The red-haired clown. A novel. Elena Fedorova

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СКАЧАТЬ raised her head. Her look was full of despair. Another moment and tears would pour from her eyes.

      “Aspasia was not joking,” ceasing to drum on the table, Schwartz said.

      “Simone, did you know about this?” Charles whispered, having turned pale. She bit her lip and shook her head.

      “She did not know,” Schwartz said, having gotten up.

      Simone remained seated. Her body, dressed in the mourning and ceremonial dress, reminded of the monument to the mourner. Charles thought she was petrified. Tear, running down her cheek, was proving that Simone was alive, that it was the same a surprise for her. Charles fell on his knees before her, took her hands, and said: “Simone, do not cry, please. Perhaps, Mr. Schwartz is wrong. The will of your father says nothing about our kinship. It just calls my name. But Benosh is not the last name. It is my stage name. I am the red-haired clown Benosh. Except for the name Charles and the vague childhood memories, I have nothing left from my parents.”

      “And how should we do with a birthmark in the form of a comma on his right forearm?” Aspasia asked.

      Charles turned his head, looked at her from the bottom up, whispered: “How do you know?”

      “George Stowasser told me,” she replied and looked at Schwartz. “It is time to show them a letter from George. Take them to the private office. I can no longer watch what is going on here.”

      She turned and, rustling her chocolate satin skirt, left.

      “Let’s go to the private office,” the banker said, having taken Simone by the hand. Charles followed them.

      “When I was telling Lele that I treated Simone like a younger sister, “he thought, “I was trying more to convince myself, not her, that it was this way. But now, when we are ascribed a kinship, I am terrified. I am crushed by the realization that I am madly in love with my own sister. I just realized that all my feelings are real. Real! Will I ever be able to experience something like that, or will I have a fear of new disappointment? Why do I love her? Why? The Prince has only one Ophelia – Simone Stowasser. But…”

      “Come in. Sit down,” Schwartz said, opening the door to the private office.

      Charles came in and looked around. There were bookcases with glass doors along the walls from floor to ceiling. There was a large leather sofa. On the opposite side, there was an unpolished desk with one big drawer, from which Schwartz got the folder with the emblem. He hoisted his eyeglasses on his nose, cleared his throat, read: “Dear children!” he looked at Simone and Charles, sitting on the edge of a deep sofa, and grinned. “You are like the frightened birds that fell down from the nests.”

      “We are like the prisoners awaiting the death sentence,” Charles said, having firmly gripped his hand of Simone.

      “I love,” she whispered and closed her eyes.

      “Dear children, I am glad that you have found each other!” Schwartz cheerfully exclaimed. And Charles felt the lump in the throat and wanted to burst into tears. For the first time in many years, he wanted to scream from pain and despair. But he was sitting on the sofa, was looking unwinkingly at the books behind the back of the banker, and was listening. He was waiting for the verdict to be announced, for the guillotine to fall down.

      “Simone, the boy next to you is the one, whom you, the five-year-old girl, wanted to save,” Schwartz smiled, looked at Simone.

      She opened her eyes, considered for a moment, remembering something, and nodded.

      “Do you remember that we went to the circus Chapiteau on the outskirts of the town?” the voice of Schwartz sounded more cheerful. “First, the trapeze artists were flying under the dome, and then, there were the clowns, the red-haired and the white-haired. They brought a boy to the arena and began to push him into the gun instead of the projectile.

      You grabbed me by the arm and demanded:

      “Dad, save him! Save him immediately.”

      “Wait,” having hugged you by the shoulders, I said. “It is the circus, my dear, and nothing bad will happen with the boy, you will see.”

      “Something bad has already happened,” you frowned. “Why is he here and not in the gymnasium, as cousin Leo? Where are his parents? Why do they allow the boy to skip classes?”

      “Probably, his parents also work in the circus,” I assumed. At this time, the shot rang out, the gun broke into two pieces, the audience was showered with multi-coloured paper stars. The boy bowed and ran backstage together with clowns.

      “Dad, please, save him,” you whispered, looking at me with eyes full of tears.

      “Simone, this boy is happy. You saw how he smiled happily,” I said.

      “Please, dad, you said barely audible. I know, I know that he needs help.”

      “Okay,” having shaken your hand, I said.

      “We will save your boy. I put you in the landau, while I went to the Director of the circus.”

      “What is the name of the boy assistant of the clowns?” I asked, having introduced myself.

      “Benosh,” he said. “This boy is not as small as you thought. He is already fifteen. He has a promising future. He will have his own number in the new program. He will become the youngest red-haired clown.”

      “Tell me, is Benosh the name of the boy?”

      “No, no, his name is Charles,” the Director smiled. “Benosh is a stage name given by the clowns.”

      “And who are the parents of this boy?” I asked.

      “He is an orphan,” the Director said.

      “An orphan boy named Charles,” I said thoughtfully and got up. “Mr. Director, can I ask you for a favour?” he stretched in a string. I put a few large bills on the table and said:

      “I will support your circus, and you will support this little clown. Let him keep his stage name. Let him introduce himself as Charles Benosh.”

      I promise that we will declare in the new program: the red-haired clown Charles Benosh! the Director promised. I bowed and went out.

      On the street, I was almost knocked down by one shock-headed little boy. He was running away from a thick girl, who was shouting something rude at his back.

      “Excuse me, Your Honour,” the boy smiled, intending to sneak. I stopped him, wanting to ask him about the boy-assistant of the clowns, but after seeing is a birthmark in the form of a comma on the right forearm, I got speechless. It was that little boy, whom we had been searching for ten years.

      “Is your name Charles?” I whispered.

      “No, my name is Benosh,” he replied proudly, released, and ran away.

      “My dear boy, my dear Charles, I am sorry that I did not tell you everything, that I did not take you with us. СКАЧАТЬ