Clowns At Midnight

by Terry Dowling

  The earlier wines had done their damage. I laughed and drank again. Who cared, who really cared? So he had told them some of it before I arrived, had now officially told them the rest in front of me. At least it wasn’t furtive, something done behind my back. He’d played fair. Cruel, straight and fair. Shut way in their drawers and cupboard close by, the clowns would be grinning. I felt the pressure of them there and drank again. Bravo, David Leeton! Bravo and bravissimo!

  ‘It’s very fine,’ I told Carlo, raising my near-empty glass. ‘Here’s to Sardinia!’

  Everyone drank. Gemma Ewins met my gaze and nodded. Her smile flattened with commiseration, sympathy, empathy, something knowing and welcome right then. She raised her glass to me. I held up my empty one and made a wry smile. Thank you for understanding.

  Coffee was served, with cheeses and plates of little cheese and lemon pastries Raina identified as seadas and pardulas, but the drinking of the Cannonau had somehow marked the end of the evening. It was a Saturday night, yes, but many of those present still had to be up early. People began to push back from the table, standing, thanking their hosts. I rose with the others, flushed, bewildered and—the only word for it—upset.

  Raina laid a hand on my arm. ‘Can you wait?’ was all she said, and moved off up the hall with her other guests.

  Carlo also turned to me. ‘David, please stay. I have something to say.’

  ‘Right. Of course.’ Then I would be gone for good.

  ‘Bene.’ He followed Raina up the hallway.

  I stood at the table, calling out last minute goodnights in reply to those called to me. It had all been so sudden. One moment all that life and vitality, then emptiness, just the signs of where it had been.

  Gemma had left with the first of them. So much for overtures. The Nelson Syndrome was fading, though with a curious coda, a quick indian summer pang of longing. The announcement about my fear of clowns stopped me going after her, asking for a phone number, asking if she was married, engaged, stopped me from simply learning more. It all seemed to matter and all seemed to have been lost in moments.

  I stood waiting, feeling numb and empty, oddly dulled by the alcohol. Not in quarter-clown, not hurting physically, but in clown-shock just the same: at the possibility of clowns hidden away close by, at having the word said so publicly. Clowns. The word, the shapes of the letters, always cut in like that.

  Clowns.

  C-L-O-W-N-S.

  Who OWNS the CLOWNS?

  I do.

  ‘David?’

  ‘Yes, Carlo?’

  He was back at the table with me. I hadn’t seen him return. Had he cut short his farewells or had time been compressed again, like with my not noticing the curtains being drawn? I didn’t know.

  ‘Tonight I made a decision that was not mine to make and yet had to be, under the circumstances. Both. The others had to be told—and without preparation, you understand? They would have said something. Many of them already had. It was why we asked them here before you.’

  I nodded, not sure what to say, not really sure what he was saying. It didn’t matter, yet utterly, totally did. ‘What did you hide?’

  ‘You see the painting above the fireplace? That was brought in from Raina’s sewing room. We usually have a large terracotta mask there. A grinning face, a copy of an ancient Carthaginian or Etruscan original. It has always been the feature of this room, you understand? The centrepiece. Laughs at us while we’re sober, with us when we’re drunk, for us when we’re under the table. It was sudden and inexcusable rudeness to you, but it explained everything to them in a moment. What would you have had me do? What would you have done? Not invited you? Not had you meet some of our friends? Kept you out?’

  ‘Who told you? The Rankins?’

  ‘Beth Rankin, yes. She was caring. It was important. You had to be strong.’

  There was silence then, an attentive, caring silence from Carlo Risi, it truly seemed, one of confusion, anger and sudden contrition from me. I wasn’t sure how I felt or even what to feel. It had been the best thing. Even an honourable thing, ultimately. But to be ambushed like that, without choice, betrayed into clown-fear. Like with finding the black page in the TT file, it was the principle of it: such helplessness, a reminder of the absolute vulnerability. The wonderful evening had unravelled in an instant. Paranoia and distress had been thrust into all that simple joy.

