Goldenland Past Dark

by Chandler Klang Smith

  Perhaps the worst part of the mess was overflowing from Webern’s desk. Crumpled-up pages lay wadded up everywhere, a riotous garden of paper blossoms. These were Webern’s abandoned clown acts. Webern hadn’t exactly been inspired of late. The night before, he’d had one brief nightmare—a blurry interlude in which the clown had cried so hard that his glass eye popped out and rolled away—but other than that, his nights had been dreamless, and more often than not, sleepless, too.

  Not that it mattered now anyway. With Happy Herbert centre stage, Webern was less than eager to hand over more of his ideas to be plundered, and the other clowns didn’t seem particularly interested anyway. Happy Herbert’s perspective was simple: if the same gag got the same laughs every night, then what was the point of changing it? Webern could see the logic in this point of view in the same way he could see a car wreck from the windows of the train: just because it was there didn’t mean it should be. Webern had always taken for granted that the audience would laugh—people had been laughing at him since he was a kid. What mattered to him was the clarity of the details: the way he bent to smell a daisy just before it squirted a stream of water in his face, or the startled expression he made upon discovering a hole in the bottom of one floppy shoe. Webern longed to make every moment of his clown routine as crystal-clear and unmistakable to his audience as his dreams were to him. He wanted the act to be a dream they dreamed together, a dream that lingered in their minds even after they emerged, blinking, into the midway’s garish lights.

  Webern had been dreaming his whole life. His mother had taught dreaming to him when she opened the picture books and guided his hands over pages of goblins and unicorns, fairy princesses and dragons. She had dressed him for dreaming in red silk pyjamas with blue and white sailboats stitched on the pockets, in a terrycloth robe the colour of the night sky with constellations embroidered on the sleeves. Now that dreams eluded Webern during sleep, he spent his hours in a half-awake daze, where dreams could appear anywhere—in the sawdust that floated like clouds of gold under the spotlights, in the red and white barns that loomed in the fields they passed. He found himself staring into space as the world around him took on the quality of a vision, the cloudy bright colours of paint spilled through water. Sometimes he looked at his hands and found they had become strange to him. Dreams shimmered on everything he touched, like a glaze. But he couldn’t hold them in his mind. He couldn’t shape them into acts or mark them down with crayons. He was in them. He was lost in them. He was alone.

  Webern opened the drawer that held the Great Vermicelli. The dummy lay inside, his eyes rolled back inside his wooden head, his lacquered skin rouged. His arms lay empty, crossed on his chest, the smooth pale hands supported by wires. Pale hands, like wings. Magician’s hands.

  Carefully, Webern lifted him out of the drawer. The wood felt strangely warm, pliable—almost alive. Webern set the dummy on his knees, and the eyes opened with a satisfying click. He slid his hand under the Great Vermicelli’s tuxedo jacket and touched the talking stick, a grooved spine. The dummy’s mouth formed words; a voice came from a dark place at its hollow heart.

  “You know, my boy, you would do well to study the great mimes of the Commedia dell’arte. The incomparable Grosseto, in particular, might lend you inspiration. His pièce de resistance was a Pantaloon who, convinced by Harlequin that his young wife has been assumed into the heavens, fires arrow after arrow at the sky, only to be pierced with each one upon its descent. Only when he resembles a pincushion does his beloved return from her tryst.” Vermicelli chuckled. “In theatrical circles, he has become something of a patron saint for cuckolds.”

  Webern tipped the dummy back on his lap. The eyes clicked shut again, and the mouth stilled. Webern’s hands were shaking as he lifted a crayon and carefully drew an arrow on the clean page of his clown notebook. One arrow, then another, and another, and another.

  Webern stood just offstage in a Martian suit made of cardboard boxes. He hated the way the costume restricted his movements; having it on felt more like standing inside a tiny house than like wearing clothes. The big top was full tonight, full to capacity, and the heat of so many bodies filled the air. Sharp cries and laughter thrummed in his ears, and sweat trickled down his hump. Even here in the darkness, he was starting to cook.

