“In my own clown work, I’m interested in the wonder in tragedy and the tragedy in wonder, that type of thing.”
“It’s not so often you see women going into clowning these days.”
“Why do you think that all the clowns who I’ve met are men?”
“Because clowns are supposed to be funny. Clowns are supposed to be allowed to fart all the time. They are supposed to be honest. They get to expose their flaws. They get to confess to all sorts of funny emotions. Men are happy doing this but women are not. It wouldn’t be funny if women did this, just ugly.”
“What you are describing is freedom. And, trust me, women want it too.”
“There’s an effeminate clown at the Parisian. Perhaps he’s the clown you’re looking for.”
Pierrot called the operator, looking for Rose, but her number wasn’t listed. So Pierrot went to the police station. There was a cop who knew absolutely who he was describing. He remembered Rose from when she was dating McMahon. There was, however, no way he would give up any information about that girl to this young bozo.
“She always wanted more than she deserved out of life. McMahon did everything for her, all she had to do was spread her legs. But no, she went off. Left him destroyed. I have no interest in women who don’t know their place.”
“So you can’t help me?”
“It’s in the home.”
“What is?”
“A woman’s fucking place.”
Anyway, McMahon had taken it very hard when Rose left. There was an unwritten agreement among all McMahon’s friends that they were not going to have anything to do with her. The cop had never really liked Rose because he was so attracted to her too.
39
ON THE THIRD DAY
The Parisian Theater had ornate boxes on the side for rich people to sit in. The wood around the stage had depictions of flowers and teacups and unicorns and lilies carved into it. Onstage, a fat clown walked around in an imaginary garden, bending over and plucking different flowers, which he would inhale from deeply.
It was as though the scent of the flower made him stoned. He danced about the stage. He had on a pair of ballet shoes under his spats. He danced on pointe, gracefully and wonderfully. He took off his jacket to reveal that he wasn’t fat at all, and that it was just the parameter of a stiff tutu creating his girth. He danced to Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring.
When he picked up one of the flowers, he made a terribly loud and rather shocking buzzing noise, as if there were a bee inside the flower. As his nose approached the flower the buzzing became louder and louder, until he yelped out loud, obviously bitten. He held up his hands to his face. When he put them down, he had on a big red clown nose.
Backstage, sitting on the fire escape, the clown and Rose looked down at his toes. There were bandages on every one of them.
“I bet your act was so beautiful,” the clown said to Rose. “You’re allowed to be affectionate and loving. You’re allowed to go around telling people and things that you love them. You don’t know how lucky you are sometimes, being a woman.”
Rose smiled. “There are some strange advantages, it’s true.”
“Was your partner handsome?” the clown asked. “I saw the most devilishly fetching clown at the Razzle Dazzle Circus. Go check him out, even if he isn’t the guy.”
Pierrot stopped by the main library. It was made of orange bricks and had gargoyles of squirrels on the walls. He remembered that Rose always read anything she could get her hands on. He described Rose to the librarian and asked if a girl fitting that description ever came in.
There was a tunnel on the side of the library that led to a magnificent greenhouse. Pierrot headed down the tunnel into the glass structure, which had white tiles on the floor and pots of flowers everywhere. He went to have a conversation with the roses. There was a load of huge roses. He was always surprised at how voluptuous they were. Rather like a white handkerchief tucked into the breasts of a woman at the opera. Where shall I find my lovely Rose? Have you seen her?
The roses were desperate to have their portraits painted. They complained to one another that they hadn’t been born in the Netherlands, where all the great still-life artists had lived. It was a waste to be a rose in Canada. There were still some drops of water on their petals from having been watered. They were like tears.
40
ON THE FOURTH DAY