  We stood at the table together, connected by wine, words and circumstance, by a hedge-maze and time and the coming together of lives, by the clear intention to connect. It was a moment of profound dislocation, of absurdity. It had all changed so quickly. I fought for words.

  ‘Can I see it?’

  ‘Can you stand it?’

  ‘I—don’t know. I have what I call tolerance tests. TT’s. I test myself now and then. You know the masks from the Commedia dell’Arte?’

  Carlo gave a quick nod.

  ‘I have disks of images. I try to—endure them. I’m even doing an article on the Commedia masks and my condition for a psychology magazine.’

  Carlo nodded again, as if understanding everything. There was a kindly smile. ‘This is like one of those. But much older. Possibly from its true beginnings.’

  ‘Older?’

  ‘Let me show you.’

  He pushed some things aside on the table to make a space, then left me alone in the dining room. Raina had not returned. I couldn’t hear voices from the front of the house. The guests must have gone; Raina was probably waiting until this was done.

  Carlo returned carrying something large and heavy draped under a towel and set it down on the clear place on the table.

  ‘You’ll know the origins of the Commedia better than I do,’ he said.

  It was probably true. This was my territory. ‘Only as it appeared in Tuscany in the mid-sixteenth century. I know it originated in the mimes and masks of Greece and Rome, in the phylakes and fabulae attelanae –’

  I realised that I was babbling, dealing with the emotion the only way I knew how. I made myself stop.

  Carlo understood. He smiled kindly. ‘Well, this is a copy of an original from the fourth century BC, from when Sardinia was still under Carthaginian rule. Shows the same Phoenician influences you find in the Etruscan and Carthaginian cultures of the time. Are you ready?’

  I could only nod.

  Carlo drew back the towel.

  It was ochre-coloured terracotta, a large bald leering face with full cheeks, half-moon eyes, a wide grinning mouth and big caricature ears. There was a small bronze nose ring, and curving striations had been scoured on the cheeks and forehead, possibly intended as scars, wrinkles or tattoos.

  Carlo filled the silence. ‘A replica of the one found beneath San Sperate. Used to ward off evil and guarantee the sleep of the dead. Are you okay with this, David?’

  ‘Can you hang it on the wall please?’

  ‘Of course.’

  He crossed to the fireplace, took down the painting and set it on the floor. Then he hefted the grinning mask and carefully restored it to its place. It immediately commanded the room with its mad grin and unbridled delight. I could see why such a thing would be loved and missed, and why it had been hidden away. The mask presided over everything: the dark chambers of its eyes surveying all that happened in this golden heart of the Risi household. There was no escaping it. I stood no chance.

  ‘David?’

  The grin was everything. The manic gaze; the eyes filled with night. The power was incredible.

  ‘David, are you all right?’

  I pulled back, tried to free myself from the involuntary seize-up, the muscle-lock, the pressure at the back of the neck. Carlo’s hand was on my shoulder. I managed to turn and face him.

  ‘There’s a new word, Carlo. Blindside. No matter how I prepare myself, I find myself being blindsided all the time.’

  ‘You are very brave to look at it.’ There was no sense of him patronising me.

  ‘Part of my condition, Carlo. I can’t he
lp myself. I have to look. It’s part of the curse.’

  ‘Tell yourself this is one of the good ones. A protector of the child in us all.’

  ‘I should go. Please thank Raina. I enjoyed tonight very much.’

  ‘You are very welcome here,’ he said.

  As we headed down the hallway together, I didn’t look back at the face, but all the way to the front door I felt its night-ridden eyes on me, its madcap grin carved into my memory, foolish and vivid.

  Raina was alone on the veranda.

  ‘Such a splendid time, David. You survived it, eh?’

  ‘It was wonderful, Raina. Thank you for your kindness to a stranger.’

  ‘Carlo explained?’

  ‘He did, yes. And showed me.’

  ‘It is a good one,’ she said. ‘And you have tried Cannonau. You have no excuse. You will visit us again.’ It was not a question.

  ‘I’d love to.’

  ‘He will,’ Carlo said. ‘It will be what he calls a tolerance test, yes?’

  I smiled. ‘Yes. Next time, nothing put away.’

