Chapter Text
“Who, if I cried out, would hear me among the angels’
hierarchies? and even if one of them pressed me
suddenly against his heart: I would be consumed
in that overwhelming existence. For beauty is nothing
but the beginning of terror, which we still are just able to endure,
and we are so awed because it serenely disdains
to annihilate us. Every angel is terrifying.”
“Gloomy, isn’t it?” You playfully commented to the clown sitting in the armchair. He has been reading this book for at least an hour now, and it is by far the most he ever spent there, quite assured. The library is small, so you’re always aware of every customer – especially the excentric ones.
The tall man came for the first time at the beginning of the week, in the middle of the afternoon. The vicinity stands at a crossroad, moderately busy at the brisk of the day, but essentially deserted by night. Most of your costumers are students or the elderly – sometimes a couple enters to spend some time at the loveseat by the big window walls that frame the facade of the small bookstore.
The owner- a generous but hot-tempered man – offered you this job to work odd hours. Are you closed for the day? Open? Do you shift at night, noon, morning? It’s a mystery.
“I need someone with a very flexible schedule.” Said the gray-headed man during your interview. And apparently, he takes being volatile very seriously, because ever since you started working here, there was never a day where worked two days straight at the same shift hours.
You assumed this “business” is his just his love project. Since he justified it by saying he ‘doesn’t have any more space at home for books” and needs “someone to sort the books for when I happen to need them,”. He warned you he may sometimes need to come to the bookstore to stay there, alone. When he is not using it – he wants it working as any other bookstore.
Well, who are you to question that? You both want and need this job. Even if you are actually maintaining a personal archive, not exactly working as a librarian, which is officially your job description. You greet customers, help them find books for consultation and manage the ones on sale and the ones people can borrow during the day. At night, you archive all of the books, magazines and journals in topics, year of publication, and so on. And when you feel a little brave and it is quiet and you are alone – you play a few tunes at the grand piano near the entrance.
Your desk is set at the back, mahogany and antique – a normal size, but big comparing to the cramped bookstore, currently overflowing with notes, articles, and every literary item yet to be sorted. On top of it sits a vintage lamp, which glows in a beautiful greenish tinted light when on.
The store itself full of antique items – exotic decorations, porcelain miniatures, wooden items and sculptures, beautiful yet uncanny painting hanged on the walls, (merely scenery paintings from afar, but a closer look at the details would tell stories of places impossible to exist).
Nevertheless, in this workplace that finds itself at a cross of a strange antique store , a private and excentric library and a comfortable and secluded bookshop, you got used to seeing all the recurrent faces, helping students in need of old and heavy philosophy books, or simply watching as couples and friends walk in and stroll around.
That’s why that afternoon etched itself in your mind with clarity.
An impossibly tall man, wearing gold and purple – adorned with black accessories, pointed boots and a circus hat. The man entered through the door silently. Despite being covered in bells, the only thing that announced his entrance was the door chime, and his purple form immediately set a violent contradiction to the wooden, neutral decoration of the background.
The dissimilarity was hypnotic, and you kept an eye out for this new presence from afar, already tending to leave costumers alone to wander in peace (and you sensed the stares he was getting from the other customers made him company enough).
The enigmatic person made his way to the back of the store as silently as he entered, carefully mapping out some of the sessions. You admittedly were curiosity about what a person dressed like that could probably be looking for in the shop. Magazines? Vintage Comics? But he strolled through those sections without batting them an eye.
Instead, he stopped in front of the bookshelf that signaled on its higher point the word “European Literature.”
His fingers carefully strolled its subsections, like a snake crossing elegantly over the hills of book spines assorted into their sub-categories –- Absurdism-- Modernism – Existentialism –
Covered by his carnival mask, you couldn’t see his eyes, but you were sure they were moving in tandem with his movements, scanning every title.
--Gothic Fiction - Psychological Realism -- his motions continued, and you watched attentively as his hand moved a little faster now.
-Surrealism --Baroque Literature --
...German Romanticism. Skilled fingers came to a halt and nudged a book out of the rack by its top - the Duino Elegies.
You would be lying if that didn’t shock you a bit. It’s not even that you thought a person with such tastes wouldn’t enjoy obscure German literature, but that was quite the unpopular book. No one have ever taken that book out its shelf – hell, not even yourself. It was already there when you arrived, and it was one of those sections you still haven’t sorted correctly.
The clown opened the book to bring it closer to his mask, white on white.
