The Lonely Hearts Hotel(85)

“What the fuck did you do with it? What did you buy? A house? A car? I don’t believe it. You’re not that type. You’re too lazy to spend the money that fast.”

“I invested it in a theatrical revue. The money mostly went to clowns. Some of them had previous commitments, so they needed further monetary incentives.”

“You invested your money in clowns? Did you come up with this on your own? Or did someone encourage you to do this?”

“My wife. She has a wonderful flair for organization. It’s going to make a lot of money. Let’s consider it an initial investment. We’ll give you our returns!”

“Who’s your wife? Who would marry a fuckup like you?”

“You wouldn’t know her. Though it’s possible. She has worked her marvels in different clubs around the city. Her name’s Rose.”

“Rose?”

“Yes. That’s what she likes to be called. Her real name is actually . . .”

“Marie.”

“Good guess!”

A strange hunch came over McMahon—it couldn’t possibly be true. He had always assumed that Pierrot had come from an upper-class family. He was sure he had seen him in Westmount a couple of times when he was driving to work. He had thought Pierrot might be one of Irving’s children but assumed he had been disowned from his family for drug addiction. He also assumed that was why he had any sort of intelligence. Pierrot had once said he’d gone to Selwyn House, the same school as his own son. But it occurred to him in a sudden flash that Pierrot was the little boy from the orphanage, the little boy with a big scarf around his neck, the only boy Rose had ever thought enough about to mention.

He remembered Rose saying that a person couldn’t possibly imagine just how delightful and absurd Pierrot was unless you actually met him. He remembered Rose telling him how sweet and refined and fair the boy was. What an air of sophistication the boy had, despite being an orphan.

“Where did you grow up, anyway?”

“I was Al Irving’s ward for many years. But before that, I spent my formative years in an orphanage.”

“Where did you meet your wife?”

“I’ve known her my whole life. We were raised in the same orphanage.”

McMahon had to sit down. All his stories and narratives about Rose suddenly needed revising. The psychic energy devastated by this revision exhausted him. He had not taken her affection for the blond boy seriously. But clearly she had been thinking about him the entire time they were together. He was her first love. McMahon had only ever been her second choice.

He immediately wanted to murder Pierrot.





50


    THE TOWER OF BABEL



McMahon sat in the car at the port, watching Pierrot being strung upside down from a mast of a ship on the docks. When that task was completed, he got out of the car and headed toward the hangar. McMahon could hardly be prepared for the group of men he would encounter as he walked toward the end of the hangar, where Pierrot had said he would find Rose.

He passed a clown standing with his skullcap on and his large pants unbuckled, smoking a broken cigar and juggling plates.

There was a clown with his poodle. It was white and middle-aged. You could tell that it had worked long and hard for a living. The clown had a tiny rag that he dipped into warm water to remove the gunk around his dog’s eyes—as if he were removing its clown makeup.

A clown was dressed as a black chimney sweep. He had covered his face with black soot and carried a little broom over his head. Tears made pathways down his dark cheeks.

There was a clown spreading muscle relaxant all over his arms and legs while smoking a cigarette. There was a lot of chain-smoking. The rooms were filled with little clouds of cigarette smoke, as if it might suddenly start to rain.

Another was balancing a stack of ten hats on his head. He had his jacket off, and he wore a fake belly under his suit to appear corpulent and well fed. He was actually very skinny—he could barely afford to feed himself.

Another clown, dressed in a black suit he had bought for a deal from the undertaker, was playing a tiny trumpet. Another was playing the violin, trying to pick up the trumpet player’s tune. Another clown appeared to levitate an inch off the ground.

One clown, who had his hair pulled into triangles on the top and sides of his head, began singing inscrutable words in a low and magnificent voice.

They were all babbling in gibberish. There was no universal clown language. Every clown spoke his own particular tongue and had his own odd dialect. One sounded like he had a piece of electrical tape over his mouth. Another spoke as though he had something hot in his mouth. Their speech varied from sounding like a record played backward to a bicycle horn being honked. McMahon felt annoyed and frustrated. He wished to God they would all just speak English. He tried to ignore them as he walked past.

The huge desk was covered in stacks of paper. And there she was in front of him, sitting on the chair behind it. She looked like a million bucks, wearing a black velvet dress, with a white silk scarf tied in a knot at her neck. It was as though their breakup had not affected her at all.

“How did you finally find me?” she asked.

She was so calm. It was strange how different she now looked. She was older. She had become much more beautiful. He was appalled that she would sit across from him acting as if she were his equal.