Katherine Dunn: Nightmare Carnival

He wasn’t interested in Rollo, not really. Henry just wanted to butter him up and loosen his tongue. The man was his closest link to the Saunderses.

“Why not?” Rollo’s voice is neutral. Henry can see the danger in that neutrality that he wasn’t socially adept enough to pick up on back then.

“It’s not the most glamorous of acts.”

“No? Not dignified enough for someone of your intellect? A child’s diversion?” Rollo’s mouth contorts into a sneer. “Clowning is the most complex of entertainments. We have the greatest breadth of skills of any circus performer.”

Henry can see how he had been caught out, having to rack his brains to conjure up the man in full regalia, under the spotlight’s glare.

“I remember that you came into the big top standing on a zebra’s back.”

“Yes.”

“And you were locked in with the lions.”

The audience had gasped, fearful when they thought he was in danger. Then Rollo turned from bumbler to lion tamer, cracking the whip with aplomb.

“That’s right. I was an acrobat, actor, I did elephant and lion work, I was a bareback rider and a high wire walker, among other things. But clowning is more than that. It’s Greek, don’t you think?”

“Pardon?”

“Clowning. It’s comedy. It’s tragedy. It fulfills a basic human need. Did you know that priests and clowns served the same purpose in ancient Egypt?”

“No, I didn’t.” Henry’s voice is small. The clown’s no fool. Henry musters up all he knows about clown taxonomy to try and redeem himself. “You led the troupe as an auguste, not a blanc?”

Blanc, the white faced, dignified straight man of the act.

“Auguste is more interesting.” An auguste clown’s face was a riot of color that exaggerated the features. Rollo wore a matching shrunken suit that exaggerated his size. “It’s a better character. A troublemaker.”

“How did you know the Saunders family?” Henry was keen to steer Rollo toward the subject.

“They took me in. His mother, Lil, did gun tricks. Leo and I grew up together. I was hanging around the Minolta State Circus after I ran away from an orphanage.”

“You ran away to join the circus.”

Listening now, Henry’s face burns at his own glib attempt to lighten the mood.

“To join the circus,” Rollo repeats, his face set hard enough to smash Henry to pieces with a look.

“You knew them well then. You were almost family.”

“They were my family,” Rollo corrects Henry, “the only family I’ve ever had. Lil taught us guns. Leo and I were both crack shots. Leo was sixteen when she died. I was fourteen. Christos, Leo’s brother, was only five.”

“Where was their father?”

“Tuberculosis. Giorgio died when Christos was a baby.”

“What happened after Lilia Saunders died?”

“It was hard. As much as people tried to look out for us there’s no room for dead weight on the road. We stuck together. My real talent was for clowning. Leo did gun tricks but he wanted to build an empire, even then. He saved every penny and when he was twenty-five he mortgaged a patch of land outside the city. He named it Paradise. He asked me to go in with him at the start but I said no. Can you believe that? I told him it was too big a risk.” Rollo looks out of the window. “He was going to give me a second chance at it. He was going to make me a partner before he died. The lawyer told me afterward. All the paperwork had been drawn up. That’s life, I suppose. You don’t get to roll the dice twice.”

When Rollo looks back at him, envy and awe shine from the man’s face. “I should’ve known if anyone could pull it off, it was Leo. He knew how to sell his vision. All those factory workers and waiters. All the soldiers and sailors on leave. If you wanted a tattoo or your palm read, or to look at dirty pictures on a peep show machine, it was all there. A Ferris wheel, side-shows, and a big top.”

“And you?”

“Youngest clown ever to lead a troupe. More than that, I was Leo’s right hand.”

“What about Christos?”

“Leo had been dragging him around for years. Packed him off to college in the end.”

“They didn’t get on?”

“Growing pains, that was all. No, the real trouble started when Chris came back.”

Leo Saunders sees the girl first. She strolls without the urgency of someone in search of work, but it’s too early in the day for punters to visit Paradise.

She stops to watch Rollo, stripped to vest and trousers, as he limbers up. The man’s all muscle and steam. Sun glints off his shaven head. Even when he’s in his clown costume he can look threatening when he chooses to. Leo’s spent a lifetime pulling him out of scrapes and stopping him from brawling, a relationship that began when he caught Rollo stealing from his mother’s caravan. Lilia was about to give him a whipping but Leo had pleaded for the urchin and she’d said, “All right, but you’re responsible for him.”

Rollo rolls toward the girl like a bowling ball that’ll knock her down. He comes to a stop inches away from her face, looking down at her with a grin. Leo’s seen him do this before to make a pretty girl shriek.

She doesn’t seem startled, just gives Rollo a tight, polite smile as she moves away. That amuses Leo. Rollo’s not used to women walking away from him.

She could be anywhere between eighteen and twenty-five. Her dress is cheap, cherry-patterned nylon, the type that can be hand washed and left to dry overnight. Ugly, sensible shoes and a cardboard suitcase.

Nothing can disguise her loveliness.

“Jack,” Leo says to his foreman, “give me a minute.”

Leo, at thirty-three, has the bearing of an older man. He’s used to being obeyed.

“Sure, boss.”

Leo starts to walk over to her. He’s glad he’s freshly shaved and smells of cologne. That his suit’s been pressed.

The girl stops Nancy Fotheringale, the Wax Lady. She’s a permanent fixture in Paradise, with her own tent. Stiff and English, she drinks her tea with her little finger stuck out, now making her living by being an exhibit because she lost her post as a governess when her condition became apparent. The girl bows her head toward the older woman where most people lean away because Nancy’s face drips with pendulous tumours. She looks like she’s melting. The girl speaks and Leo’s surprised when Nancy laughs, a rare and beautiful sound.

Nancy points toward him as he approaches.

“Hello, I’m Leo Saunders.”

“Leo,” the girl repeats.

“Short for Leonides Saunderis.” He surprises himself. He never begins a conversation with an admission of his immigrant roots.

“Leonides,” her voices softens, as if more impressed with honesty than reinvention. “It’s a regal name.”

It’s as if she’s seen his heart, his fears, his insecurities and, in telling him that Leonides sounds regal, has given him back his real name.

“You’re Christos’s brother, aren’t you?”

He grins. It’s not often that he’s referred to as Christos’s brother.

“And who are you?”

“I’m Rebecca. His wife.”

Apartments line one end of Paradise. The premium on land prices has made Leo build upward, space insufficient for bungalows for all the performers and key staff. Each block has three stories and they occupy a natural bank, so they have a view of the site.

From here Leo can see the crowd spill through the turnstiles. The marauding public wear their weekend clothes, pockets of pennies to spend on shooting games and cotton candy. Leo watches their progress toward the side tents where the brave ones look through screens at regulars like Nancy Fotheringale and touring artists such as William Lloyd the Wolf Man and his cubs. The big top rises above it all, its stripes visible from the city.