“Well, I’m here, Phineas Welch,” said Fennel. He did a twirl of his cane. “The name is Fennel and I am, at last, on site. I know you have received my correspondences, but I had to see for myself how things are going.”
“No need to say who are you are, my good man. I know all too well. So glad to finally meet you. I had no idea you were so young but alas, a surprise or two is never something to be scared of. As you can see we are in the midst of training for the big event. Look around!” Phineas motioned with his arm the entirety of the vast warehouse. There truly was much going on.
The Peanut Circus came at the most reduced cost possible. Fennel had been desperate for something and had searched the papers for any sign of a visiting circus. He had sent word to the Creole Knights whose tours were legendary with the largest elephant in the world, but they never responded. He had sent a carrier pigeon as far out as Edgerton to the Gundergrass Playpen, but the reply came back with a fee far too exorbitant for his coffers. Instead, Fennel had to break the bank on the lost tribe of Eskisehir. This Peanut Family Circus had actually run aground in this industrial city where the air smelled of coal and the entire city dipped into the mines during the day only to come out hungry for food, drink and forgetting at night. The circus had set up shop on the dirt lot at the edge of the city, a place where no permit was needed and no timeline necessary. They could be there as long as they liked. And they were. For far too long.
The crowds died off fairly rapidly as repeat customers have never been the strong suit of a circus. The lion tamer, the acrobats, and the clowns became an unnecessary sideshow as the runway games and gambling rapidly took over the bulk of the business. Phineas had suffered inside for the fate that had befallen them. He was a fourth generation Welch whose only mission in life was to keep this circus on the move. And there in Eskeshir he had thought, perhaps, his luck had run out.
But Fennel’s letter had arrived just in the nick of time. As it turned out, they were desperate for each other. While it was true that Fennel’s letter came with more than its fair share of caveats and addendums the likes of which none of them had remotely ever heard of, it mattered not. They had been saved. The money could get the circus back on its feet and headed back again to the remote reaches of Twin from whence they had came.
“What’s that you are working on?” asked Fennel taking a peek at the big red mechanical machine that had certainly caused Phineas more than his fair share of consternation.
“Oh, this ol' dog?” laughed Phineas. “It’s a double machine. I’ve been working on them for some time now. You might like it. It’s a cotton candy maker and penny squisher loaded up into one creation. See, you press down on this bar, well at least that is how it is supposed to work.” Phineas got right into demonstration mode. Grabbing Fennel’s hand, he placed it on a large iron bar. “Now place a penny in the slot. There you go. Okay, now we pull down on this bar and the engine turns and the cotton candy whirls.”
As Phineas spoke, Fennel watched a candied mist of tasty spindly cotton come flinging about inside. It was a magical display. Something akin to an edible Tesla Coil, the wisps of pink hairy candy came swirling around in a circle while the metal bar in the center simultaneously squished his penny. A spark went flying and the machine came to a sudden halt.
“Dammit,” lamented Phineas. He pulled off the windowed top and reached in with his hand. It was covered in cotton candy and he pushed it forward to Fennel’s face. “Have some. It’s delicious.”
Fennel demurred. This whole business was disgusting. Somehow Phineas Welch had managed to touch him with his nasty greasy hands. Phineas continued to eat the candy and flicked the squished penny at Fennel. Fennel instinctively caught it in the air.
“Read it,” said Phineas, smiling.
Fennel looked down on the penny. Instead of Abraham Lincoln’s face, he now saw the face of a clown with simple words surrounding it. PINK WONDER
“Nice trick,” said Fennel, giving the penny a flick with his finger. It went twirling in the air, heads over tail, falling gently back into his well-lotioned palm. “Now if you don’t mind, I would like to take a gander at the goings on here.”
“Oh, haha, of course! Let me help you out on that,” said Phineas. He again wiped his hands on his pants and ran to the center ring. “Cesar, can you give me some amplification on the mic?” Phineas grabbed a beat-up microphone dangling from a long chord in the center of the room. The microphone screeched and the feedback quickly got everyone’s attention. They stopped mid-somersault, twist or death-defying act.
