Send in the Clowns: A story of Numenorean theatre by Himring

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Send in the Clowns

Warning: May not be suitable for Herucalmo fans!

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‘What is this I hear, Mother?’

Alcarin has wasted little time on preambles before raising the subject that is on his mind; it comes out perhaps a bit more abruptly than he meant it to.

‘You are planning to go on stage again? To dance?’

‘News does get around quickly in this palace, doesn’t it?’ answers Tar-Vanimelde lightly.

‘Mother, are you sure that is wise?’

‘Perhaps not,’ his mother admits, with a rueful glance at her hands.

They used to be so beautiful, slim and expressive, Alcarin thinks. Other people have worse arthritis, even in Numenor. Nevertheless, to see what it has done to his mother’s fingers upsets him. It seems so wrong, for her.

‘I just don’t want you to get hurt,’ he says.

‘Don’t worry, my dear!  They are a good lot, my dancers. They are taking excellent care of me, they and the choreographer, and they will not let me come to harm.’

Vanimelde comes closer. She squeezes his shoulder, very gently, brushes away a lock of blonde hair from his forehead.

‘Allow your foolish mother one last fling? You will be there, won’t you? You will come to see me?’

‘Of course I will!’

‘Promise? Come to my dressing-room before the performance to wish me luck!’

‘Promise! I’ll be there.’

 

*

 

Alcarin keeps his promise and indeed arrives quite a long time before the performance begins.  Already, though, people are queuing outside the theatre, drawn as much by rampant curiosity perhaps as by genuine interest in dancing. The thought leaves a slightly acid taste in his mouth.

He used to be familiar with the sight of his mother in stage make-up, in the kind of flamboyant costume that is designed to be effective when seen from afar, not to be studied up close. He used to love the bustle behind the stage. It seemed exciting and vivid, in some indefinable way more than just alive. Now it fills him with unease. Everything back here seems to strike the wrong note. Perhaps it is just the contrast—his mother’s wrinkles underneath pasted-on cosmetics, too bright, and too bright the rich scarlet fabric swirled against the faded skin at her low neckline. He tries not to feel that all this, all the surroundings, is tawdry and fake, tries at least not to let those disloyal, hurtful feelings show.

His mother may not be in the frame of mind to consider possible flaws in his attitude all that deeply, anyway. She seems nervous, preoccupied, although she maintains a string of inconsequential chatter to him and others, trying to keep the mood cheerful. Is it just stage fright, worse after not having performed for so long? Is she regretting her decision and afraid of being seen to make a fool of herself in public, now?

‘Mother,’ he wants to say, very badly, ‘you can still decide not to. You can.’

But he is dimly aware just how much she would hate to let down the rest of the performers, especially, but also the audience. He keeps his mouth firmly shut.

There is a disturbance at the front of the house. He is not sure how long it has been going on, but suspects it has only just be loud enough to become distinctly audible. His mother leaps up and swiftly moves out onto the stage, the other performers and her son streaming after her.

It is one of the ticket sellers, in the auditorium, below the front of the stage. Her face is chalk white, her breath coming in gasps, although she cannot have had far to run.

‘My Lady, Your Grace… It is the Royal Guard. They are not letting anyone in!’

Tar-Vanimelde’s arthritic hands sink in a graceful, resigned gesture.

‘We are discovered,’ she says.

It is like a scene from a play. It is, Alcarin realizes with a jolt of horror, deadly serious.

‘Todaphel,’ asks Vanimelde urgently, ‘what exactly are they doing? Are they coming in? Are they threatening you?’

Todaphel, the ticket seller, holds on to the edge of the stage to steady herself.

‘No, Your Grace. They haven’t said anything threatening, not to us. They haven’t spoken to us or approached us.  They have just formed a cordon around the theatre. Nobody can get through. And they are turning the audience away, all of them, every single one.’ Todaphel pauses. ‘I suppose it is too early to say, but I don’t…think they are planning to come in…’

‘I think,’ says Vanimelde, slowly, ‘that means that Herucalmo will continue to avoid a direct confrontation. He will try to find a plausible excuse, for this, and will continue to ignore and deflect…’

His mother’s gaze finds him, behind her.

‘Alcarin, my son. I had planned to make an appeal from the stage tonight, during the performance, to the audience, to the people of Arminaleth. I wanted to appeal to them to defend and uphold your right of inheritance. You know that, in the corridors of the palace, your father’s supporters are already whispering, calling him Tar-Anducal behind our backs. When I tried to speak on your behalf in the Council or on official occasions, I have been outmanoeuvred at every turn… I thought that a theatre performance would be beneath Herucalmo’s notice and would allow me to reach out past his sphere of influence... But it seems I underestimated him and he guessed, as you, I know, did not. Or someone else did… I am sorry that I invited you here under false pretences. I know you were merely indulging your foolish mother, who was being even more foolish than you could have expected.’

