When he began thinking about the baby, it was an indication that his mood was about to go to hell. It was like feeling a sore throat and knowing that it meant that the flu was coming on. He didn’t want to stew in those thoughts all day long.
Whenever he was depressed, it made him want to get high. He was surprised by this craving. He always assumed that the craving had disappeared—that its hold on him had weakened. And when it came back, he was surprised to feel it so strongly.
Imagine, if you will, the taxidermied corpse of a wolf. Dead for years, its insides gutted, its organs removed, its hide stuffed with wood chips, and sewed back up. With glass eyes, it’s been mounted in a position and put on display at the museum. Imagine then that, despite all that, there was the wolf strutting around, acting as if nothing had even happened, drooling and famished, its joints all elastic, pacing at the foot of your bed, as absolutely real as anything real could ever be. Imagine the shock you would feel.
Pierrot jumped up out of bed—as though the desire were in the bed, as though he could get away from it. He put on his clothes and quietly headed out for a walk.
? ? ?
AS PIERROT WAS PASSING THROUGH the lobby, the concierge called out his name and said he had a letter for him. Pierrot walked over to the desk and took the letter from the man’s hand. It wasn’t exactly for him personally per se. The words on the envelope were written in a studied print that had curlicues at the end of the strokes of each letter, making them look like the tendrils of flowers. On the envelope was written: To the members of the fine circus with many clowns in it, to be read by someone in charge.
Pierrot ripped open the envelope, pulled out the letter and perused its contents:
Would you find the time to send one of your clowns to visit the children at the Downtown City Hospital for Sick and Unfortunate Children? We cannot afford to pay for your services. But if you found it within your charity, the unfortunate children would see it undoubtedly as a great blessing.
He was surprised and touched by the letter. He liked the very honest manner in which it was composed. He also quite liked that something good was being expected of him. And, frankly, he was in the mood to see some children.
? ? ?
ON HIS WAY TO THE HOSPITAL, Pierrot stopped by at the theater and went into the prop room backstage to find himself a clown costume. He stuck a round, red nose on his face. He took out a top hat that was crushed at the top and had a red cloth carnation affixed to the side. He picked up an old battered suitcase. He looked at himself in the mirror. He found it almost alarming just how quickly he had transformed into a clown.
? ? ?
WHEN HE ARRIVED, Pierrot was escorted to the common room on the second floor of the hospital. A nurse lifted up a hand bell over her head and rang it, and children immediately began to be assembled.
A little girl had an intravenous drip that she was walking along like a pet ostrich she was taking for a walk. There was a girl covered in stitches where she had been mauled by a dog. She looked like a doll that had been mended with black thread. There was a boy with a cast on his arm. It was covered in ink drawings—no doubt he would one day be a sailor covered in tattoos. There was a boy in leg braces who seemed to nonetheless have a joyous sort of walk. There was a little boy with a bandage around his head. There was a little boy whose skin had been burned. There were some children who were pushed into the room in wheelchairs.
They were like tiny battlefield veterans, injured by the trials of being young, in the Great Children’s War. Perhaps he himself had never escaped his childhood wounds. The only difference was that these children wore their injuries on the outside.
There was a piano on a small raised stage in the room. He sat at it and began to play for the children. It was a cheap piano. It had a tinny sound. There was something childish about its sound, akin to striking a xylophone with a metal stick. It reminded him of the piano that he had learned to play on at the orphanage.
It was a little bit stubborn. It didn’t want to play. It just wanted to be left to its own devices in the corner of the room. Pierrot made it feel as though it too was capable of great things. It was as if he were getting a shy girl to dance. And then Pierrot and the piano understood each other and a delightful cascade of notes poured out of it.
The children couldn’t believe their luck. They began to jiggle their bodies around in their seats, which made them look like sauce pots rattling on the stove. Some got up and danced in place.
It had been so long since he had performed for children. He had forgotten how wonderful they were to entertain. Who forgot about their problems the way children did?