“Pardon the interruption friends, foes, and villains, but we have in our presence our most esteemed benefactor. He is eager to see what we have been up to. He may even have a few tips regarding our upcoming performance that I strongly encourage you to pay attention to.”
Phineas clapped his hand and Fennel decided that his first stop would be the clowns. They were gathered around each other in the back of the warehouse sitting on a row of barrels and trading drinks from a large bottle. “It’s their lunch break,” whispered Phineas. “Don’t mind them.”
Fennel turned to Phineas. “How about you go back and fix that penny squisher? I would like to say hello in private if you don’t mind.”
“Of course, of course. Be my guest,” said Phineas, as he bowed low and headed back to the sticky contraption.
Fennel couldn’t be happier. Yes, the Peanut Circus was ragtag, but so be it. It was better, he figured than a too professional circus—at least for his purposes. And now here he was in the center of a most glorious plot. Marty was out there lost in some haze of bad news while Fennel was currently in the midst of embarking on something altogether of his making. He was surrounded by a clunky cast of characters who were amenable to his every whim and creative choice. He was able to make life come sailing back into recognition of something worth living. He inhaled. Peanuts and glory.
The clowns were cranky. They nearly snarled in their fire-engine red smudged lipstick and saturated white cake faces. Fennel could see them making jokes at his expense as he approached with his typical cane a-twirling.
“Evenin', gents,” said Fennel. “Thought I would pop over and give a hello. How go the routines?”
The clowns gave a brief laugh and whispered to each other something that was probably not all that funny, but funny enough to get them laughing. Fennel hopped up on one of the barrels and began laughing as well. He laughed and laughed far longer than any of the clowns. His laugh was a squeal, a hideous screech that even the clowns found disconcerting.
“Boys, boys. Don’t make me do it. I’m eager to be nice. More eager than you know. But don’t make me use the big stick. It’s right here in my hand and I can give each and every one of you the boot. No money for no love. Who wants that in the end? Not you. Not me. Let me use my carrot instead. It’s your lunchtime after all. How about I throw out ten ducats to the first clown to get a move on? I need to see me some routines out here.”
Fennel flicked ten ducats to the floor in front of them and the clowns sat quietly staring at the money. For a second, not a motion and then a clown clad in dandelion overalls and puffy blue hair went flying onto the floor. He did a pratfall to come tumbling into the middle of the room. He picked up the coins like a groveling fool and placed them eagerly in his pocket. The clowns laughed at his antics and another clown came tumbling out trying to wrestle the ducats from the first. They wrestled like idiots, squirming on the floor. Fennel was entirely entertained. He tried his best to jump up and stand on the clowns as they wrestled, but they were a slippery lot. Fennel fell down on the floor and then got up laughing.
“Ain’t y’all funny?” he said, holding his belly like a fat man. He stared at the clowns while the wrestlers two below him got back onto their spots on the barrels. “Now listen to me, and do forgive my size, I am your boss. I’m a privileged little brat, it’s true, but I’m smart beyond my years and that is true too. What you need to know, what everyone needs to know, is that I have
a dream for this upcoming circus. It’s a dream big and wide. So wide it’s a mouth that will swallow you whole.
“I want a clumsy nightmare, a stumbling homicide, a death on a banana peel so absolutely fantastic that everyone will know, they will all finally know, that life, this stupid, messed up horrifying nightmare of the profane and prosaic, is only made magical by the man that lays a big fart when he cries. Hahaha! If only it were that simple but you get the point—a big disgusting embarrassment in the midst of the most somber pit of hell. That is the juicy spot. That is the root of your comedy and your clowning. That is the root of our big act and sometimes, sometimes I think—bear with me, I’m new to this—I feel like, yes, your field has deserted its values. It knew them once. Somewhere, out there, buried in the blowing sands of history, is a solitary clown the likes of which the Bodhisattva would envy. He saw the inner brilliance of comedy and it humbled him.
