Harry Best - The Clown
Badges The Elder
It’s a mark of sloppy storytelling, isn’t it — and of course you are too kind to have mentioned it, because you are such sweet and well-mannered guests, always thinking of my feelings — and for that, if modesty and the novelty of our acquaintance did not hold me back, I would kiss all of you, and before you try to make me blush, I mean, not as a man might kiss a woman, or I suppose, as a man might, well, you know, a man, but rather, what a grandmother might do as she puts a favorite grandchild to bed, on the cheek — the mark of sloppy storytelling, as I was saying, to take the subject back in hand before it is slips away entirely, is to forever circle the story without ever quite hitting it.
While we were in the cafe, a gentleman entered to whom I shall refer, without disrespect, as the clown. He looked first at me and then Melancholy and smiled. Did you know this? I did not until that day in Trieste, but the Italians apparently have bathing habits similar to the French. Or perhaps it was just the effect of wearing a heavy red velvet coat in the middle of summer. I don’t wish to be unkind.
“Americani.” The clown held his hands out in front of him and clapped them together.
“Jesus, Harry. He looks like Egnatius with that moronic smile.”
I didn’t respond. I had no idea who Engatius was, of course. But Melancholy was saying this in front of the clown, and I wasn’t so sure the clown couldn’t understand English. Sometimes, dear guests, and it pains me to say this, and we can keep this a secret between ourselves, can’t we, sometimes Melancholy’s good manners are not so readily apparent, especially in front of strangers and foreigners. I would go so far as to say that, to Melancholy, those two categories are indistinguishable.
“You remember Egnatius, Harry. The one who slept with Clodia, who was beloved of the poet Catullus.”
“Melancholy, I really think…”
“Clodia. Why not a hairy Spainard who brushed his teeth with his own urine? I mean, half of Rome had fucked her already.”
“Malinconia.”
“Let’s go, Melancholy.”
“Signore Malinconia.” The clown put his hand over his heart and bowed slightly to Melancholy, as though they were now being introduced.
“Give him some money, Harry. He’ll leave us alone.”
“Tutto chiaro.”
“I want to go, Melancholy. I don’t like this.”
“Christ, I’ll do it myself.” Melancholy reached into his jacket for his wallet. “What’s today? Surrounded by Village Idiots Day, or something?” The clown, who was staring at Melancholy, reached into his own red velet coat, mimicking Melancholy’s gesture perfectly. Oh dear guests, if I hadn’t been so afraid, I would have laughed, it was so odd, this entire scene.
“Here’s two dollars. You’re welcome.”
“Per favore.”
The clown had taken a book out of his jacket and thrown it on our round table, with the same careless flick of the wrist Melancholy had used.
“Per favore,” the clown repeated. He took off his hat and gestured with his hands that we should take a look. “Per favore.”
It was a composition notebook. You’ve seen them, perhaps you have used them in school yourself, the ones with the black marbled cover and wide, forgiving lines. Same sort of thing, except for the cover. Someone had glued a drawing of flowers on the front.