  ‘Nothing,’ Carlo promised. ‘And next time you will try the maze. But in daylight.’

  ‘Too difficult at night?’

  ‘Too dangerous at night. You will see.’

  ‘I’m curious.’

  ‘In that case, a più tardi, David.’ Raina kissed me on both cheeks, squeezing my arms affectionately as she did so, then went inside.

  ‘She likes you,’ Carlo said.

  ‘I like her very much. You’re a lucky man.’

  Carlo nodded. ‘Veramente, grazie. Oh, and David, that article you said you were working on for the psychology magazine. Will you let me see it?’

  ‘I’ve barely started.’

  ‘Just some of it. Anything. Between one connoisseur of masks and another. As secret men’s business, eh?’

  ‘All right. As soon as I have something.’

  ‘Bene.’

  We shook hands and I headed for the car.

  ‘Oh, and David?’ he called after me. ‘We’re serious. If ever you need to see the mask—use it in your testing—please be welcome.’

  ‘Thank you, Carlo. Good night.’

  ‘Buona sera, David. Ciao.’

  The moon was at first quarter, so when I stopped to open the gate there was enough light to see the bottle-tree leaning askew, to see the jagged slashes of light. I couldn’t believe it. The bottles had been smashed.

  It seemed incredible. Who would do it? Vandals? Kids stopping for a prank? The custodians of the posts further up the hill? But why? Out of pique? Resentment? It didn’t figure. Not the Risis. It couldn’t be.

  I went closer to be sure, taking care not to cut myself. From what I could tell, not a single bottle was intact. Jagged spikes and shards caught the moonlight. Not just knocked over, no. Every bottle had been carefully and deliberately smashed.

  Without further hesitation, I headed up the slope. They had destroyed my tree; I’d destroy theirs. I didn’t have a hammer or crowbar to use, but there’d be something—a rock, a heavy enough stick.

  The effort of walking and the darkness ahead soon dulled the fury down to anger. But the hard emotion felt good, liberating after my humiliation—my exposure—at the Risis’.

  There was a breeze, and probably strong enough to set the bottle-trees hooting, but tonight there wasn’t a sound. It was as if they were hiding in the night, hoping I’d miss them.

  No chance. Not a chance. I had my bearing from the darker line of the forest and soon reached them near the crest.

  They were broken too. The poles were leaning at crazy angles, every bottle shattered.

  Anger went to cold fear in an instant. Who had done this? Why?

  Part of me wanted to push through the screen of trees and check the tower, but I was too scared. The cross tree was there, already quarter-clown in the night. Just the thought of coming on it in darkness, the chance of finding it hung with blowing scraps of cloth, given a tattered semblance of life, had me locking up with the deeper, more intimate terror I’d known all my life.

  And I had to check the house. Exhausted by the fear, all the emotions of the evening, I hurried down to the car, stumbling in my rush for safety, fumbling first with the keys, then the controls.

  In moments I was at the thin white strand of the cattle fence, disconnecting it so I could drive through, then at the gate to the back terrace close by the driveway. Thankfully, I’d remembered to leave the yard lights on, so the approach was clearly visible; the windows I could see were intact, and there were no obvious signs of disturbance.

  I needn’t have worried. Everything was secure. I checked every room, every door and window to make sure they were locked. I was far from easy doing it, so unsettled that the smallest things were charged with an immanence, an oppressive strangeness. I even unlocked the spare bedroom the Rankins used for storing things during their absence, the only room functionally off-limits. I’d looked in on it when I first arrived, finding the curtains tightly drawn against the eastern sun, making it pleasantly dim and cool, and with so many stacked boxes and things covered with dust-cloths that I could barely get in the door. It had given me an appropriate frisson at the time to know that any dolls or figurines, any artwork or things considered a potential risk by the Rankins had been shut away in those boxes or hidden away under those shrouds, carefully reduced to so many safely neutral cubes and anonymous forms. Ignorance being bliss, I’d simply locked the room again and consigned it to limbo.

  It took considerable courage, but now I opened that door again and looked inside. For many phobic, nervy people there is real terror in gazing upon draped objects. There could be anything waiting to spring out—the Boo Factor it’s often called, the Jack-in-the-Box effect—or, worse still, just moving ever so slightly under the drapery so you couldn’t even be sure you’d seen it.

