse.

And now, as we prepare for the new circus season, I’ve been informed that La Tenda Magica has made inquiries about a new head clown. It seems pertinent, therefore, to record events here as they unfold. Of course, I know where such “inquiries” lead—usually with me on top, under the big top (yes, I’m in America!). Back home, I was young and tenacious enough to fend them off before they could replace me, but now I’m an old immigrant Punchinello in a foreign land, and my strength is not what it once was—neither in mind nor body.

I am like one of those beloved toys that children play with to the point of destruction: threads loosened, cotton spilling out like flossy intestines, tossed around the room before being eventually carried off in the jaws of the aggressive family dog. These days, the aggressive dog has been replaced by the silence after the applause ends—a mute presence filling the deathly space between each tick of the clock, as I sip my last slug before midnight so as not to turn into a decayed pumpkin.

Time moves on. Life does too. I am getting old, it’s true. But even with my tired bones and the afflictions that age drags to my caravan door, I still have many tricks up my sleeves. Not just up my sleeves, but deep in my magic pockets and down through my trouser legs too.

The new one arrives tomorrow. Let’s see how he performs. If he were an acrobat, his dismissal would be easy, but with clowns, mishaps mean nothing. They’re expected. So I shall have to think of another way—some way to ensure he is judged too incompetent to replace me.

Perhaps a little cider will help the newcomer find his footing — or lose it. If it’s good enough for Carlo, it’s good enough for him. Carlo mistook it for apples; perhaps this fool will mistake it for courage.