The red-haired clown. A novel. Elena Fedorova

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      I’ll do no more, I beg your pardon,

      And let the curtain on the window down…”

      Charles hugged Simone, ran his hand through her soft hair, and asked: “Did I satisfy your curiosity?”

      “Not quite,” she replied, moving away.

      “Really?” Charles smiled, sat down on the chair, threw one leg over the other, and looked at Simone quizzically.

      Charles knocked his forehead with his palm. He got up and bowed. Looking at Simone from the bottom up, he said:

      Charles put on a red wig on his head and began to trill with laughter. Simone shook her head and said in a sad voice: “It is not funny for me to look at your antics. It hurts, hurts, hurts… Have you, Charles, the greatest, the wisest man, the talented actor, decided to spend your life in this squeaky box with a beautiful name circus show-booth? Not small but a huge buffoonery.”

      Charles grinned: “You are the first to use the superlative degree in describing my humble abode. I am filled with pride. I will just burst of self-worth and self-importance,” he puffed out his cheeks. “I will burst, and you, Simone, will mourn a great actor, an unsurpassed red-haired clown, a brilliant…”

      “Jester, who is wasting his life,” Simone finished his tirade.

      “Charles, you are on!” the manager of the circus cried out.

      “That’s my turn,” having adjusted the wig, Charles said. “Allow me to leave you for a while. I can only ask you not to disappear. I hope you will be able to forgive me for all these stupid antics. Please, stay at the window, like a statue. And I will come back and will create a portrait: a window, sunflowers, skylight, and a lady…”

      “Charles, hurry up, the program is coming to the end,” the manager tapped at the door.

      “I am fly-y-ying,” Charles exclaimed, stepped out the door, and stopped. “Do not disappear, Simone. Wait. I will be right back… I will be back in a trice…” his voice reached from afar. It was not his voice, but the voice of the red-haired clown, who was amusing the audience.

      Simone took a white sheet, sat down in front of the mirror, and wrote:

      Dear, dear, Charles! I am sorry. I have to leave. Yes, yes, yes… I have to leave, despite everything you have done for me. Due to everything you have done for me. For you, for me, for US, Charles. I understand that the show-booth is your life, your work, giving you the opportunity to live… not to live, but to exist. Acting, buffoonery soaked so much into your skin, got in the bloodstream, in mind that… (please, think this out yourself, you are better at this). I know, you will upbraid me, saying that your tricks used to entertain me, your clownish laughter used to amuse me. Yes, you are right. I used to have fun because I was a little girl. I grew up, Charles. Now I am a mature, intelligent, well-mannered girl, who does not want to spend her life, her youth to check entrance tickets… I am sorry that I am telling you this, and not vice versa. Charles, you are a wise man, who has been teaching me not to be afraid of difficulties, but you yourself succumb to them. Why? Then, when we meet next time, you will answer me this question. You can answer yourself right this minute… So. I am leaving for you, Charles. My, at first glance, thoughtless act is really thought out to the last detail (I had an excellent teacher!). I am leaving you, Charles, knowing that you will not let such insolence remain unpunished.

      P.S. Oh, forgive me… I do not want to hurt your feelings (in my opinion, you still have such feelings, such emotions that are not typical of clowns) … So, not to make your heart explode out of despair, I whisper you four words that you have wanted to hear from me for a long time. I know that it is true, that it has not been the work of my imagination, that you have not been playing at that moment, otherwise… otherwise… I will die out of sorrow and despair, because, because… I LOVE YOU, CHARLES! I am leaving for us, for… (think out the finale of my letter on your own, please…)