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Place your body on the altar. Follow him because he’s beautiful and venomous darkness eddies behind his eyes. The show is over. Duck through the portiers - beckoning hands in the perpetual backstage night, smelling of sweat and fraught mystery. This is where they spin out your yarn, dear guest, come and see. The show is over. Glitter and sequins, costumes and sex, hung up on hooks, draped over chairs. The aborted silence tolls loudly in your ears.
Clifford is in his dressing room, this charred womb, most ancient mother of rouge and bare walls and cockroaches scuttling, a big dull mirror on the wall - how humble are the world’s beginnings. He looks around himself - the mirror is cracked, rays extending radially from where something struck it.
A smile cuts the black space behind Clifford's shoulder, two eyes, a face peer at him.
“I am awfully sorry, I was looking for Fräulein—“ Clifford says and turns round.
“Bad luck, this,” the face grins and shatters into a million pieces. “But only if you believe in it.”
“Oh, I’m not superstitious,” Clifford says timidly.
“Why not? It would do you good. Care for a cigarette?”
Clifford nods and looks away. The master of ceremonies comes closer, snakes his hand into Clifford’s waistcoat and extracts his cigarette case. Clifford lights one for him.
“Say, I am writing a book, you wouldn’t be able to—“
“You want me for your book, Mr. Bradshaw?” The master of ceremonies says, coquettish, as he unfastens his suspenders, undoes the bowtie.
“Yes, if you could tell me a little about yourself, how long have you been working at the Kit Kat Klub?” Clifford swallows nervously, fishes out his little pocketbook.
“Oh, but is it not so much more fun to be someone else, Herr Bradshaw? You can be Fräulein Bowles and I– I can be Herr Ludwig! We will get on like– what’s the expression– like a house on fire,” he sniggers like a most vulgar child. He unzips his trousers. His arms weave around Clifford’s hips and he presses close.
“I— sorry, I really must go, Miss Bowles must be—“ Clifford stammers out, clutches the man’s forearms but makes no effort to remove them.
“What good is sitting alone in your room, Clifford? Don’t you just want to forget about yourself?” The master of ceremonies whispers in his ear, grazes his jaw with his teeth. Clifford’s hands settle on the man’s waist. The master of ceremonies sighs sweetly, suddenly coy. He undoes Clifford’s tie, then tilts his head and winks at you. The door creaks closed as Clifford’s lips find his exposed neck. The audience erupts in applause. The kaleidoscope turns.
Why, he has always been here and even onto the ends of the earth he will lead you, dancing wildly, exchanging masks, king and peasant, poet and soldier, priest and whore, victim and torturer. Nothing hurts.
Take my hand, I beg you.
Tonight the master of ceremonies winks at the wrong man and the uniformed boys are displeased with such insolence and are unafraid to show their displeasure. Tomorrow he’s up on his stage again, another layer of makeup on his face and he’s positively radiant. It’s his best night yet, his movements frantic, his smile infectious. The audience reels in ecstasy: encore, encore!
Build it up with iron bars,
Ring-a-ring o’roses,
We all fall down.
Round and round the mulberry bush,
On a cold and frosty morning.
Iron bars, iron bars,
Build it up with iron bars
On a cold and frosty morning.
Round and round the mulberry bush,
We all fall down,
My fair lady.
My fair lady.
Clap and laugh, clap and laugh till you cry.
And as his face begins to peel do not avert your eyes, dear guest, it’s no easy task, this. He performs for your pleasure. Forget all your worries, the show never ends. Round and round, you understand. What will you see? A little blood? But taste it, it’s only paint. The smoke is your own cigarette, the thunder is your own laughter ringing in your ears. See how with a simple sleight of hand he turns pain to pleasure, grief to joy. Nothing hurts. If you are hungry eat of this bread and drink of this wine. White doves claw their way out of your throat. Hah, how wonderful, unbelievable, marvelous! Everyone is mesmerized by his humble artistry - the trick works its magic. He is too beautiful to die, he will not die, the world is too beautiful to die. You will not die. Noone dies here.
You can lose yourself in his smile.
So long as there’s a song to sing, so long as there’s some one to point and laugh at, so long as love and lust go tumbling together, hand in hand, so long as there’s heartache and death, he will be here. Tonight, it is a flapper dress, tomorrow perhaps a tunic - uniforms and names, allegiances and insignia he can procure. He will wear dust and ashes and bow out long after the orchestra has gone. Performance is performance is life, and he will read your final rites with his tongue in his cheek and a wink and a nudge and his lipstick the scorching scarlet of your own blood. Thank you, father.
But prompt him, ask him again. Who are you, where do you come from? Oh, if you really must know. My mother was a whore, I never knew my father. My mother was the late Russian empress, my father her stable boy. I am my own mother and my own father, living in delicious sin, it’s all perfectly incestuous. Drop the charade, will you? He blinks innocently and then breaks into laughter, high-pitched and dizzying. But that’s a good one, my dear, encore, encore.
Fire rains down from the sky. Oh, but won’t you stay awhile for the show? The jester’s duty is a thankless one; all are welcome at our carnival. Front row seats for those like you.
This one is nearing its apex. He holds your living shuddering heart aloft in his hand, he paints his cheeks with it and the rouge is most becoming to his complexion.
Hold me, you cry out, I am so cold, the rats got to my toes. And as you reach out to touch him, with a wink and a sultry smile he crumbles in on himself, paperthin, and melts and evaporates like mist, leaving only a crumpled handkerchief smelling of perfume and things not spoken of in polite company, a smudged lipstick kiss in the corner.
The kaleidoscope turns.