You hear the door chime once again, and you left the curious scene to attend to the front of the store as you make out someone’s voice uttering a timid ‘Hello?’. That client in specific wanted some books on Gardening, and that led you to a whole different section.
After a while, you heard the door chime again, and for some unknown reason, you intuited that the person in the carnival mask just left. Turns out you were right, and the literature section was deserted once again.
Yet, the next day he was back, searching for the same book, and reading it for only a short period of time. He wouldn’t overstay, not even take a seat on some of the chairs near the end of the section, assured of privacy.
That night you decided to spy on the book while archiving – you haven’t read it yet. It made you dreadfully curious as to why a person in a circus costume was reading such a tragic and melancholic novel.
Yet, by the looks of it, you were sure he was not just some ordinary circus worker. Even his clothing that draped beautifully over his admirable height was intricate and tasteful; you’ve never seen a circus where the clown’s uniform adorns gold and leather gloves instead of plain white, red or blue.
You wondered if maybe he was an acrobat or an aerialist– those spectacles more akin to display flashy, intricate outfits. It would explain his features as well – his perfect upright posture, like his spine was being pulled by an invisible string. Or the way his fingers moved on the pages, elegantly, and the way he strolled with such a strong presence but without a sound.
Something in him felt otherworldly.
Bet it his height, how he towered over everything in that store. Be it his flashy, yet intricate and tasteful outfit, contrasting his absolute silence. You were just unable to divert your eyes off him, unable to shake him off of your mind. You grabbed his book to sooth the aching curiosity.
The Duino Elegies, you read quietly, a book written by the poet Rainer Maria Rilke. Written while a guest at the Duino Castle, a fortress at a cliff by the Adriatic Sea, and gifted at its publication to the Princess.
You kept drinking in the prologue until you opened the first chapter - “The Fist Elegy”.
So now, some days later, when that same strange person finally sits to read the book, you have an idea of what the contents are.
“Gloomy, isn’t it?” You ask the clown.
He didn’t come by afternoon, today. Instead, he came at night – and very late. There isn’t a single customer left beside him. You even started archiving already but forgot to turn the hanging sign from “Open” to “Closed” - you didn’t notice until you heard the door chime and the strange, tall man, come in.
You discreetly drink in his figure with stolen glimpses while he is reading; his form now gracefully sat in the library’s armchair. Sat as if it was always his - so different from the tense and composed version you saw during the day all week. His knuckles holding his slightly tilted head, elbow on the armchair, eyes and porcelain mask fixed on the pages like a hawk...he is at the half at the book already
And you were looking. Observing. But tonight something in you got embolden by your secret attempt to try to bring your realities closer together. His head turns to you just briefly, a tip of his chin upwards, his eyes locking and leaving you just as fast.
“It is.” Delivered a silvery voice, hinting at a promise of further elaboration that never came.
Despite his friendly intonation, the figure coldly pretended you were not there, utterly fixed in the object in his hand. Surprised the man wouldn’t even spare you a second glance at your attempt of conversation, you let your voice pierce the inviolable silence between you two once again:
“What made you like it so much?”
“Have I ever said that I like it?” That melodic voice bit back, coming somewhere from his body.
His mouth didn’t move when he spoke, and it made it all creepier. A slight sense of dread came rushing to your spine behind your neck – but it dissipated as you shook from a shiver.
You couldn’t help a slight frown of your browns, a slight irritation growing. There was a slight ghost of a smile from him, amused, probably a reaction to your visible discomfort (even if he didn’t find you worthy enough to move a single muscle for).
Maybe you overstepped. You believe he knew you were there - watching him read, with your puzzled eyes, all week. His mocking grin gave a hint of it, of something you both knew.
All week, you respected your end of an unspeakable truce - leaving him to his book, not questioning what such a strange person was doing at the bookstore, while he didn’t bother you and any customer despise his strange presence.
All week, you spent your working hours tortuously feigning a lack of interest.
And tonight, without those other nosy and judging eyes – he chose to also deliberately feign to let his guard down enough sit down to read (he wouldn’t, not normally; not over a presence so anxious under itself he wondered when you would finally succumb over your need for prying).
After all, unbeknownst to you, nothing escapes him.
No wondering eyes, no lingering looks. He notices every expression and every visage – a habit born out of survival, out of a predator’s instinct of predicting its prey’s next movements…
or is the other way around?
You looked at him incredulously for a moment as you processed his response, mind racing, until you remembered that he was still a client, and you were supposed to be polite with him. A client, yes. Just a client.