“I can only be sure of it out of a sense of nostalgia, but yes, the ancients must have known. But time has a way of making us forget and forget you have. For now, you have all become professionals, all suited up and swelling in false arrogance at your stupid alacrity. You embarrass your faith, dear boys! Nothing more stupid than a professional clown, wouldn’t you say? I don’t want clowns pretending at being in a big car and being professionals at falling down in front of people. I hate that. Nothing worse than the simulation of the pathetic. Nothing could be more arrogant. I want you to demonstrate a man trying to be a master of the pathetic who at the same time is absolutely pathetic at pulling it off. That is much more funny. More true to the art form. Otherwise, what are you? A charlotte? There are so many others that pull that off so much better than you. You are so lame at being the professional faker of embarrassment. A stupid switch in the gear. Stop it. Wake up! You aren’t fooling me and in their hearts you aren’t fooling them. That is the kind of meta hilarity that will get those awful things known as children to really laugh. They will laugh and laugh 'cause they will enjoy how stupid you really are. Do you hear me, boys? Do you hear me? A true clown must embrace what a joke they are all the way down into the inner pit of their dirty, nappy souls.”
Fennel was on a tear. The clowns stared at him in a strange drunken stupor. For a clown, and let's face it, a clown of the Peanut Family Circus, was as best as one could describe a clown; but a clown that knew what it meant to be a pathetic clown, in their hearts, each and every one of these clowns could relate to where Fennel’s brain was going. Perhaps the alcohol helped. Perhaps in a sudden haze of convolution, they confused their practice with their living and it all rang like a clanging monstrosity of humiliation. But it clangs so deep and so true. They knew, better than anyone, what got the laughs. They knew, better than anyone, what sold people on the reality of the game. Yes, they held back. The little brat wasn’t wrong there. They held back for fear of the pit of despair when they finally gave in—because after the lights went out and the lion went back in the cage, they had to sleep with themselves again. But it called them nonetheless.
Fennel’s words strangely inspired them. They weren’t an easy crowd to win over, but these clowns were an odd lot. They had a sweet spot for their craft and were bored to tears with the way things had gone down in Eskeshir. This upcoming festival was something altogether new. So they did as they were requested. They tried out new routines that included taking off their makeup, fighting with each other, making strangers clowns and the telling of town secrets out loud. They brainstormed on methods to get their comedy closer to that thing perversely called the real.
Fennel found it thrilling to be in the role of head coach. He found himself in the midst of the intramural sport of life. He was coaching his way through the fog and it felt glorious. The clowns were actually a funny prickly lot—their entire humor clad in a tone of sadness that touched Fennel’s sympathies. This is all to say, they got along.
By the time Fennel felt the clowns were sufficiently on their way, he headed over to the contortionists. The hour was very late and many of the performers had snuck off to bed. Phineas Welch had disappeared as well. The only folks left were three young girls who were placing their legs behind their heads and doing their ninth yoga routine. Fennel bowed low to them and they informed him that they were about to retire. The morning was due upon them soon.
“Okay. Okay. You have to sleep. I get it. But listen to me. I am sure Phineas has mentioned this, but we are up to something altogether different here. You can’t do your normal routine. No more putting your heads backward to stare out between your legs. No more wrapping your arm behind your head and popping it out of socket. That kind of trick, while good, is not what we are up to. Think of this as the drunken master version of what you normally do.”
The contortionists stared at him with big-eyed bewilderment. They were tired and frankly they were never coached. No one usually spoke to them. For as long as they could remember, they had just done their stretches, pulled their bodies out of position and then let them settle for the world to see. It had started as jokes in the mirror and then when the family had run out of money during the war effort, it had become streetside income. Most everyone in the circus thought they were mute, but Fennel was not privy to this information. Instead, he was in their inner circle and he wanted them to shift gears.
“Okay, you girls are the quiet types. I can respect that. Just don’t give up on listening. I can see you listening. So fine. Good. We have work to do. I have an idea. It’s an odd one, but that is kind of my style. Bare with me for a second.”
