4. FOUR
FOUR
JOKER
T he circus only opens its gates six days a month, just enough time for us to scrape by, trying to make enough to last the rest of the month. It's a hard way to live, scaring people for a living. Don't get me wrong—I love what I do. But when you need to eat, it's hard to frighten the same people you're relying on for tips. And tips... they're rare.
I walked down the dusty road that led to the woods. The hum of the carnival was behind me. A few tents were scattered here and there, but one huge one loomed ahead of me with its bold sign declaring, "Welcome to the Freak Show." I could feel eyes on me—children clutching their mothers' hands, peeking out from behind them, fear and curiosity threaded together in their huge-eyed stare. One small boy tugged at his mother's sweater, thumb firmly in his mouth, as if holding on to her would protect him from whatever he thought I was.
I wasn't sure whether their fear made me proud or sad. Maybe a little of both. Part of me was jealous if I'm honest. I never had a mother to hide behind. Instead, I had priests who would shield me whenever those nuns became a little too adventurous in giving their punishments, branding boys like me "wild" and "untamed." They tried to beat that out of me. But if there is one thing I learned, it is how to keep one's head high, no matter what. Conceal the pain behind a mask—a poker face nobody would ever know.
We were in front of the mirror maze, through whose entrance a blur of reflections and flashing lights pulsed. I reached for the flap, and a strong grip pulled me backward. I turned to find Rocco, the boss, standing in front of me. He was wearing his old red coat, its gold buttons shining like conkers in the gloom, and his hat pulled low over his greying head. His face was lined like the bark of an old oak tree, save that his eyes told stories, not of wisdom, but of failure, destruction, and pain spread to others.
He jammed a wad of flyers into my chest. "Get these out there. We need new people."
"I thought we had a full house?" I replied, trying to pace the situation accordingly. Something didn't feel right.
"Clowns are missing," he growled, his eyes narrowing. "No one knows where they went."
He looked at me like I might know more, but the truth was we didn't really know each other here. Not really. Everyone was hiding from something—running from something—and no one ever asked too many questions. I nodded as he walked away, shaking his head in frustration.
Smoothing my blazer, I stood in front of the maze entrance and pulled a cigarette from my pocket. Lighting it up with a slow drag, smoke filled my lungs and cooled the restlessness inside me. I watched people passing by, kids still snuck a look my way; their eyes wide with that kind of wonder bordering on fear.
Then this boy ran toward me, about eleven years old, wearing a jean jacket and a black shirt. Pants that were just a little too small, frayed at the knees with holes in them. His enthusiasm was infectious, yet I hardly cracked a smile.
"Chiara, look! Il labirinto! " he exclaimed, gesturing to the entrance with wide, eager eyes.
I cocked a brow, tapping my chest as my smirk appeared. "I'm wearing makeup, okay, but I'm not Chiara."
"Huh?" he said, confusion crossing his face.
Before I could explain, a young woman appeared, breathless as she caught up to the boy. Her face was bruised, makeup failing to fully mask the swelling around her eye and cheek. Her hair was tangled into a messy bun; despite the pain etched into her features, there was something softly beautiful about her. Wearing jeans and a white shirt, the hollow of her waist was impossibly small against her hips and chest—so perfect, something fragile that had been mishandled.
She didn't run, but she slowed as she approached, her eyes meeting mine briefly before she looked away, pulling the boy close by the shoulder. I had to say something. She looked so familiar, like I'd seen her before, maybe in another life.
"New in town?" I asked, my voice softer than usual.
She smiled, though it didn't reach her eyes. "I'm local."
The boy tugged at her arm. "Can we go in? Please?"
She looked at me, her teeth clenched, lips barely parted as if the words were hard to form. "How much is it?"
I could see her discomfort—it was plain as daylight that she was misusing money that wasn't hers. Her silence spoke louder than what she said. And yet, despite all that, here she was for him—for the boy.
"Ten euros," I said, knowing it was probably too much for her, but also knowing I needed to make something tonight.
She fumbled with her wallet, worn leather peeling at the edges. She pulled out two five-euro bills, hands shaking slightly as she placed them in my palm. "Here. Thanks."
Her smile, though small, was genuine. It was all she owned, all the money she had left, yet she did it without hesitation. Not for herself. For him. And somehow, it felt as though she'd given it to me, too.
I stepped aside, placing a hand against my chest and bowing slightly, as they passed through the entrance of the maze. Just before she crossed the threshold, I handed her one of the flyers Rocco had pressed on me earlier.
"We're looking for people," I said softly, more offering than asking.
The boy darted ahead, already entranced with the mirrors. "Look, Chiara! I'm this short!" he shouted, giggling, as he stood in front of the one that made him squat and chubby. He moved to the next, waving his arms as if dancing, the reflection stretching his limbs out like rubber.
I just stood and watched. The way they moved, the boy's carefree joy, the woman's quiet relief as she followed him deeper into the maze. Their laughter tumbled off the glass, and bounded in strange directions, twisting around me. I didn't move right away, just let myself get lost in the sounds, in the way they seemed to drift farther and farther away, swallowed by the shifting lights and reflections.
The entrance loomed behind me as I finally stepped inside and on the creaky wooden floor. They were placed in a manner to twist reality, with walls and corners that seemed to make it impossible to get your way. The lights, shining red, then fluttering to an eerie blue, bathed everything in their glow, casting distorted shadows across the glass. Every few feet, one of those illusionist mirrors would distort your body in some odd jarring way—stretching you out or squeezing you down—until even your reflection was unrecognizable.
I watched them disappear further into the maze, my eyes following the steps as I remained motionless at the entrance. With every step, they vanished a bit more, consumed by the labyrinth of ever-shifting lights reflecting on each other. The boy laughed and his laughter echoed feebly and then became distant, lost in the hollow maze.
And as I watched them disappear into the house of mirrors, a quiet unease settled over me. The thought wouldn't leave my head—would I ever see her again? The maze just had a way of swallowing people up, especially those who took too much comfort in the House of Clowns. Mesmerized by them, they often went in and never came out.