  Out into the centre ring, amid dry ice explosions and shattered glass, a travesty was taking place. Happy Herbert was many things, but he was not a natural clown; Webern was sure of that. To be a clown, a person had to lose himself in the reality of the act—he had to be perfectly serious, focused completely on the smallest details of his task. He had to move with the disastrous conviction of a sleepwalker or the self-deluded. People always thought the clown and the straight man were two separate roles, but the opposite was true. The clown was the straight man, the only one onstage who couldn’t see the absurdity of what he did. The clown was a comedy to everyone else but a tragedy to himself. He mourned popped balloons, broken eggs, faithless women. But Happy Herbert wouldn’t wipe that smile off his face until someone sprayed mace in his eyes.

  Webern grimaced as Happy Herbert cracked the cap off a Coke bottle using an armplate from his Martian suit. Unlike Webern’s costume, which was gilded with aluminum foil and staples, Herb’s was made from real pressed tin. Out in the audience, the kids shrieked with laughter. Of course.

  Webern leaned against one of the tent’s poles. He had seen a real clown once, just after Dr. Schoenberg found him in Dolphin River. In those first few weeks before he and Nepenthe grew close, he had spent almost every waking hour with the old ringmaster, pouring over ancient playbills and listening to wild stories of the vaudeville days. One night, somewhere in Ohio, Dr. Schoenberg had whisked him away from the camp to see a performer (“An old acquaintance of mine”) in the gloomy basement of a defunct jazz club.

  In that small, grimy space—which, despite its moist porous walls and low ceiling, still managed to echo—Webern had watched an old man in a threadbare trench coat attempt to put a bicycle together. The room was empty except for him, Dr. Show, and an aging nightclub singer whose baby daughter wore a sequined dress; it was silent except for the buzzing of a fly that rammed its body repeatedly into the spotlight’s dim bulb. But Webern was transfixed. The old man’s face showed every flicker of disappointment, rage, and elation as he set about his task, and in his hands, the pile of junk and spare parts before him transformed. One bent wheel turned into a hunk of pizza dough; the greasy chain became a bauble of gold. And when the bicycle was at long last completed, it too changed into something glorious: a kind of chariot that its owner could ride into the sky, if he wanted to. That night, Webern finally understood what it was to be a clown, the simple, humble craft of it and the honour, too. But he had forgotten. And now, standing here in the sawdusty shadows, watching Happy Herbert blow raspberries at the audience, that basement room seemed more real than anything that had happened to him since.

  Silly Billy blew the whistle, and Webern trotted out to his first position in the ring, careful to stay far from the spotlights. Pipsqueak and Professor Shim Sham wheeled out “the mirror”—really just a huge golden frame with thick screens of black on the sides. The routine played simply enough: Happy Herbert the Martian glimpses his reflection for the first time, and is terrified, then angered by his double, who placidly mimics everything he does.

  Behind the black screen on the right side of the frame, Webern tried to compose himself. Heat and alcohol made him woozy, and the cheers of the crowd blended in with the sound of the blood pulsing through his ears.

  Happy Herbert began to hum, and, taking a deep breath, Webern stepped out into the light. It was essential that their movements be exactly synchronized, so Herb had devised what he thought was an elaborate system of cues: the tunes he hummed throughout the routine were meant to set the tempo for their movements and actions, as music would for a pair of dancers. Unfortunately, Herb’s sense of rhythm was lousy, so Webern
continually had to check his motions against Herb without turning his head in the slightest. It was a strain, and as Webern sauntered into the spotlight—easy and casual, just as they’d practiced it—he saw Herb was almost a full step ahead of him. Damn, damn, damn.

  Webern slid his feet through the sawdust as he moved into their second position—the surprise pose, when the Martian first glimpsed his reflection. Mouth ajar, head tilted to the side, Webern found himself looking Happy Herbert square in the face for the first time all evening. At this distance, Herb’s makeup—light green and slightly metallic—couldn’t hide the imperfections of his real face: the stubble, boarish and bristly, already growing in after a five o’clock shave; the low forehead, wrinkled with the strain of thinking. His breath smelled like the hot dog water vendors poured out in parking lots at the end of the day.

