A Magician Never Tells His Secrets

The history of Pierre and Pirouette was as colourful as the characters themselves, as I soon learnt. In my wildest predictions I wouldn’t have suspected that the Dimitri who alternated between being lazy and being hyperactive would also be an avid researcher, yet in those first weeks the clown persuaded me to hit the books with him every night.
I was slightly awed by the history and popularity of the clown couple; Pierre and Pirouette. The characters came from a type of travelling street theatre during the fifteen and sixteen hundreds. For almost two hundred years they were beloved across Europe and adapted into every different culture. Their popularity peaked in the city of Paris.
Dimitri lent me his books on the characters we were to re-enact every night for the entertainment of the punters.
The branch of street theatre the clown lovers originated from was Italian, and called Commedia Dell’Arte, and translated into ‘comedy of the professional artists.’
“And that’s what we are,” Dimitri said happily.
The news of my promotion, if that’s what it was, circulated the carnival like wildfire. Only twenty-four hours after Dimitri’s proposal it seemed like everyone knew. When I came back to my van after work that night Daw was bubbling with the news.
“I just heard it from Peter,” she hissed excitedly, grasping at my pale hands with her dark ones. She whispered her lover’s name like the secret it was. “Is it true?”
“Yeah,” I shrugged. Seeing her excitement wasn’t shared with me, Daw sat me down on the bed and demanded that I explain my lack of enthusiasm.
“It’s like, I’m not a very funny person,” I said desperately. “What if I don’t make the crowd laugh or if I’m no good at doing the tricks and stuff.”
Daw laughed. “See, you are funny.”
“But your laughing at me,” I cried.
Daw wrapped her long tanned arms around me and pushed my head onto her shoulder. I watched my dull strawberry hair fall over her golden skin.
“I know you’ll be great,” she cooed. “You’ve just got to believe in yourself. You’re in great hands with Dimitri.”
There was only one full-time clown at the carnival, and that was him. He insisted that the gypsy girls were too vain to want to paint their faces up like clowns, and preferred to wear their minimalist dancing costumes. I think that was why he liked me, at least at first. I didn’t really care about my looks. At the time I cared more about ridding the carnival of the stupid, unjustifiable resentment.
In the lead up to my first performance I spent more time walking between the two camps than actually practising. And though my practise sessions weren’t long, they sure were hard. Dimitri insisted on coaching me in all the slapstick routines. Tumbles, falls, trips, slips and fake punches soon put my body under intense pressure. But getting into the blushing damsel’s character meant my mind was also working hard. The scene we were to put on every night would vary, but all would include me waltzing around while he chased after me, doing the most incredible tumbles and falls. Throw in some crowd interaction, mistaken identities, miscommunication and near misses and it would be a hit; Dimitri assured me.
Because the rehearsals were taking up so much of my time, Mary excused me from my regular job. I was not sorry to wave goodbye to that steamy little ticket-booth.
Though my new occupation was anything but easy.