“Feel free to look at other books, then.” You noted in the most impassive and polite voice you could muster. “We have plenty, maybe one of them will be to your liking.”
“I doubt it.” said his melodic voice. Simple, as if not acknowledging his belittlement of both you and the extensive library,
Of course, the guy that comes to read obscure vintage literature dressed as a clown is actually weird. Were you expecting him to talk to you like a normal person?
“If you don’t mind me asking…what’s with the costume?” You choose to address the elephant in the room. He couldn’t keep talking to you all seriously and snarky while dressed as a clown.
He closed the book and rested it over his crossed knees under one of his hands. His chin again tilted enough for his gaze to lock into yours – his irises were purple and seemed to glow amidst the darkness that made up the openings of his eyes.
Those were some seriously good special effects for what looked like a simple mask.
“It was better when you didn’t speak.” Immediately, that shiver ran to the back of your neck again and dissipated under a goosebump. While you were busy looking at the windows to check if you forgot to close them, the clown shifted slightly and took a folded pamphlet and handed it to you.
The Freak Circus of Horrors. Written in bold letters, featuring the drawing of a tent.
That may explain things a little.
You heard of a Circus in town but didn’t have the time to give it much thought yet. Amidst everything coming about, it’s as if you forgot a day existed where you woke up not busy…or preoccupied…or without having to shake off the nightmares first thing in the morning. You haven’t properly listened to the news lately.
But you heard some customers talk here and there about ‘the circus’, the show’... so, he is an employer.
The clown had his eyes fixed at your frown- you didn’t notice the expression you were displaying until you remembered you had to answer – cordially. But he was faster, and interrupted whatever answer you were elaborating inside your head.
“What a pitiful face. Don’t tell me you don’t enjoy the Circus?” His mask – mouth- stretched with a weird sound, and his smile widened unnaturally.
“That’s not it,” You were quick to correct him. “I was just thinking about how busy I am to properly enjoy the attractions of the city, that’s all.’
“Busy? Oh, but this place is quite a mess.” His mockery was everything but funny to you – but it seemed to gratify him immensely, “Yes… I could have believed this little excuse… if any of these sections were assorted properly, that is.” He tilted his head further, like a child, eyeing the sections at the back of the store, including the one he got his book from.
“That’s not my only job- “You started but interrupted yourself, remembering you don’t have to overexpose your life to make idle chat with a stranger, especially a difficult client, “and it was worse before I came in here. You don’t even want to know the state I found this place in.”
“Hmm.” He hummed, seeming to finally grow tired of the awkward exchange between you two.
Actually, it was awkward for you, but he seemed unfazed.
His attention was back on the book now, and you resumed archiving some of the papers behind your desk, leaving him in peace.
There is something wrong with this city – something wrong with every city you visit. Is it something within you? Dormant. Knowing. Waiting.
You dream you’re a lamb running from a knife - paws desperately trying to move but caving under the deep snow.
There is blood flooding cities coming from the rain. The thunder screech with desperate screams of the forgotten and slain. A horned beast – a devil – rises up from ashes and dust. And it is the most beautiful and frightening sight you have ever seen.
Every Angel is Terrifying.
You wake up sweating profusely; violent heaving substitutes for your breathing and an erratic drumbeat thrash inside your chest, threatening to break out. Your head aches as for now you are cursed with the intense, unsolicited, obscure and dreadful knowledge your dreams gift you.
The Angel is a sacrifice.
“What is your name?” You caved again. Another night of silence between the both of you – another chapter read from his book, another try of bridging the gap of your realities. Armed with new information about both the book and the circus - which is all the information you’ll possibly have about him.
He, who took some days to come back to the bookstore – you guessed the circus is in high-demand during weekends – and didn’t overstay at the library this time (as if your encounter last time made to further alienate him rather than appease) – paused next to the windows near the door, interrupting his departure.
You wouldn’t say anything – you promised yourself that. But there was no denying the effects this stranger had on you. It’s like his presence alone put you on a chokehold – as if he made all the air around him denser, heavier. He was a banquet full of delicious contradictions for your brain to decipher, just out of reach, purposely starving you.
He puts you into a rhythm, a dance, a silent game with quiet rules. And yet you felt the urge to break all of them, to contradict his implied dominance, his scorn, his belittlement.
Your communication tonight relied on quiet sights, stollen glances to his side and the stubborn keeping of absolute silence. Yet, his bells unusually rang every time he moved, startling you amongst the calm.
