The jester whirls around the courtyard, the
bells in his ridiculous hat tinkling. Laughter presses down upon him from every
side, jeering laughter, amused laughter, polite laughter. He whirls. His
painted face displays a big crimson smile slapped upon his mouth by a bristly
paintbrush. The paint, so roughly daubed on by his wife, still burns. Yet,
never does he allow his smile to droop, lest his painted leer get distorted.
Someone throws a tomato near his feet, that he misses just by luck of his
momentum that pulls him the other way. Poor
aim, thinks the jester. The laughter of a thousand must be real loud, he
wonders, yet it is eerily silent within his head – only the tinkles of the
annoying bells near his ears disturb his meditative reverie.
He vaguely hears the squeals of the little
princess on the lap of her daddy on the throne. He dares a glance and sees her
clap her hands in excitement of this huge celebration in her honour. There are
apples and apple punch, moist meat on a stick – so fresh it is still dripping
with the blood of some poor cow, sweet ale flowing and funny jesters dancing. Funny
jesters dancing, what a riot it is! What really is so funny about a man with a
painted smile spinning around in circles as though his heart depends on it?
Well, his heart depends on it. Maybe that’s why it's so funny.
The cruel king on a vicious whim, the
jesters had whispered among themselves. Their chains had been removed and
they’d been led out of their dungeon their eyes had grown accustomed to, and
allowed to go home. Our particular jester had gone home after three years, only
to find his wife in bed with another man, the local bodybuilder-cum-barber. He
looked flabby. The jester grimaces at the memory, but quickly readjusts his
face so his smile doesn’t wilt. His wife unsmilingly painted his smiling face
as per the king’s orders and drove him out of the house to the Carnival.
“Hear ye, hear ye”, screamed the pageboy
with the wobbly hat at the centre of the Central Square. “The king has
pronounced a Royal Competition amongst these criminals – he who shall entertain
the Princess the best shall live while the others all die.” The crowd had
snickered, loving a good beheading. And today there would be twenty-three of them.
The jester is smacked out of his musing as
he bumps into someone else dancing for his life. Ah, it’s Ol’ Tom, his large
stomach barely contained in the ill-fitting jester costume he had been handed.
Funny, thinks our jester. The ill fit is funny. He whirls, and doesn’t notice
the hysteria on Tom’s face because he’s so pre-occupied with the button that
seems close to popping out at the widest part of Tom’s belly.
As he whirls he glimpses his wife in the
crowd, her eyes trained on him. Bitch’s
probably praying I die. Her body-builder friend stands beside her. He’s
probably taking a break from showing off his muscles in the Freak Square and
barbering the folks who throw him a penny. His well-defined chest glistens with
steroid-laced sweat, dripping down his abs into his ridiculously tiny underwear
that is striped red and yellow for the occasion. Funny. His wife had hated his
red-yellow-striped tie.
Ol’ Tom’s button finally snaps and hits our
jester in the forehead. The crowd laughs even louder. Blood trickles down the
jester’s face and he accidentally inhales some of it. He snorts, and the snort
turns into a laugh. Soon the laugh turns into a guffaw and before he knows it,
the jester finds himself on the cobbled street on his knees with tears
streaming down his eyes at the hilarity. Bad
time for a laughing fit, he manages to think between choking breaths.
Central Square is silent as the crowd and the other criminals uncomprehendingly
watch him laugh himself to his death. Funny. Ol’ Tom looks concerned. The concern
twists up his piggy face even more comically than the hysteria did, and our
jester laughs louder.
Suddenly one other noise joins the jester’s
chortling and the crowd, like a cow, swings its head to find the source of the
noise. The jester is curious too. Amidst his titters (titters, such a funny
word!) he turns and finds to his mirth the little princess giggling at the
dotty jester.
“Daddy, I pick him!”