  But Webern could have borne all this had it not been for one other thing: Happy Herbert was smiling. With his back to the audience, he wasn’t bothering to widen his eyes, to narrow his broad mouth to a tiny o of shock. Instead, he was smiling—no, leering, really—at Webern. Tough luck, his dim, contented eyes seemed to say. I’m out here, and you’re in there, looking back.

  Later on, Webern didn’t remember making a fist, and he didn’t remember winding back to throw the punch. The big top, the sawdust ring, even his own body felt very far away, and his muscles moved of their own accord, as though executing a pantomime he’d practiced a million times before. But he did remember the expression of Happy Herbert’s face: the eyes opening wider and wider, the mouth falling open. It was the surprise pose after all.

  Happy Herbert reeled backwards; one hand flew up to cup his jaw. He staggered, but didn’t fall. Instead he stared at Webern, his wide eyes stretched beyond surprise on into shock, and even terror. Then—unsteadily, clumsily, but at top speed—he turned around and began to run.

  Assuming this was all part of the act, the spotlight operator followed him with the beam, serving, like a prison searchlight, to keep him in full view of his pursuer. Which Webern suddenly was. He knew now that one punch just wasn’t enough to get his point across. With a blood-curdling roar, he leapt over the gold frame and sprinted at top speed after his doppelganger.

  Happy Herbert raced up into the stands. He collided with a peanut vendor and knocked an ice cream out of the hands of a little girl, who let out a siren-like wail. Webern scaled the steps two at a time just behind him. The cardboard of his robot suit ripped at the seams, but he didn’t care. Happy Herbert pushed his way through a row of seats, upsetting sodas, buckets of popcorn, and falling, for a moment, into the lap of a tremendously endowed matron in a floral print dress, who shrieked in horrified delight. Then he descended the bleachers on the other side. But Webern was undeterred: he made a U-turn, wheeling around to bound back down the way he’d come. As soon as Webern hit the sawdust ground again he gained on Herb, who was running now like a child in a nightmare: in a zigzag, and always looking back.

  Happy Herbert dove beneath the lowest safety net; Webern ducked his head and followed. Bent nearly double, he could barely see where he was going. But as soon as Happy Herbert came out into the open again, Webern knew he had him. Happy Herbert veered toward the lion cages at the other end of the arena, but he was too tired to make it there; his breath came out in high-pitched squeaks and wheezes. With an otherworldly howl, Webern leapt onto his back.

  “You’re a disgrace! A disgrace!”

  “Get your hands off me, you fuckin’ psycho!”

  The two tiny spacemen rolled around on the ground, screaming obscenities and punching each other in the face. Webern grabbed a handful of Happy Herbert’s hair; Happy Herbert kneed him in the groin. Their blood stained the sawdust. They were evenly matched—too evenly. Webern whacked Herb’s chin with his hump, and he felt he was finally coming out on top, when Happy Herbert’s elbow landed an unexpected blow to his ribs. Gasping for breath, Webern was powerless as the other clown rolled on top of him and grasped his throat in two small grubby hands.

  Webern thrashed and slapped and kicked and kneed and elbowed. Happy Herbert’s grip only tightened. Black spots swarmed the big top’s dome; the roar of the crowd sounded like it was coming from inside Webern’s head. It occurred to him that he had been making some very bad decisions lately. Somewhere offstage, an elephant trumpeted.

  He was almost unconscious when Happy Herbert began to rise, the pressure of his body lifting from Webern’s as though they had entered a realm of zero gravity. When his hands finally, grudgingly, released Webern’s neck, Webern sucked in a mouthful of air—sweet clean air—and opened his eyes. Pipsqueak and Professor Shim Sham, in full costume, had come out into the ring to pull them apart. The two clowns now struggled to hold back Happy Herbert, who noisily twisted in their arms, screamed for his rights, and called all of them “cocksmokers.” Webern watched for a second, then rolled over on his side and chomped on Happy Herbert’s ankle.

