The Song of the Pale-Faced Clown

                                                                          "The Song of the Pale-Faced Clown"
                                                                                        by Talisa English



         In the quiet of the room, the pale-faced clown sings. He puts his hands together and moves his neck around in a circular motion: watching, waiting. The pale-faced clown sits buried in a box on a desk, watching, waiting. For years it stayed there, with the same curious song and cracked porcelain face. It is in that box that the clown waits, humming the same old tune, oftentimes experiencing short intervals between notes. It cannot be helped; the pale-faced clown is getting old. He has waited a long time.

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         The bravado of the crowd echoes throughout the whole stadium as the Great Ringmaster of Florence holds up his arms and introduces the rest of the gang: a group of rambunctious overly face-painted circus people whose looks, in other circumstances, would cause them to be sent straight to the mental ward, but after all this is "Il Grande Circo di Firenze" - The Great Circus of Florence. Multi-colored lights danced around the ceiling, and the dome-shaped tent magnified the shouts of the people. The paint on the wooden stands displayed faded colors of the rainbow and the patterns that lined up the stone pillars were barely even understandable. The smeared image of a golden lion had already lost its head, and the smiles of the circus people on the pillars were already blanketed by multiple layers of vandalism, the result of time making its mark on the old circus. With every year a letter from the gold embossment of the circus's name outside the big red dome dematerialized - but none of it mattered. For the people, every sign of vandalism was a memory, and all the circus people became family. It was the heart of the city, and the brightness of the day, but for Midas Locarno, it wasn't that way anymore. It wasn't the same as it was 20 years ago, when he fired up the crowd with the light in his eyes. For Midas it was as if the winds of time came and swept it away, taking along his passion and youthful joy with it. These days Midas required an extra dose of face paint to cover up the fact that he was actually miserable underneath; but what could he do? This was his home.
               
         Midas had been in the Great Circus for as long as he could remember. For all he knew, he was destined to be a clown ever since he was born. As a child he was the light of the city, loving to be the center of attention every time the circus lights went on, every time the tattered red curtains rolled back. The people loved him, and he loved the people back, but when the people stopped loving him, who would he love back? This was the sad question that drew the outlines of the new Midas Locarno: the Midas with dimmed eyes and a tired face. This Midas was 33 years old, 33 years too young to be experiencing such dread.

         "Why, with a strong body like that you must have something useful to do with your life!" Yammered the old Mr. Parsons who served them food every day, "Stop being so miserable and do something for once." Midas listened as Mr. Parsons scooped a depressing image of a carrot and mashed potatoes onto his silver tray. He stared at it, trying to draw some inspiration that could help him flip back through the pages of his life. All he wanted was to get back to the chapter of the old Midas Locarno, the one people loved. He tried to obey Mr. Parsons but it was difficult to move forward when one was too focused on going back.

         Midas spent the next years of his life as if it were in reverse. Over a period of 15 years he shifted jobs from being an animal caretaker to a ticket-collector to a cotton candy seller and even to a ringmaster for a couple of days. All this he did to get people to notice him, to gain some attention, and as Midas failed to sell even one of his red balloons in the crowded fairway of the circus, he felt transparent.

         Hey Midas, you didn't get to sell a single one today! If you're going to keep this up..." Midas allowed the voice of his boss, Mr. Zanetti, to fade away into the background as he made his way up the steps of the main tent, all the way around to the backstage, and into the quiet and secluded place that was his own. He went there whenever he felt the way he did in that moment - sad, lonely, or just confused. It was filled with random things he liked to keep hidden from other clowns that would laugh at him for having such things. Piles and piles of drawings scattered around the whole floor area, and all the shelves were full of spare parts left over from broken unicycles or clown cars. With these he liked to create things. Nobody knew about his hidden talent for inventing or drawing; he preferred to keep it as his secret passion.

         As he paced around restlessly in the small room, he came to a collision with a box of papers and random inventions of his, and it fell across the already messy floor. He muttered as he sifted through the things, before stopping to pick up a makeshift music box he had once attempted to create. It was only a small one and it stopped at intervals sometimes when it played, but it was one of his greatest treasures. He gazed upon the porcelain face and turned its brass knob. The clown sang its familiar tune, and Midas listened. He held it for a couple of seconds, until the music stopped. He nearly dropped the small clown when a tiny hand reached out and touched its face. Midas jumped and held the music box to his chest, looking down at the owner of the tiny hand.

         "Hi clown." She smiled. It was a little girl with ocean-blue eyes and blonde hair. She was reaching out towards him, pointing at the tiny clown he held in his arms. He tried to speak, but was too astonished to say anything. Instead, the girl persisted on beholding his music box. He was hesitant to give it, but he did anyway. After all, it could make her like him. The little girl stared wide-eyed at the small clown. Midas felt touched. It wasn't that much of a masterpiece. "Wow, it's pretty." She looked up and smiled at him. Suddenly, Midas wanted to give it to her. He wanted to make her happy and laugh. It was strange. She was just a stranger to him but still, he felt as if it were an obligation to make her smile.

