The Palace of Laughter (23 page)

“Very funny,” he grunted. “Matter of fact I fell off the high wire, broke me friggin' ankle. I see you're babysittin' one of them little jokers. Who got lumbered with the other one?”

“The other one?” said Genghis. He twisted Miles's arm up behind his back and brought his face down until the burning tip of his cigar was an inch from the boy's nose. “So you weren't alone in that lab, you little weasel. “Here, Bobogeek…,” he said to the tramp clown. “You just got yourself a new job. Take this one in and make sure he gets a seat in the front row. If he tries anything funny you can hit him with your crutches. You can call it self defense,
you being a cripple and all. I've got another one to catch.”

“Right so,” said Bobogeek, “and try not to let her outsmart you this time, eh?” He let out a nasty whinnying laugh.

Genghis gave no answer. He let go Miles's arm and aimed a clout at his head. Miles ducked, and the big man's fist landed a hard punch on Bobogeek's arm.

“Oy!” said the tramp clown. “What was that for?”

“For the little weasel,” wheezed Genghis. “You can owe it to him.” He turned on his heel and hurried back toward the elevator.

M
iles Wednesday, filthy, front-rowed and (shhh!) antidoted, sat wedged into a narrow space right at the ringside. On his left sat Bobogeek, his plastered foot stretched out in front and a couple of small but persistent flies buzzing around his head, and to his right sat none other than Haunch the butcher of Larde. Haunch had looked at Miles in surprise as he sat down beside him. “Well well, Master Miles,” he said, craning his thick neck to get a better look at the boy. “I didn't see you on the train, nor in the hotel neither, and I thought I'd seen everyone. You was hiding in a luggage rack, I'll wager.”

“Not me,” said Miles. “I wasn't even on the train. I walked here.”

Haunch the butcher guffawed. “That's a good 'un, boy. There must have been something special in them bones I gave you. Reckon I'll double the price on them in future—too good for dogs they are.” He chuckled again.

“What on earth is he laughing at?” Miles thought to himself, but then he remembered the stolen antidote he had taken, and he forced a small laugh out of himself for Bobogeek's benefit. It felt like a strange noise to be making.

“Not sure I'd have recognized you, mind, with that funny hairstyle,” Haunch went on. “Must be all the fashion, eh? You're the second lad I've seen with a funny hairdo since I came in here. Tell you what,” he said, leaning close and tapping his nose with a thick finger, “come round and clean my yard next week, and I'll keep some sausages by for you this time. You're a good little worker, lad.” His breath smelled of the brandy that he had had the foresight to bring with him on the journey, which no doubt also accounted for his mood being lighter than usual.

Miles wondered for a moment who it could have been that Haunch saw with an odd hairstyle, and
decided that it must have been himself, as Bobogeek steered him down through the seats to the front row. The other seats had been filling up steadily, and the circus band had taken their places among the strange assortment of pipes, horns and gongs in the pit at the far side of the ring. Miles could spot many other faces that were familiar to him from his hometown: Piven the baker and his wife sat opposite him, and behind him was Flifford the bicycle mechanic, difficult to recognize without smears of gray axle grease decorating his face. Father Soutane sat over to the right, listening earnestly to the stream of gossip that Lily the florist poured into his ear. There was not much that Lily did not know about what went on in Larde, and where there were gaps in her knowledge she was happy to fill them in with details that she made up herself.

The boom of an enormous gong signaled the arrival of the clowns, who trotted and cartwheeled down among the seats and spilled out onto the clean sawdust of the ring. The band struck up the same crazy music that Miles and Little had heard from the tunnels the night before. The music looped and squealed, but it did not sound at all funny this time. Miles watched the rest of the audience, some of
whom were already beginning to chuckle, and he took his cue from them. When the clowns began an exercise routine that looked like a chaotic kind of tai chi, Miles made himself laugh along with the rest.

He could see Silverpoint, in his tall chef's hat, directing the exercise routine with graceful movements that the other clowns were failing miserably to mimic. Silverpoint glanced over at him, and Miles could see his eyes searching the benches for Little. His face remained expressionless, and after a moment he looked away.

Haunch's shoulders were shaking now with laughter. Miles couldn't remember if his own shoulders shook when he laughed—he had never thought to check. He tried shaking them, but it just felt silly, so he contented himself with producing laughter of the non-shaking variety. Bobogeek was scanning the rest of the audience, his arms folded and his crutches parked by his side. His face wore a miserable scowl.

