Elena Fedorova - The red-haired clown. A novel

“I am truly sorry.”

“Goodbye,” the banker said, having grinned. He noticed thatthe clown got tensed, that his eyes began to sparkle, that he clenched fists.

“Simone, you have five minutes to talk to this…” he looked at Charles with contempt and slowly said: “per-son…”

“You have a strict daddy,” Charles said, watching the receding banker.

“He is my guardian,” Simone said.

“Sometimes, once every six months, he fulfils my whims. And the rest of the time, I live in the boarding house of Madame La Rouge.”

Charles looked at Simone with interest. She smiled.

“I would like you to visit me in the boarding house if it’s not too much trouble for you, Mr. Red-Haired Clown.”

“Of course not,” Charles said, having sat down on the steps again. It was more comfortable for him to talk to the girl. Their faces were at the same level. Charles noticed that her eyes began to sparkle, that her cheeks flushed.

“Hurrah!” Simone whispered.

“I would like to ask you to do me a favour,” Charles said, having folded his arms on his chest.

She looked at him with wide-open eyes.

“Don’t ever again call me Mr. Clown. Call me by name.”

She began to nod. Charles held out his hand to her and introduced himself:

“Charles Benosh is a young, promising actor, who dreams of playing the Prince of Denmark, Hamlet, but who is abandoned by a twist of fate in the circus show-booth Chapiteau. This is my temporary shelter. Do you believe me, Simone?”

“I believe, Mr. Charles Benosh,” she said, handing him a white piece of paper, on which she had written in a steady childish hand the address of the boarding house and the name Simone Stowasser.

“Meetings with a family are allowed on Mondays,” Simone said.

“And are we a family?” Charles exclaimed, having winked her. “I would never have thought that participating in the circus act makes people so close.”

“It does not make people close this way,” she shook her head, “not earthly but heavenly.”

“O-o-oh!” Charles said significantly.

“Fate brought me together with a young philosopher. You are so clever, Miss Stowasser. May I ask, how old are you?”

“I am not too old. I am just…” she leaned forward and whispered: “I will turn thirteen in two weeks. Come to congratulate me.”

“Ok,” he answered in a whisper. “I will come.”

“Thank you, you are… a wonderful man, Charles Benosh,” she said and ran away.

Charles was long sitting on the steps of his show-booth, perplexedly looking at the sheet, written in black round letters, and was whispering the name of the girl with cherry bows:

“Simone, Simone, Simone Stowasser… What am I supposed to do with you? Am I supposed to play with dolls? Perhaps…” he sighed. “Time flies so fast: yesterday I was a child, but today… No, it’s better to remember what happened yesterday…”

Charles saw the multi-coloured tent Chapiteau and froze.

“I would like to look inside. I would like to take a quick look at what is happening there, to know what kind of miracles are made,” he said.

The boys, who were standing next to him, exchanged glances. The puniest one dug Charles in the side, having exclaimed:

“Did you forget that there are no barriers for homeless children?” Charles shook his head. “Then go ahead,” he commanded and was the first to slip into the thickest part of the crowd, thronging at the entrance to the circus. And all the other boys melted into the crowd of spectators.

Charles found a spot on the stairs between the rows, located right under the dome. From up here the arena resembled a big bowl, on the bottom of which the miracle, the miraculous event, the wonder was being created. Watching trapeze artists, Charles decided to stay at this amazing place. Imagination immediately pictured him an amazing image. He is an idol of the public, a trapeze artist in a shiny leotard, who performs his best-known number the flight down from under the dome of the circus.

At this point, a drum-roll began to rattle. People froze. The slender artist in the golden suit performed somersault and flew down, having beautifully outstretched his arms. The audience gasped. But the hands of the gymnast suddenly turned into huge wings.

“Birdman!” the audience breathed out.

“The golden bird of happiness!” the voice of the compere was heard. “The trapeze artist Edward Houdini.”

Charles wiped sweat on his forehead, having thought that he would never become such a brave man like Houdini. His beautiful dream faded into oblivion. Its place was immediately taken by another, more realistic dream. Funny clowns, white-haired and red-haired, appeared at the arena. Charles sat up to get a better look at them.

“Oh, what a brave boy!” the red-haired clown exclaimed. “Look, look, he wants to repeat the flight of Houdini.”

Charles had not time to figure out what boy was being referred to, and the red-haired clown was already rushing upstairs, jumping over the steps.

“Do not be afraid,” he was crying and throwing his arms about.

“Come here, boy, come here,” people pushed Charles.

“Me?!” having gotten wide-eyed, he whispered.

“You, you” the clown smiled and, having grabbed him by the arm, yelled at the whole circus:

“This braveheart is willing to perform the trick of the trapeze artist Edward Houdini before your eyes!”

Charles realized that he had nowhere to run, so he decided not to resist but to go down and to stand a few minutes at the arena in the spotlight. He knew that such a possibility could be given once, and decided not to miss his hour of triumph.

“Do not be afraid,” the clown whispered him when they were running down. “Trust me, and everything will be fine.”

Charles confided. They pushed him into the gun instead of the projectile. The drums began to rattle… and the gun broke into two pieces, and the audience was showered with multicoloured paper rain. Splendid!

“You can go to your place,” the clown said happily, helping Charles to get to his feet.

“Can I stay with you?” Charles asked with the voice of hope.

“Well, if we do not have problems with your relatives, then,” the red-haired clown said.

“No, no,” Charles cried. “I am an orphan. I am homeless, living under the fence.”

“Perfect,” the red-haired clown tapped him on the shoulder and, having held out his hand, introduced himself:

“I am Bebe.”

“I am Lele,” the white-haired clown said.

“Are you a woman?” Charles exclaimed enthusiastically. “Wow!”

“Yes, wow!” she mimicked him. Then she hugged him by the shoulders and asked: “Do you really live under the fence?”

“Well, it is not always under the fence,” he smiled. “Sometimes it is possible to spend the night at the station, or at the museum, or in the park, near some statue, which is not very scary.”

Lele began to laugh resonantly, disarranged his hair, and said:

“If so, then we are ready to allow you to participate in our number. We will call you Benosh. Okay?”

“Okay!” Charles exclaimed, not believing his luck. He not only stays in the circus Chapiteau but becomes a clown with a sonorous name Benosh, and Bebe and Lele will be his parents!

Charles was ten years old at that moment. Now he was twenty-three. He is not the little boy Benosh but the red-haired clown Benosh – an idol of a public, who has just been scolded by the gentleman in eyeglasses and praised by the girl Simone.

“What happened?” Bebe asked, having got into the show-booth past Charles, sitting on the steps. “Why did you freeze like a terrible statue?”

“What did the gray gentleman need from the little boy Benosh?” Lele asked, trying to look Charles in the eye. He handed her a note and said: