“Yes,” says Freek. “Furthermore, that’s what’s got the animals frightened horribly. After closing time, the clown was found in the raptor exhibit. The clown’s cadaver. That’s keeping them from sleeping too. The clown’s remains in the cage. Smells are stronger in the dark. The animals breathe them in. All the animals in the zoo. They grow restless, they’re afraid. They turn in circles or shrink into corners. They think about the yak, about death, about old age. They think about the clown. I have to go back to the zoo to calm them down. So they’ll be taken by sleep and forget.”
Yasar leans on his elbows in front of Freek. He’s just thrown out the rag he was wiping dishes with. He has the hard face of a man who has suffered, cheeks scarred from smallpox, piercing eyes. The beginning of a tattoo can be seen at the base of his neck, perhaps a souvenir from some journey or passion, perhaps a souvenir from prison. He’s spent a large part of his life within four walls, in fact.
“I still don’t understand this clown thing, Freek,” he says. “I’m trying to picture your words in my head, but some of the details escape me.”
“Oh,” says Freek.
“Yes,” says Yasar. “It’s all clear for you, because you’re going in and out of the zoo all the time, like you were. . as if you belonged to a world that. .” (He sighs.) “But I’m having trouble putting the clown in the scene. I can’t figure out what he’s doing in the cages in the middle of the night. You’ll have to explain it to me.”
“The clown worked in a circus. The Schmühl. Do you know about it?”
“No.”
“He killed himself,” Freek says. “He was brought to the zoo an hour after the gates were closed. After the visitors, children, left. They do that. A lamaist mutual aid group. You have to sign up. The clown was a member, I guess. It’s a special service. They get permission from the city council. There are rules. They follow them. They only go into the cages if the zoo director gives them the green light. They come with the body. There are three of them. Dressed like gravediggers with nothing to lose. Poor guys like us, you know?”
“Not really.”
“Like us. Wearing civvies. They go into the aviary with the body. Sky burials, they call it. Sky burials.”
“They give the body to the birds to eat?” Yasar asks.
“Oh, not all of it,” Freek clarifies. “Otherwise they’d have to wait for days around vultures, eagles, condors. They don’t stay long. The zoo’s watchmen say that it’s mainly symbolic. Some strips, some small slices. A pittance. The raptors are afraid, they don’t approach. They won’t eat any meat under any circumstance. Afterward, the guys walk out with the body. They load it on a little cart and cover it with an oilskin canvas. No one is on the paths. Zoo administration doesn’t attend these things. The zoo is empty. It’s already dark. They leave with the body to go incinerate it. They leave, but the dead clown’s scent continues to waft from cage to cage. It’s powerful in the large aviary, but not just there. It hangs around the zoo for hours. It gives everyone the heebie-jeebies. If no one comes to speak to them, the animals will tremble with fear all night. .”
There is a silence. The music is followed by applause, then the Korean commentator launches into a dense monologue, without pausing, in which neither Yasar nor Freek is interested.
“Sky burials. .” Yasar says thoughtfully. “A very, very ancient custom, it must go back to prehistoric times. I’ve heard about it, but I didn’t know it was still practiced. I’d have never guessed that it could happen here, in the middle of the city. Today. Just a kilometer from here.”
“There are rules,” says Freek. “You have to be patronized by the group, the lamas have to give their permission. And you especially need authorization from city council and written consent from the zoo director. But the vultures aren’t asked for their opinion. The vultures don’t really cooperate. They’re afraid of people who come into the aviary and throw clown meat at them. They don’t like to eat circus artists. I’ll have to speak calming words to the vultures too. I’ll go to the aviary later.”
“This clown, do you know any more about him?” Yasar asks.
“He killed himself,” says Freek. “There were two of them on the bill, always together. Blumschi and Grümscher. Blumschi and Grümscher, the kings of laughter. One small and one big. I went to see them in their circus, last month. It’s losing speed, a poor circus with a poor public. The clowns take the floor between numbers and speak loudly. They shout, they gesticulate, they lose their balance. They speak into the void. There aren’t many people on the bleachers. The audience is bored. They’re waiting for the trapeze artists, they want to see a trapeze artist’s skeleton shatter on the sawdust-covered ground. They’re waiting for the tamer, they want to witness an accident with the bears, they want a bear to tear an arm off the tamer or his daughter. They’re not amused by the clowns. No one’s laughing. I laugh, but that’s because I’m not. . because I’m different. . I laugh, but no one else does.”
The commentator continues her short speech. She does it softly, but all the same everyone would like her to wrap it up, to put the mic down and bring the music back. It’s a live radio broadcast. On the other end, the commentator is facing the public, and the public appreciates her banter, her flattery, the public smiles loudly or applauds when she wants them to. She is like an animal tamer, the obedient audience grovels before her voice and desires to show that they’re under her spell. She finally shuts up, the audience applauds once more, and there is a blank in the broadcast, perhaps because the musicians left the stage and have been sitting down. At the same moment, during the blank, a Buddhist voice can be heard.
“You hear that, Yasar?” says Freek. “A religious service on the other side of the wall.”
“Yes,” says Yasar. “It’s coming from next door. It was a dilapidated garage. Old car doors, grimy motors, cans of oil. Red Bonnets converted it into a temple. We have an adjoining wall. It was already thin, but with the renovation work I think it’s gotten even thinner. Some days you can hear everything. On top of that we share an air vent. Noises pass through it.”
“They’re about to begin a ceremony for the deceased. A lama is going to read the Book of the Dead. He’s going to speak to someone who died recently. He’s going to give them advice to help them not be reborn as an animal.”
“So you’re a religious expert now, Freek?”
“Not really, no. .”
They listen to the noises coming from the temple. Not much can be heard, actually. A solemn voice, now and then. Not much. Now, the Korean music has returned, a very long piece with syncopated drums and a magnificent soprano voice. Since the radio’s sound is very low, not much can be heard from over there, either.
“It’s sad,” says Yasar after several dull seconds, “thinking about clowns who can’t make anyone laugh.”
“Out of everyone on the bleachers, I was the only one who did,” says Freek. “The spectators watching looked like they didn’t understand a thing. Even the children’s eyes were blank. They barely reacted at all. I was the only one who found them funny. Maybe it’s because I’m not a person. Well, I mean, not a real person. .”
“Hey, Freek! What are you talking about? Of course you’re a person. This isn’t because you. .”
The bartender doesn’t continue. He doesn’t feel like getting mired down in unsettling considerations, he doesn’t want to think aloud about what parts of humanity Freek is lacking. Yasar the bartender’s culture has always been resistant to racism, he has always refused to give in to atavistic urges to reject the Other, he has never felt the need to classify Freek in a disparaging animal category, himself being considered a sort of Untermensch, but he prefers not to think about those things aloud in front of Freek. He turns back toward the percolator, he wipes the wall, he rummages through the basket of cutlery.