<The Moon Behind the Mirror>
While I was waiting for him, a verse kept running through my mind.
"The loons wail in the midst of monsoon—the upturned mirror reflects the looming moon"... these were the last words of a forgotten poet.
Funny enough, the poem has four words with the same rhyme... and four people had gone missing this month.
The subject of my photo session was an hour and seven minutes late. Maybe even longer, depending on whether the butler had remembered to wind up the antique clock.
I had told myself not to choose a subject based solely on what I'd seen on the circus poster. But, once I saw that tragic yet hilarious visage, reason went out of the window. No photographer could resist the charm of that face.
Finally, my subject was escorted by the butler from the mansion's side entrance—two hours late.
The old butler had "impatience" written all over his face. The subject explained his tardiness for his many encores after the last performance, three or four to be exact, and he'd been stopped and questioned by the police afterward.
A faint voice came from behind him, "It's five encores."
As a younger man, I enjoyed looking stern and aloof, watching commoners who'd been called into the mansion squirm before me.
And now, here was Joker, squirming in front of me. As a classic tramp clown—a sad-face—he'd been summoned to my mansion because of his comical looks. He wore no makeup, save for the extreme fatigue after a long show. Any emotion accentuated his strange face, making him look eerily energized.
His large, fawn-like eyes were watery and harmless. The police detective who'd questioned him had apparently just smiled and let him go as soon as he'd seen those big eyes.
"It's not me the coppers suspect—it's your old butler," suggested Joker wryly. "A lot of people have gone missing in this town, just in the past month. That butler's got a mean face—he's probably been serving up these missing people for afternoon tea all month."
About these cases of missing persons in the town—there's another story going around—people think it's got something to do with the circus. They reckon the circus kidnaps them and turns them into freaks to perform as clowns.
Joker was champing at the bit, "Nonsense, what a load of old rubbish. Being a circus performer requires a great deal of talent—not just anyone can do it, you know..."
His ravings were cut off as I went under the dark cloth to adjust the position of the lenses.
"These types of rumors are not exclusive to the circus. Wasn't the nobility familiar with similar legends? Baroness said to bathe in the blood of young girls, believing it would prolong her youth." he said. "You look very young. Perhaps you've also used such skincare methods."
Unfortunately, the box where I kept my glass plates had gotten damp, so I needed to procure some more. There was a new photographic atelier in the town square where I could purchase some.
While I was waiting for my glass plates to be prepared, news came of more missing person cases. My carriage was even stopped at a junction, although the patrolman let us go at once seeing the heraldic coat of arms on the door. That is the power which the nobility has.
A curfew was set in place at night. The only sign of life was the circus lights, still shining in the distance across the river.
Sometimes Joker came over at midday, as the "Hullabaloo" circus performed matinee and evening shows, and the evening show played from dusk until dawn. After the show, the performers would sleep through the day until late into the afternoon.
I'd watch him hobble over the garden gates in a jolly pace, excited at the thought of our appointment. This was no act—he was born with deformed legs. He could make people laugh by walking.
This young man, who'd grown up in the circus, had no friends aside from his fellow circus freaks. This was his first time in a mansion and the first time he'd had any meaningful contact with the outside world.
He sat in the posing chair and asked me to tint the picture so the colors matched his face. The process could be lengthy, so the butler gave him a copy of my portfolio to help pass the time. Joker flipped through it then stopped at a particular page. He suddenly looked very excited.
I told him to be careful with the pictures.
Joker's fingers tapped gently on the photo. "They look just like my parents," he said.
"Oh? You have parents?"
Who knew how circus clowns came to be? Maybe they were picked from a clown-tree by the ringmaster.
But he just giggled and took the conversation lightly. "They're circus performers too, on tour with other circuses," said Joker.
Joker looked at me with anticipation, clearly wanting more money for his services. Circus performers have a short career span and need to make as much money before retirement. Also, he'd send money to his parents on a regular basis.
Speaking of his parents, he raised his eyebrows and said, "My talent for clowning was a gift given by them, and I've been hugely popular. My parents want me to keep working for a few more years, and we'd live in a small cottage when we saved enough money."