All of a sudden the music stopped, and the clowns froze with it. In the center of the ring stood the Great Cortado, his hair slicked back and curling behind his ears, the huge mustache on his small round face perfectly waxed and pointed. He had
changed into a dark blue suit with silver buttons, and he spoke without trumpet or megaphone, his voice booming around the packed theater as though it belonged to a man four times his size.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to the Palace of Laughter,”
he began.
“Tonight it is your Immense Privilege to witness the most spec-tac-u-lar, the most Fan-tas-tical, the most Hil-larious Ex-travaganza of Laughter…,”
and on he went, word for rolling word, with the opening speech that Miles had heard from the tunnels the night before. The audience listened a trifle impatiently, eager to get past the introduction and on with the promised hilarity. Some tittered at the sight of the Bolsillo brothers, who were not having as much success as the other clowns at staying still, and were having a little spat with much rib digging and eye poking. Fabio was picking the Great Cortado's pocket as he spoke, pulling out a large handkerchief and looking at it with an expression of disgust.

Silverpoint was staring Miles in the eye, as though he could find some clue there as to the whereabouts of Little, and how they had become separated, but Miles could give no kind of signal without making Bobogeek suspicious. The Great Cortado was approaching the end of his speech.
“…be prepared to be entertained as you have never been entertained before!”
he boomed.
“Tonight the greatest comics in the Wide World will take you Beyond Laughter, and your Lives will be Transformed, FOREVER!”

The people clapped and cheered. “Didn't they hear what he just said?” Miles thought to himself. “What do they think he meant?” It seemed so obvious to him, squeezed into his seat and waiting for disaster to befall him in one guise or another.

A cloud of blue smoke enveloped the Great Cortado, and when it dispersed he was gone. Miles felt pretty sure he had not disappeared through the trapdoor. He searched in the dimness of the banked seating and spotted Cortado after a moment, slipping out through one of the exits at the back, unnoticed by the mesmerized audience. The band had struck up as he finished speaking and was in full flight again. The music seemed a meaningless babble. In the middle of the ring lay a clown, dressed in a tramp costume and with a downturned white mouth painted on a blackened face, who Miles guessed must be a stand-in for the injured Bobogeek. He was trying to sleep under an open newspaper. Between his feet lay a small white dog, who kept snatching the newspaper in his teeth and
pulling it over himself. Each time he did this the clown gave a violent shiver and grabbed it back.

The tramp clown finally got the upper hand. He began to snore like an ox, the band counting out his snores with booms and clashes of their gongs. The Bolsillo brothers, meanwhile, were wobbling at breakneck speed around the ring on their unicycle. While Fabio pedaled, Gila and Umor perched on his shoulders. Umor whistled, and the elephant ambled down through the startled audience and began to chase the unicycle. The people of Larde laughed until they cried, and the music squealed on.

Miles listened to the harsh, ugly laughter and he began to understand now what Little had said about the One Song. The hysterical braying of the audience was not real laughter. It had been torn from the One Song like a single filament from a rope, and without the harmony of the other strands it could cut through the soul like a taut wire cuts through cheese. He tried to block out the sound and concentrate on the show, searching among the flapping boots and rainbow trousers for any sign of Tangerine. As he forced out a noise that he hoped would suffice for laughter, he worried too about Little. He hoped that she would have wasted no time in escaping up the chimney once they had
closed the door behind them. If she delayed too long Genghis would surely find her still there on his return, and without Cortado to control him there was no knowing what he might do. Miles pictured her flying up the length of the chimney and out into the night sky, and holding on to that thought, he forced his attention back to the antics in the ring.

If you have ever had to wait in the wings for your part in a play or a show, you may have some idea how Miles felt as he sat wedged between a large butcher and a smelly clown and watched for his moment. The antidote he had taken certainly quenched laughter, but it did not have the same effect on nerves. His stomach was full of knots, and half of him wished that something would happen that would prevent him from having to leap up on the stage at all. His timing would have to be perfect, and there would be no second chance.

