15. Frankenstein's Successor (4)
More than a week had passed since the new year began, yet some regions of the Kiev Empire were only just preparing their New Year's festivals. This wasn't a case of the infamously killjoy Kievites finally deciding to join a party at the last minute. These preparations were happening because, for those regions, the new year hadn't arrived yet.
The belated festivities were concentrated almost entirely in the Amur region. The calendar system currently in use throughout the Empire had been promulgated by the Holy See over two centuries ago. But the Amur region had only been annexed into the Empire some twenty years past, and its traditional events still ran on the old local calendar.
By the old reckoning, the first day of the new year fell on January 17th in the modern calendar. When other provinces celebrated their New Year, the rest of the Empire was celebrating at the same time — so observances tended to be modest, just a quick gathering at the local church. Amur, however, held its events later than everywhere else, which drew throngs of outsiders and swelled the occasion into a full-blown festival.
The circus troupe Le Vodvilien — composed entirely of clowns — was heading north by train toward Yeterinpurk after earning a star at one of Pravin's Six Great Theaters. En route, they'd received an invitation from the Amur region to join its New Year's festival.
Sikrik, the troupe's director, had accepted without hesitation. Last year, inviting circus troupes to New Year's festivals across the Empire had been widely shunned, thanks to the Circus Grand Prix scandal that had erupted just before.
The revelation that the Imperial government had funneled astronomical sums into reviving the Grand Prix had shaken the entire Empire. While the streets teemed with the destitute working thirteen hours a day for a single meal, they'd poured a fortune into a lavish spectacle! For a time, anti-circus sentiment had simmered strong among Kievites.
This year, mercifully, public criticism had cooled considerably, and many troupes were landing contracts as usual.
'The event theme the organizers put together sounds genuinely entertaining, too... I'm looking forward to it.'
A joke for the festival popped into Sikrik's head just then, and he hastily jotted it onto the paper in front of him.
— Look, everyone! Your tax money is exploding! (points at fireworks)
He rolled the line around in his mouth, feeling out the timing. Inspiration was striking unusually well today. Already he'd netted several sharp ideas.
Living among your own troupe members day after day inevitably trapped your thinking in ruts. Bumping up against strangers, like today, was a fine way to clear the mind.
"That's enough. I've seen plenty. Results will be posted at the tent entrance shortly. You may wait outside."
The clown who'd just performed in front of Sikrik flashed a bright smile, bowed repeatedly, and backed out of the room. He'd apparently taken Sikrik's motion of tucking a paper into his coat as a signal of acceptance — never mind that the slip Sikrik had actually stowed away was the one where he'd scribbled his own joke.
"Next applicant, come in."
The far door opened, and another clown, decked out in garish makeup, walked in. He laid out a handful of props and launched straight into his act, stumbling through his prepared gags.
"So Daddy Rabbit said..."
Before the man had gotten three sentences out, Sikrik felt the urge to yawn and reached for his pocket watch. The instant five minutes ticked by, he cut the performance short.
"Before we even discuss the humor, I'd say polishing your basic delivery should come first."
"I... then the script I wrote..."
"There wasn't a single inspired line in it to cover for your weak performance. And work on your confidence."
"Yes... understood..."
The clown deflated completely under the cold assessment, turned on his heel, and slunk out of the room. With a presence like that, no matter how clever the script, drawing laughter from an audience was a tall order. Sikrik clicked his tongue softly at the man's slumped back and called out.
"Next applicant!"
Under Grand Prix rules, a competing troupe could recruit as many new acrobats as the number of stars they currently held at the start of the new year. With the festival drawing crowds of performers, the timing had been perfect, and Sikrik had opened auditions to take on fresh members.
Le Vodvilien — a troupe made up entirely of clowns — specialized in comedy, and a long roster of nationally famous comedians had passed through its ranks. Its reputation drew applicants in droves. Yet even after screening several hundred hopefuls over the past few days, Sikrik had found precious few who met his standards.
The next entrants walked in as a pair. Comedy required back-and-forth, so duos were common. They looked to be in their mid-twenties — both in worn-out suits, dented bowler hats, and carrying old canes.
They spotted Sikrik, doffed their hats, and bowed.
"Allen!"
"And I'm Joe!"
They performed the exact same motion — no, mirrored, symmetrical motions — dipping their heads. The moment they straightened up, each hooked his cane behind the other's leg and yanked.
"Whoa—!"
"Waaah!"
Both crashed to the floor, landing hard on their backsides. Sikrik let out a short chuckle. Not a bad opener. For the next five minutes, he watched Allen and Joe's act.
"So how'd it go?"
Two hours later, at a café, the pair sat their traveling companion down and regaled her with the story of their audition as if it were some grand adventure. But as soon as she asked for the result, their faces fell.
"We didn't make it."
"Said we were lacking in a lot of areas."
Suave the snake keeper furrowed her brow at their answers. It had been close to a year since the three of them began traveling together. Their first meeting had been an absolute disaster, but over time — for better and worse — they'd grown attached.