  Back when I was seeing Nellie Barwood, I’d met a fellow client, a phobic guy named Eric Lees, whose greatest fear was barely moving draped figures. Some of that was with me now. I made myself lift one of the dust cloths to see what it concealed. It was Beth Rankin’s wooden spinning-wheel, still draped with yarn, set aside mid-task, a reassuring homey touch. Not a doll, not a dress mannequin (how they troubled me—headless and armless, so erect on their poles, with their adjustable panels and heavy bases, often with casters instead of feet).

  I managed to make my way through the shrouded shapes to check the window locks, then worked my way back, gingerly touching various draped things to confirm their sheer reality, doing it with an outstretched palm so as not to feel any clear definition. Then I locked the door and returned to the kitchen.

  What to do? Tell Jack? Phone him at 11:30? Call Mick or Lou or Paul and Angie? Julia? How I needed to. But I needed the illusion of managing even more. I was alone on the flight deck, but it was my flight deck.

  Finding the bottle-trees like that had given me a bad scare, but there was nothing subjective and solitary about it. It had happened in the outside world, the world that others shared. I put on music, set the jug going for tea, and stood in the bright kitchen calming myself. Maybe I’d switch on the computer and check emails, maybe even risk another TT, check the black page again, use one lot of fear to dislodge another.

  Then the phone rang.

  I answered on the third ring, had the immediate reassurance of music playing in someone’s living room, then Carlo’s rich voice.

  ‘David? I was hoping you hadn’t gone to bed yet. Raina and I just wanted to make sure you got home safely and to say how good it was to have you here tonight.’

  I felt such relief that I had to lean against the kitchen table. Bless you, Carlo Risi.

  ‘Carlo, thanks for calling. I had a marvellous time. I really did. You were both very kind.’

  ‘Well, you understand how it was. We had to do a dance. And you won us the Cannonau. You will keep in mind what I said about visiting.’

  ‘I will. Of course I will. Thank you.’


  ‘Good. And, oh yes, Raina is reminding me. She thinks she may know where the key for the tower is. She will look for it tomorrow. We may have our picnic after all.’

  ‘That would be great. Just great.’

  ‘Goodnight then, David. Buona sera.’

  ‘Goodnight, Carlo, and thank you. Please thank Raina. Goodnight.’

  I hadn’t mentioned the shattered bottle-trees or my fear. I’d wanted the humanity of these new friends, the treasured ordinariness of a courtesy phonecall at the end of a vivid and trying evening.

  I made the tea, switched off the sound system, and took my cup to the bedroom, set it down next to the second-hand copy of Mary Renault’s The Mask of Apollo.

  Leave one thing, I’d told Beth Rankin in a phonecall before they left on their travels, just one. Something mild to test me. And there it had been beside my newly made bed when I arrived, this old 1980 reprint of Renault’s 1966 novel, with a tilted gold theatrical mask of the god on the cover, surrounded by charcoal-grey rays. One eye socket had an iris and pupil; the other contained only darkness. I’d been so glad to find it there. It had become the first and last tolerance test of any day and I treasured its presence now.

  I lay atop the covers and considered the events of the day. I was exhausted, exhilarated and, yes, fearful: bothered by the fate of the bottle-trees, concerned about the tower and the Scarecrow Cross, troubled all over again by the black page on the TT disk.

  Paranoia was there too. Once the thoughts began connecting up, there was no stopping it. What if Jack hadn’t added the image? What if someone else had done it; worse yet had come in this evening while I was out and added new images to the disks? I had to know.

  In moments I was back in the study, had the Rankin’s computer booted and was loading TT Disk 4.

  Still thirty-one images. Check. I grabbed a pen and wrote a big numeral 4 on the disk, then scrawled my signature. My name, my disk. Accept no substitutes. It was breaking self-imposed rules but I didn’t care. The rules had changed.

  One by one, I loaded and opened the other three disks. The image neighbourhoods were as they should be: seven images by four plus two. No new additions.