"How much money have you sent them?" the butler, who had been waiting by the door, couldn't help but ask.
"Nine out of ten paychecks," said Joker, "After all, the faster I send the money, the sooner I'll reunite with my family."
The butler shrugged as he muttered something sympathetic to him.
Joker loved the couple's photo, and it was said that the two people in it looked exactly as the ringmaster had described.
The poor idiot had never even met his parents. The butler guessed that he'd been sold to the circus at birth.
-
At our fourth meeting, he came to my mansion with a policeman.
"Here's how it went, my... my Lord..." The policeman wasn't sure of my title and hesitated before speaking. "Some hooligans were hassling him on the bridge. Fortunately, I recognized his absurd face straight away, so I brought him over here myself," he said.
He tipped his hat to signal his departure but then paused to stare at me.
He said, "You look so familiar, my Lord. When I was a kid, a nobleman from your family was also at this mansion."
"That would be my grandfather."
"I was delivering firewood for my dad. I saw him walking up to our wagon... You look so much alike."
Together with the disappearances and the rumors, fewer and fewer visited the circus. Joker's income dwindled.
To add insult to injury, he was no longer regarded as "the most popular clown in town." A vaudeville couple had taken his place.
I used the last of the glass plates to photograph his profile. "I saw the new poster on the way out of the town this morning. The guy doesn't look much like a clown."
"Sergi is a Harlequin."
"And what is that? I'm not familiar with circus attractions."
"He's strapping and dashing, and the ladies love him. I'm the funny guy who makes people laugh. It's nothing special..." He remembered something and turned his head away in dismay, "all the girls fall in love with him."
I thought about the poster of Sergi, where he was pictured with a redheaded dancer. "That's Natalie, Sergi's wife," said Joker.
To be fair, it was cruel to pair Joker with Sergi. Noblewomen around the district would secretly collect Sergi's portraits, pay a good sum for his posters, and reserve the best seats at the circus.
Compared with good looks, funny is worthless.
I wanted to visit the circus, to experience it first hand, but it would not have been proper for someone like myself to associate with peasants in such a manner, with the stench of animals in the air, no less.
Joker hadn't returned to the mansion since I'd scolded him. He'd limped off, woefully out of shape—he really shouldn't have played that joke on me.
"If you were older, I'd suspect that you were the first clown because the two of you share the same name, Joseph."
Two days after receiving the gift I'd sent, Joker reappeared.
His face was covered in bruises, and his big eyes looked larger than ever.
But he was subdued. I'd heard that he and Sergi had got into a fight over a woman.
"You have no idea how he treats Natalie. I mean, I don't have any improper feelings for her. We're just friends... at least I treat her like a friend."
Ah, I faintly recall that falling in love with a married woman always ends in disaster.
Standing up for a married woman is an even stranger thing to do, prompting embarrassment for the people concerned and snide comments from everyone else.
"You've got such a wonderfully pathetic look on your face today. I have to capture it."
"Take as many as you want. I'm not performing for the time being."
I guessed as much. His face was bruised and bloodied, blotchy like a road map of the Mediterranean.
"My Lord, may I see those pictures," he said, looking down, "Do you have other pictures of that couple? It's amazing, those pictures look so old, yet you are so young..."
I asked the butler to bring in all my portfolios. I carry them with me on my travels between the family estates.
Joker searched eagerly for pictures of the couple, but there were only a few of them, and the handwritten date on the back suggested they were taken a decade ago.
"The last letter my parents sent me was also ten years ago... they wanted me to send some money..."
"Can you tilt your face a little higher? The light's too dim."
"Yes, Sir." "The ringmaster says the top half of my face resembles my mother and the bottom half looks like my father; put together it produces a very comical effect..."
"Be quiet. Your face doesn't look funny now," I said. "This is my last photo session with you. I'm leaving after this."
"Okay..." he said, looking up quietly; his eyes were full of tears.
It was late in the night when he left. I asked the butler to send him home with a guest carriage.