She knew their skill level. She knew how hard they'd worked. She hadn't expected them to fail even to land a probationary spot — not with Le Vodvilien, no matter how prestigious the troupe was.
"So... what did they say you're lacking?"
Her cautious question was met with matter-of-fact tones from Allen and Joe.
"Tears."
"What?"
"What he said was... to pull out real laughter, you have to have lived through sadness and loss, apparently."
"And he said he didn't feel any of that from us."
Suave clicked her tongue.
"Honestly, what a bizarre nitpick..."
No matter how she turned it over, this Sikrik character struck her as nothing but a self-important snob. Sadness and loss, her foot. He'd just latched onto some fancy-sounding phrase to justify himself.
Animal keepers and clowns had always tended to look down on each other's acts. Their respective arts chased goals at opposite poles.
It wasn't simply a matter of one addressing humans and the other animals. The clown focused their thinking on extracting universal truths that cut through all of society; the keeper devoted themselves to understanding the particularity of individual creatures. The clown prized fresh ad-libbing and delighted in techniques that startled and disoriented an audience. The keeper valued a polished, perfected repertoire and employed techniques that built anticipation and wonder.
For these reasons, Suave regarded the logic that had eliminated the two of them as pure pretension. Allen and Joe, however, shook their heads.
"No. He was right."
"He saw straight through us."
"What? Ha! What are you talking about — don't be ridiculous! Are you telling me you've never experienced sadness or loss? You've never had a family member die..."
At her protest, the pair tilted their heads.
"Not really."
"We never had families to begin with."
"So you were... orphans? But still, someone must have looked after you when you were young!"
"No memory of it. From one point on, I was just drifting through the back alleys of Vegas."
"My earliest memory is from maybe seven. Didn't have anything, so I had nothing to lose."
Allen and Joe, who were normally all foolish grins, continued their story with uncharacteristically stiff expressions.
"If someone paid us, we didn't blink at killing."
"All we ever did was take from others."
Watching the two of them lay out their wretched pasts with utterly composed faces, Suave shut her mouth tight. She'd known they'd been mercenaries, but she'd had no idea their lives had been so dark. Their story finally wound to its conclusion at the moment they'd resolved to become comedians.
"So we decided to change!"
"We'd do work that made other people happy!"
That latter part she already knew. She'd heard plenty about the six months of clownish escapades they'd gotten up to before meeting her in Rouge. Hearing it back then, she'd simply thought they were cheerful disasters. But now...
She stared at the two men grinning at her — and then, without warning, launched her fist forward. Two sharp flicks landed on their heads.
"Ow!"
"What was that for!"
"I don't know, just..."
The three of them had agreed to keep submitting applications to Grand Prix troupes throughout January. If any one of them landed a spot anywhere, that person would go there. In other words, whoever passed would part ways with the others here and follow their own path.
But hearing Allen and Joe's story now, Suave felt her resolve soften. Their superb swordsmanship, their easygoing manner, the fact that they were a few years older than her — all of it had kept her from noticing until now, but socially, these two were still deeply unformed. They were like children left unattended by the water's edge. She wanted to stay by their side and help.
"Well, Suave, you'd better get to your own audition."
"Right, right. Where'd you say you were applying?"
Looking at the pair wearing those sunny smiles — carefully artless, yet somehow not — Suave let out a small laugh. Right. That worry was a problem to deal with after she'd actually passed. Counting her chickens before they hatched was exactly the sort of thing they'd find ridiculous.
"I've already decided where I'm going. As it happens, they're heading this way, to the Amur region."
She held up a newspaper clipping.
"An animal-specialty circus composed entirely of keepers!"
***
"Billy and Betty!"
At Ella's shout, every gaze in the lounge snapped to her. Wonderstein took the newspaper she thrust at him and read. An article detailed the festival being held in the Amur region's capital.
"Boss, boss, let's go here! Huh?"
He'd just finished breakfast and was enjoying a game of Wonderworld with Minova and Sven when Ella came charging up, insisting they change their itinerary on the spot. She launched into a passionate defense of the idea, piling on arguments — but Wonderstein saw straight through to her real motive.
"So basically, you really want to see their show."
At his question, which jabbed right at the heart of it, Ella finally reined in her excitement and glanced around. Everyone was staring at her. She scratched the back of her head, sheepish.
"Well, I mean, it's not that I absolutely have to see it — it's more that, if we happen to have the time, it might be useful for our future... so..."
"Consider it done."
"...Huh? That easy?"
"Yes. We'll follow Miss Ella's suggestion."
Ella studied his face with open suspicion. It was always hard to read anything behind that ever-present smile of his.
"It's a bit out of the way from our original route. You're fine with that?"
"Of course. Who could match our Deputy Leader's eye for circus? Best to follow without a peep. Ho ho."
"D-don't be so greasy about it..."
She shot him a glare, as if his smug grin thoroughly annoyed her. But the smile spreading across her own face was impossible to hide.