Alcarin becomes aware that, despite the absence of the theatre audience, this is very much a public speech. Tar-Vanimelde is not only explaining things to him, but also impressing on everybody present that he was not part of this conspiracy. He must be seen not to have guessed his mother’s purpose. And, of course, he really did not. He is not proud of that.

‘Alcarin,’ says his mother gently. ‘I think it is time for you to leave now.’

Time to distance himself from his mother, she means—demonstratively leave the theatre, pretend shock at her revelations and repudiate her plans, prove himself a loyal son in his father’s eyes. He understands, but cannot move.

‘My friends,’ says Vanimelde to the people around her. ‘I am so sorry to have involved you in this futile plan. I continue to hope that Herucalmo will consider it beneath his dignity to take revenge on theatre people…’

‘Oh, what shall we do?’ whispers Lominzil, one of the dancers. ‘I do not want to try to leave, with those guards outside!’ She lets out a sob, smothers it behind her hand. ‘I am sorry…’

‘We must all leave together, in a group,’ says Zadnazir. ‘We’ll make you walk in the middle, Lominzil. You’ll be safe.’

He is one of the older dancers. The cheap golden glitter of his costume goes oddly with his fatherly, protective tone, Alcarin cannot help feeling even now.

‘And just abandon the performance?’ asks Abrazan.

Everyone turns to him, startled.

‘I think you have a plan, Abrazan,’ says Vanimelde. ‘It is not just your reluctance to see all your good work wasted? Speak!’

‘I am quite reluctant to let all our preparations and training go for naught,’ admits Abrazan. ‘But also, if you are correct, My Lady, about your royal consort’s likely reactions… Should we not also ignore and pretend that nothing untoward has happened? Let us just go through with it. It was never more than a dance choreography, as far as we were concerned! No speech was planned, except gracious thanks for applause. We do not notice the lack of audience. And by the time we are through, it is to be hoped the people will have dispersed, the guards will have no reason to remain, and we can leave more safely.’

‘Yes!’ says Lominzil.

Alcarin is astounded at her quick enthusiasm, after her panic a moment ago. Most of the dancers are nodding.

‘You could dance it without me…’, muses Vanimelde.

She looks suddenly very tired.

‘My Lady!’ protests Abrazan. ‘We choreographed it around you! You know it!’

‘I do,’ sighs Vanimelde.

‘I promise I will not let you fall,’ says Zadnazir.

She smiles.

‘Let us do it.’

‘I will be audience,’ says Alcarin, suddenly.

Vanimelde looks at him, alarmed.

‘Alcarin…’

‘What? It is a theatre performance. I never heard any different.’

He walks down the steps to the left of the stage and seats himself in the middle of the front row.

 

*

 

He would remember it clearly for the rest of his life, the only performance of Dusk Gathers Her Skirt Hems in a near-empty theatre in the centre of Armenelos. Todaphel and other theatre staff joined him in the auditorium, after they had locked up every door to the theatre as securely as they could and piled up chairs in front of them, for good measure. Nobody was under the illusion that that would stop the guards from forcing an entrance, if they wished. But the guards remained outside.

From the auditorium, the face paint and the costumes looked just right, of course. The dancers were excellent, despite the tensions of the evening. Lominzil soared in a whirl of white and black.  Abrazan’s control was astonishing. Vanimelde, in the midst of these younger, thoroughly trained professionals, looked good, not embarrassing at all. Much love and careful thought must have gone into arranging that. Zadnazir, lifting her, made her look delicate and light as a feather.

Alcarin realized that, despite himself, he had absorbed some of the contempt that the mutterers in the palace corridors had so insidiously spread, the contempt of those who were obsessed with power, of those who considered themselves rigorously practical and anything that was not demonstrably of practical use mere folly, who regarded artists as little more than clowns. But it was they who were deluded, they who were the buffoons, more foolish than any clown. It was one of the thoughts that would sustain him over the following, difficult, decades.

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Chapter End Notes

With much thanks for inspiration to Lilith, Lyra and Talullah.

 

The title of the ballet is adapted from a line from a LLA Poetry Prompt: "Murmuration", by Triin Paja.

I have also tried to incorporate a couple of visual cues from the LLA picture prompts, but they will not be very recognizable, I think.
 

The names of the OCs are from the Adunaic name lists on RealElvish.net:
Abrazân - Steadfast, Lôminzil - Night-flower, Tôdaphêl - Guard-daughter, Zadnazîr - House-friend

 

Here is an earlier ficlet about Vanimelde: Vanimelde Dances.

And a later drabble about Lominzil: Dancer of Numenor.