Fennel rifled around in his bag and pulled out the projector. He set it on a table and got a film canister out. He smiled at his wisdom of taking the projector with him. It had already come in handy. He cranked the hand lever to show the film he wanted these three limber sisters to learn from.
“What you are seeing here is the choreography of a most special freak of nature. Her name is Pina Bausch. She is so German it is almost painful to look at. All that awkward physicality is a bit much. I get that. But look at these moves. Where did they come from?”
Flickering in black and white in granular spotty imagery came the collective effort of a most frantic dance performance. Women and men flailed their arms against themselves, their bodies ran into objects and their heads twitched in odd spasmodic motions. Their bodies writhed in the emphatic excitement of living, but the sight was almost gruesome. The contortionists were hypnotized. It spoke a language of the body they had known inside themselves. They had never seen such a performance before and it was as though a door to another planet had just opened up for them to walk through.
Fennel stared at them and smiled. He had been right again. This was all they needed. They could take it from here. They would now know what to do. The performance of their bodies must be a wrestling with the excitement of living and the trappings of awkward embodiment. These contortionists could invent a new way to bend the body that pushed harder against the edge of their being. Fennel clapped his hands.
“Okay, I will just let you watch this for a while. I can see I have touched a nerve.”
Fennel bowed low and one of the sisters, Nina Bird, placed a kiss on his cheek. Fennel wasn’t sure what to do with that. He wasn’t used to affection from anyone other than Isabella and the touch of it brought a bit of sentimentality into his misanthropic temperament. Fennel smiled and made his way toward the lighting board. It was time to shut down for the night.
He found Caesar reading a comic book. His eyes were drooping.
“Done yet?” asked the little green haired circus assistant.
Fennel nodded.
“Good, cause these folks could really use some sleep,” said Caesar. He hit the lights and the warehouse went dark with the exception of the film projector in the corner where the contortionists continued to watch.
“It occurs to me that I don’t actually have a place to sleep,” said Fennel, realizing, that he really didn’t have much of a plan.
Cesar looked Fennel up and down. Th
e idea that Fennel was a vagabond who was paying all their wages struck him as amusing and strange. “Well, it turns out, you managed to surprise me. You can always bunk in my quarters. They are over there in the corner.”
Fennel slung his duffle bag over his shoulder. “Show me the way, if you don’t mind.”
They made their way toward the corner of the room where a massive pile of hay pushed up against the wall. Caesar climbed up into his and squished his body around to make a place to sleep. Fennel joined him, taking the smell deep into his nostrils. He was literally hitting the hay.
He stared up at the ceiling and felt a wave of satisfaction roll over him. He was in his element and the world was finally what it should be. All he had left to do was to enact his grand performance and finish it off with his long overdue cherry on top. He would soon be killing Marty McGuinn and Elinore Castilla.
Chapter 26
When Isabella woke, she felt like crud. Her head pounded and it wasn’t just the amplified bass coming from her churning nightclub in the adjacent room. Perspiration settled on her brow and awful shakes had set in her skin. Perhaps, this is what it was like to be human after all. She tossed and turned but after a while, she had to open her eyes.
As she imagined, there sat Caperwill. He was her bedside fellow and he tended to her with a wet rag. He patted her forehead and whispered to her that everything was going to be okay. His wild grey hair hovered above his head, a cobweb of his life’s anxieties. Isabella tried her best to smile at him, but such things rarely came naturally. It looked bent in her mouth and Caperwill said, “shhh.”
Time seemed to be diminishing—the curtain of the world about to drop. Last night's insane run through the streets with some foul demon chasing her just wasn’t fair. That homicidal creature was most surely the beast that had laid Sibel and her sweet crush Peter to waste. Isabella shuddered at what surely must have been a gruesome scene. It was a monster divine and it had come for her as well. She could sense in the way it chased her that it possessed a kind of hunting sensibility reserved for an ilk beyond this nuanced land. It was pure in its aggression. Of that she had no doubt.
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