         "You... You want to?" Midas bit his lip and tried to recollect all the English lessons Mr. Zanetti had had with him. As he stuttered a few words that had no particular meaning to the conversation, the little girl laughed and shook the small box as if it were a Christmas present. "No, no." Midas reached out to grab it, but the girl sat down on the wooden floor. Her eyes were glued to the music box, scanning it as a doctor would to a patient. When she saw the small brass knob that made it sing though, she stopped. Confusion spread through her curious eyes, and Midas slowly reached his hand out again, this time to turn the knob. "Sing?" She looked up at him, and allowed for him to kneel down beside her and operate the small clown. Finally, it started its song; slowly at first, then built up to its usual melancholy tune. The two of them sat together, bound in that moment by a rickety old tune, a song Midas had heard far too many times, but never with someone else. The girl had stayed quiet through it all, and when it stopped, she gazed at Midas. It was such a sad melody, but she looked at him as if it were the most amazing thing she had ever heard. Midas opened his mouth to say something, but the girl reached her hand out to touch his face, and he stopped. Slowly, she stroked the pointy bristles of his stubble and they stayed quiet like that for a while, until the girl stood up and offered her hand to him. Not that it would help much, but Midas took it anyway and brought himself up. When she smiled at him, Midas felt something he hadn't felt for a long time. He didn't get to say anything further, because the door burst open to reveal an infuriated Mr. Zanetti.

         "There you are, you little troublemaker!" He burst in and grabbed her by the hand. "Locarno, I've had enough of you! First the balloons, now this! I'll be sure to have a word with you, sir. As for you," He looked down at the little girl, who was resisting his firm grip. "It's time to get you back to your mum, she's worried sick about you!" He stomped out the door, taking her and the clown with him. Midas got one last glimpse of her face as she looked back, and suddenly he felt wave of familiarity spread through him as they disappeared.

         "You can't catch me!" She ran from him as a deer would from a hungry predator. He saw little of her face, only glimpses of it. Most of his view from behind was her golden hair in the wind. Her laugh filled his ears, and he smiled a little as he went to run after her. The adults around them shook their heads in disapproval as they yelled after them to mind their ways. He chased her down the narrow alleyways as she shouted back the same words over and over. "You can't catch me!" With every time she said it, it made his feet a little lighter, his stride a little faster. The circus grounds were busy that night but they ran freely as if in a park that was their own. Soon he started to laugh too, and soon her taunts became breathless and full of laughter. Soon, as he would soon find out, it would be all over. The girl ran inside the big tent, and although his mother had warned him not to go in when it wasn't his night to perform, he went in anyway. The staff members inside shouted after him in stern warning. "Young Mr. Locarno! Young Mr. Locarno!" If only he had heeded to their calls. He jumped up on stage, where the girl stood, crowded over by confused clowns and unicyclists.

         "I'll get you now!" He ran over to tag her, only to trip and fall on an acrobat who stood under a tall tower of other acrobats. They all came crashing down one by one, and so did Midas's pride. So many things happened after that, and ended with a collapsed tent full of unhappy customers. Who knew that one joyful night could be the end of the circus peoples' love for him, the end of the crowd's cheering for his name? Midas had been marked for life as bad luck, and he never saw that girl again. He only remembered her vaguely now, as the friend with no name.

         That was the last of Midas's happy childhood memories, and seeing that unknown little girl three days ago had reminded him of it, and of that unknown little girl from his past. "There you go." Midas patted the gray elephant's trunk and put away the brush and sponge. It had been three days since that little girl came. It had also been three days since he last saw his music box. He grabbed the bucket of elephant supplies and trudged out the animal ward. He thought about it all the time, and he thought about the possibility that she would just fade into the past and become his second friend with no name.

         The rest of the day was bearable enough. He was able to accomplish the day's work without getting in anybody's way, but that day, as Midas would find out, would be no ordinary day. That night he headed into his favorite room after deciding on creating a new music box, but when he opened the door, his eyes fell upon his desk, and he was stunned. On it was the pale-faced clown. It looked the same from afar: pale face, small hands clasped together, but as he picked it up he noticed something different. Instead of the straight line that made his mouth, there were upturned curves and a note stuck to its chest, with scraggly writing it read: be happy. Love, Angela



         It so became that the pale-faced clown, almost 30 years later, found itself perched up on a wooden shelf in a small quiet room. It had a cracked porcelain face, and its neck moved around in a circular motion when it sang. It looked the way it did 30 years before, when a man named Midas Locarno found it once again on his desk, only if one looks closer, it is not the same at all. In its round eyes was the slightest shade of ocean blue, the kind of blue Midas loved. These blue eyes saw everything, from Midas's first smile in over a decade to an aged Midas placing him on that wooden shelf. He was the same person all along, just as the pale-faced clown was the same old clown all along, but neither of them were truly the same inside. The old clown saw Midas, and the old clown was Midas.

         Once upon a time when the old clown had black and white eyes and a frown on its face, the world was different. The first day of the old music box's life was a day Midas remembers well. That day he cried hard, as if he took everything inside of him and brought them out through tears. From that day Midas was empty, and the pale-faced clown was hollow, but whenever the small clown sang there was hope for Midas. There was hope because he always longed for a better day, and the arrival of a better day starts with the hope that it will come. Little did Midas know that such a small occurrence of an unknown little girl would bring a spark of hope into his life, the hope that he had always longed for.

         At present, whenever old Midas looked into the old clown's blue eyes he no longer saw the black and white sorrowfulness that was once his life, but he saw the eyes of an innocent young girl full of hope looking back at him. These eyes brought him hope. He turned the brass knob one day and listened to its song, and Midas was happy.

         Finally the pale-faced clown rests, high up on that shelf away from other people, where it smiles through the watches of the night and the piercing bright of the day. In the quiet of the room, the pale-faced clown sings.