I said, "I have some leftover glass plates of the couple that needed processing. Would you be interested?"
He nodded in tears.
"Thank you... for letting me speak to you, to someone from outside the circus..." his twisted face struggled to articulate his words, "Fighting with Sergi to protect Natalie—I'd never thought I could muster that kind of courage before... I don't feel so gutless anymore..."
"And playing the hero in front of a married woman," I said. I have no words for this kind of behavior.
"But she couldn't even look at me. She just cowered behind Sergi, more concerned about him... I know he's her husband, but I... no one ever cared about my face..." The night breeze swallowed Joker's sobs, "I wrote to my parents... I've written them a lot over the years. They've probably just been too busy to write back..."
"Maybe I'm just a business arrangement to them. They sold you to the circus—then they waited for your money."
"— it was an agreement! Not a sale!" his tone sharpened for the first time, "The ringmaster promised they didn't sell me. They simply entrusted me to his keeping..."
His voice shrank to a whimper, then finally a sob.
"Pardon my manners, my Lord. I... I am looking forward to seeing those glass plates..." he shuddered and turned to the carriage, "I bid you good night."
It was a stormy night, and I was ready to leave town. When the butler told me that Joker had arrived, I was more than a little surprised.
He was soaked to the skin, and his face was covered with a cloth. He sat down with his head lying on the expensive brocade couch. He'd been cautious about touching the couch before, but today he couldn't care less.
His face was completely disfigured as if it had been burned. It was because of the fight; Sergi had held a grudge and mixed Joker's pastel makeup with acid.
"I got those glass plates... attached with notes ..." those eyes on a face full of red flowers lifted to look at me. "This is most interesting... interesting..."
He spoke so softly, barely opening his mouth. His lips would have split apart if he did.
It was a set of ten glass plates documenting the couple's corpses as they decomposed. Ten years ago, when I came to this mansion for the summer, they'd toured with the circus and modeled for me.
Those who model for me give me their lives on their last session—so far, the only exception has been Joker.
"Yes, the rumors are true. Certain nobles do hold the secret of immortality," I took a seat across from him and examined his bloodied face, "a curse, a blessing, or a kind of black magic ... it doesn't matter, it works well for me."
People came to my mansion because I paid them well, at first as sculpture models, then for paintings, and now for photography.
Their bodies were buried in the garden, and their belongings were stored in the basement. The couple had very few belongings, just for papers—a deed, and I gave it to Joker along with the glass plates.
"The child will be sold to the Hullabaloo Circus for a mutually agreeable price. The agreement cannot be canceled once reached."
Clutching the glass plates, he tossed the papers aside and couldn't contain his laughter.
"You should've taken me too!" he said. He raised his head, and the candlelight illuminated his face. "I've lost everything," he said.
"I detest a life with nothing to live for—it's worthless." I gave him a handful of gold coins, "For your trouble. But I must confess... I rather regret taking you out of the circus. You should have stayed there for the rest of your life."
"As a clown?"
"You are much more suited to that than Sergi. If I have my lenses with me, I will print your image, then go to your show, sit in the best seats, and buy your posters after the show."
"Of my face as it is now?"
"Your face, as it is now."
He picked up a mirror on the table and carefully studied the piece of flesh and blood that looked back at him. After some time, he placed the mirror face down. The reflected light flowed in his eyes and shined back at me.
The butler told me he'd left and bumped into the gardener burying bodies in the garden.
Heavy rains had washed away the mud, and the town's missing people had unearthed and needed to be reburied. But it matters not, for Joker didn't take any of my secrets, only a saw from the garden.
The next day dawned, and our carriage left the small town. At the other end of the bridge, the circus was scorched black, and the entrance had been blocked off. The police were everywhere.
The Hullabaloo Circus performed their last by the Moon River—a man with a saw and a can of kerosene had killed everyone in the tent.
The only person who survived was a redheaded dancer. I caught a glimpse of her by the riverside through the carriage window. Ugh—what a dull face she has. It's no match for the Joker.