He stole a glance at Bobogeek. The smelly clown was staring at his snoring substitute with a look of sour boredom on his unwashed face. In the ring, the snoring clown was having a dream. Another clown, dressed like a clean and colorful version of himself, perched behind him on a large boulder, holding a small fishing rod. He whistled loudly as he fished, a
broad white smile painted on his face. Behind him Miles could see Fabio Bolsillo attempting to oil the elephant's knees. His two brothers were proving more of a hindrance than a help. A lot of oil ended up underfoot, and there was a great deal of slipping and sliding.

The fishing clown suddenly caught a bite, and after a brief struggle a sea lion appeared from behind the rock, the end of the fishing line in her whiskered mouth. The sea lion was dressed in a lime green tutu, and the fishing clown lost his heart to her at first sight. He tumbled off the rock and landed on one knee, clasping his hands and serenading the sea lion with a wordless barking song. The band played on, and the audience howled with laughter.

The tutu-wearing sea lion turned tail and fled, the fishing clown hot on her tail. His hat fell from his head and began to run around the ring as though it had a life of its own. Miles watched it curiously. Suddenly the hat came to rest, and a small orange bear climbed out. Tangerine!

Miles almost leaped from his seat at once. The newly washed bear had regained some of his bright orange color, but there was no mistaking his floppy legs and his slightly crossed eyes. Besides, there
were not many stuffed bears who could stumble about a circus ring on their own, waving at the audience and tripping up the performers. The people of Larde, purple faced from laughter, clutched their sides and pointed at Tangerine. So much was going on at one time that many of them seemed unable to decide which way to turn. A look of bewilderment began to mix itself with the laughter in their eyes. The music raced ever faster, and the action in the ring became a whirlwind. The fishing clown seemed somehow to have died. The Bolsillo brothers ran out from behind a screen in their undertaker suits, carrying a coffin. It was shorter than the clown, but they wedged him into it. They lifted the coffin, and the bottom fell out, corpse and all. The Bolsillo brothers threw away the coffin and buried the fishing clown in a mound of sawdust. A giant daisy pushed its way up through the mound.

Miles was distracted briefly by a light from the back of the auditorium, and he saw Genghis slipping in from the hallway outside. His face was black with soot and with anger, but he appeared to be alone. Miles looked back at the ring. The elephant had reached over Fabio's shoulder and grasped the daisy with his trunk. He pulled, and the clown came up from the mound, stiff as a board and still clutching
the daisy in his intertwined fingers. Miles could no longer see Tangerine. He searched the ring, but the bear was nowhere to be found. The Bolsillo brothers were chasing the resurrected clown, who had stolen their unicycle and ridden it straight through Silverpoint's pie. Silverpoint was shooting firebolts in all directions. His face wore its usual calm expression, but the firebolts seemed to be coming thick and fast, and there was barely a clown in the ring whose trousers, hat or wig wasn't smoldering. The band was playing like a party of dervishes, and the booming, clanging and squealing made Miles feel as though his head itself were one of the gongs.

Genghis was making his way toward him now, pushing the stupefied Lardespeople aside as he clambered over the benches. Miles looked back into the ring in desperation. Silverpoint was pointing straight at him, his cool eyes fixed on Miles's face. A firebolt crackled through the air toward him, finding its mark just above him and to his left. Bobogeek let out a howl of surprise. His eyebrows had disappeared and his tufty hair was smoking. “Oy!” he roared. In the center of the ring the trapdoor was opening, and from it poured a thick cloud of purple and green smoke. Beside the trapdoor
Silverpoint was shouting something at Miles that he couldn't catch. The Storm Angel cupped his hands around his mouth. “You're on!” he yelled.

Miles felt as though he had suddenly been unglued from his seat. He leaped into the ring as the shape of the throne began to emerge from the colored smoke. The three Bolsillo brothers were leading the elephant around the back of the throne, ready to park her on the trapdoor. Fabio tossed the oil can into the air as Miles ran toward the pillar of smoke. “Mind the holes,” shouted Fabio. What holes? The floor was flat and smooth beneath the sawdust. The ring seemed twice as large now that he was in it. A blur of open-mouthed faces filled the surrounding darkness. He caught the oil can and almost dropped it straight through his fingers. The outside of the can was slippery as a fish, and more oil was pouring from at least three different places.
Those
holes! The throne continued to rise. He reached the smoke cloud, still searching for Tangerine, and tried to stop, but the floor was already slick with oil, and though his feet stopped, Miles kept going. He collided with something hard and fell backward into the greasy sawdust.