  “I’ll tear you a new one!” Happy Herbert bawled. Webern crawled out of the spotlight. “He’s getting away!”

  “He’s got no place to go,” Pipsqueak reassured him.

  Webern looked out at the crowd. Utter terror stilled the faces of children, some of whom stared with mouths agape, forgotten cotton candy melted in their sticky hands. Grown men and women bore looks of horror, outrage, and disgust; some covered their eyes; others pushed toward the exits. Only Wags, standing in a distant row, clapped his hands and shook his head and stamped his feet. Only he was laughing.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  A wooden platform, five feet by five feet, boxed in on three sides with canvas partitions. A single spotlight, trained on the dead centre of the stage. A red vinyl chair, orphaned from a dinette set, with a V-shaped rip in the seat. An unplugged floor lamp, made of tarnished brass. A dustball, a gritty feeling underfoot—sand or the memory of sand.

  “It’s all yours.” Frank, manager of the Parliament, dropped his hand familiarly onto Webern’s hump. His straw hat sunk his face in shadows. “It’s a step down, I know, but after what happened I’m surprised old Billy could get you this much. Hell, I’m surprised he wanted to, if you don’t mind me saying so. Guess the guy felt he owed you something.” Frank smiled all the time he said this, but Webern knew it didn’t mean anything. Nepenthe had told him a long time ago that the guy couldn’t stop even if he wanted to—some kind of muscle damage from the Korean War.

  “Tell me what you need, and I’ll pass it on to Wardrobe. Can’t do much about props, though. For those you’re on your own.”

  “When do I start?” Webern asked.

  “Bright and early.” Frank patted Webern’s hump once, then let it go. As he hopped down from the stage, he called over his shoulder, “Don’t take it the wrong way—we’re glad to have you. We’ve been expecting you a long time.”

  Webern waited until Frank had disappeared. Then he pulled the chair out, straddled it, and sat down, resting his head on the upholstered back. He gazed out at the narrow space where the crowd would file in, where they would stare at him for five minutes before shuffling on to the next attraction. He thought of Nepenthe, coming in here every day for years and years—now it made sense to him why she would want to lie motionless on her rubber alligator, why she didn’t bother putting on a show. It took all the energy he could muster just to keep breathing in this place.

  Webern took off his glasses and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. He could have gone to Europe. He could have gone to San Francisco. He could have made her stay, somehow. Instead he’d chosen this.

  The Parliament freaks kept a different schedule than the performers under the big top. Their show started two hours earlier, to catch the midway crowd, and it ended whenever the traffic through their tent slowed to a handful of vulgar old men and bored teenagers looking for somewhere dark and quiet to squeeze each other. As a consequence of this, the freaks put on their costumes in daylight and took th
em off at night. The giant milled around the cookhouse in his cowboy boots and ten-gallon hat, and Fat Rhonda washed her ruffled skirts as often as her underwear. For the freaks, there was no going into character, or coming out of it either. Except for Jody, the half-man, half-woman, none of them had a face to put on that was different from their own.

  Their acts were almost as everyday as the clothes they wore to perform them. Most were simple embellishments on the daily routines the freaks performed every morning before coming to the tent, endless repetitions of the mundane. They spent their days playing solitaire, combing hair, eating, weighing and measuring themselves, as though life had an awful stutter in it, a crack where the needle had lodged. The Skeleton Dude stood on a scale, endlessly munching apples and reading the newspaper. The Elastic Skin Man got up off his cot and stretched, then lay back down again. The Human Torso, who had recently quit smoking, unfolded gum wrappers with his tongue. Only the blockhead and Serpentina, with her drugged snakes, had acquired anything resembling a skill, but their attitude was the same as Happy Herbert’s: why bother improving an act that works? Nobody ever comes through this place twice.