Tonight, his mask was the closest as it ever was to his book. He read it without even moving a single muscle away from the front of the old bookshelf he retrieved the book from, standing tall and proud while his eyes remained obscured by the pages.
It’s been only a little more than a week since he first came to your workplace, and you could already tell he’s finishing the novel. The book is quite thin, yes, but Its pages are full of meaning. No wonder it took a while, even for a fast reader like him.
Does he pounder its meanings? The significance behind the author’s analogies? Does he argue with them inside his head?
He said he didn’t like the novel– but why would someone come back each night to read a piece of literature that doesn’t make you feel or, think, anything?
And now that he is finishing it…what will happen?
The man turned around just enough for you to see the side of his carnival mask, grinning statically. You heard something similar to a sight, but you weren’t sure.
He may be judging his options inside his head – between entertaining you or leaving you dry. Part of you felt a little bad about being so nosy with a client - a pang of shame growing inside your chest. You were never one to bother anyone that came to the store. People searching for a library usually want to be left alone, and he is probably coming between his work breaks to read – and you are trying to make small talk despite his obvious disinterest.
He’s probably used to people invading his personal space because of his costume - since he looks always too ready to entertain – and probably comes here to take a break for himself.
You suddenly feel like a creep.
“...I’m sorry.” The apology escaped your lips, reason finally taking control of you. “Sorry to bother you, have a good night.”
“Tell me, dear,” His voice pierced your thoughts, surprising you. His tone was different tonight, as if he was testing waters, throwing stones to see how it would reverberate. “Did you ever read that book?”
“The Duino Elegies?” You had to make sure you two were talking about the same book, even though there weren’t any other books. You know that it’s the only novel he reads, and you’ve also read it every night since it picked his interest. You were not as fast as a reader as him, so you’re nowhere near finishing it.
However...he doesn’t know that. He doesn’t know you only picked that book to read because of him. He doesn’t know that you notice, among all clients, if he ever tries any other books, if he is reading something different. The thought of it really makes you cringe inside this time – you really feel like a creep.
“You know the answer to that,” – and It’s like he sees right through you - “Which other one could I be talking about?”
He chooses to entertain - so wouldn't it be better if you dropped the act already?
“I wanted to know why you were so invested in it...such odd and old book; So, I read it, but I’m not done with it yet.” The words come out of you easily, easier than you expected while talking to someone that made up all of your current thoughts.
You notice he has turned to fully face you. There’s some distance between you two, and his figure being that close to the door makes you ache a little. You want to know him further.
“Honesty – that’s better.” He was pleased by your chosen approach to the topic, it seems. “Such a shame I have to practically force it out of you.”
His lithe body curved a little to the side while he considers you with a hand to his chin.
Force it out? - Well, he was just asking. And you felt the urge to be honest,
(Maybe, if you had been more observant, you would have noticed the strange glow in his eyes;
If you hadn’t let your guard down, you would have half a mind to ask yourself the deeper meaning of his words.
And if you weren’t so desperate – your desire wouldn’t overshadow your fear,
but you were, and his instincts wouldn’t let him miss a good meal. To ambush such an easy prey.
He was ready to decide if you were worth him baring his fangs for.)
“And tell me...what did you think of it?”
It all comes back to you – your dreams - the rain, the blood, the lamb, the knife. You wouldn’t tell anyone your dreams, surely, the nightmares-
“The angel is a devil.” You mindless say. “It is terrifying because it shows how incomplete we are, as humans.” You continue. “We sacrificed the angel to exist in imperfect forms.”
He grows quiet, his smile falters just a tiny bit. You worry if he you did anything wrong. But how could you, if you were being oh, so very honest?
“Surprisingly,” He seems serious, a bittersweet tone scaping him, “I agree. Although, I wouldn’t phrase it exactly this way;” He pounders, averting his eyes. “Humans created an Angel to both justify their wicked and ignorant nature, and to pretend to aspire to be anything above it.”
His grin was back and his eyes went to yours again.
“And tell me, dove, what led you to that conclusion?”
“I had a dream.” You answered him, trying your best to remember all of your nightmare -as painful as it was. “I dreamt of a magnificent devil, and the earth quaked with spilled blood under it – blood of a lamb running from slaughter, blood of a prey, of an Angel.”
“That’s quite the vivid imagination.” He muses.
Jester. His name is Jester. He introduced himself after the brief conversation.
He didn’t ask for your name.