The Lonely Hearts Hotel(69)

“She always wanted more than she deserved out of life. McMahon did everything for her, all she had to do was spread her legs. But no, she went off. Left him destroyed. I have no interest in women who don’t know their place.”

“So you can’t help me?”

“It’s in the home.”

“What is?”

“A woman’s fucking place.”

Anyway, McMahon had taken it very hard when Rose left. There was an unwritten agreement among all McMahon’s friends that they were not going to have anything to do with her. The cop had never really liked Rose because he was so attracted to her too.





39


    ON THE THIRD DAY



The Parisian Theater had ornate boxes on the side for rich people to sit in. The wood around the stage had depictions of flowers and teacups and unicorns and lilies carved into it. Onstage, a fat clown walked around in an imaginary garden, bending over and plucking different flowers, which he would inhale from deeply.

It was as though the scent of the flower made him stoned. He danced about the stage. He had on a pair of ballet shoes under his spats. He danced on pointe, gracefully and wonderfully. He took off his jacket to reveal that he wasn’t fat at all, and that it was just the parameter of a stiff tutu creating his girth. He danced to Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring.

When he picked up one of the flowers, he made a terribly loud and rather shocking buzzing noise, as if there were a bee inside the flower. As his nose approached the flower the buzzing became louder and louder, until he yelped out loud, obviously bitten. He held up his hands to his face. When he put them down, he had on a big red clown nose.

Backstage, sitting on the fire escape, the clown and Rose looked down at his toes. There were bandages on every one of them.

“I bet your act was so beautiful,” the clown said to Rose. “You’re allowed to be affectionate and loving. You’re allowed to go around telling people and things that you love them. You don’t know how lucky you are sometimes, being a woman.”

Rose smiled. “There are some strange advantages, it’s true.”

“Was your partner handsome?” the clown asked. “I saw the most devilishly fetching clown at the Razzle Dazzle Circus. Go check him out, even if he isn’t the guy.”

Pierrot stopped by the main library. It was made of orange bricks and had gargoyles of squirrels on the walls. He remembered that Rose always read anything she could get her hands on. He described Rose to the librarian and asked if a girl fitting that description ever came in.

There was a tunnel on the side of the library that led to a magnificent greenhouse. Pierrot headed down the tunnel into the glass structure, which had white tiles on the floor and pots of flowers everywhere. He went to have a conversation with the roses. There was a load of huge roses. He was always surprised at how voluptuous they were. Rather like a white handkerchief tucked into the breasts of a woman at the opera. Where shall I find my lovely Rose? Have you seen her?

The roses were desperate to have their portraits painted. They complained to one another that they hadn’t been born in the Netherlands, where all the great still-life artists had lived. It was a waste to be a rose in Canada. There were still some drops of water on their petals from having been watered. They were like tears.





40


    ON THE FOURTH DAY



There was a theater in the East End called the Velvet that was surrounded by factories. Nobody noticed the theater during the day. Women with little kerchiefs on their heads would stand outside on their breaks to smoke a cigarette. But when the sun went down, and the factory workers had gone home, and all the trucks were in garages, the theater lights would come on and that glowing palace was all that seemed to exist on the block.

Rose stepped into the theater. The carpets were a deep burgundy, and the seats were all made out of vermilion velvet. The curtains were such a heavy red that they looked as though they had soaked up the blood from a hundred murders. When the curtains rose, the stage was lit up and seemed like a tiny womb, with the performer tucked inside. The clown on exhibit had an enormous trunk that seemed as long as one that might belong to an immigrant family going across the ocean to the New World.

The trunk held all manner of unusual and extraordinary objects to juggle with. There were bottles that the clown pulled out and spun around quickly. He had colorful balls and pins and a group of butcher knives. Rose wondered if he used these same knives in the kitchen to cut up salami.

But those feats were nothing, as the clown was just warming up. He had some sticks with rags on the ends of them that he dipped into kerosene and proceeded to set on fire. He dipped his white skullcap into some water and then put it on his head. That way his head wouldn’t catch fire if one of the balls of flame chanced to land on it.

He juggled so many at a time that Rose felt like she was hurtling through outer space, passing different constellations. If you were in the audience, you couldn’t help but reflect on all the winking stars immeasurable distances away, which blazed so we’d have something to wish on, and lit up the sky so that we could walk our dogs in the evening without bumping into trees.

His pièce de résistance, which he had worked on for several years before mastering it, was to keep one burning giant ball in the center, with colorful balls spinning around it, creating in essence a map of the universe.