Adelphi

If you see a kooky-looking midget with a cracked white porcelain face eating popcorn in your local high street don’t stare at her. Claudia Sardinella was born with a swollen brain, mental, and physical deficiencies. She stands barely four feet tall, but what Claudia lacks in stature she more than makes up for with heart. Spiritually fulfilled, she radiates an irresistible aura of compassion and love. Can the maestro still perform? Or has she lost her gift? I arrive outside her dressing room determined to find out.

‘Claudia! Can I come in?’ I say in my casual, friendly voice, ‘It’s me, Simon’.

An unmistakeably soft dulcet tone rings out, ‘Wait a minute, por favor, I am not decent.’

I glance at my watch: five-thirty.

Come on, the show starts at six! 

‘You can come in now.’

I walk into the room to find the curtains drawn. Her lair is dingy. The light bulbs, dotted around her mirror, have petered out. Her ornate gilt dressing table is spattered with dried-up face paint. The worn-out green carpet is littered with popcorn. There is dirty clothing strewn everywhere, accompanied by a strong pervading smell of rising damp.

The glorious heydays of the Circus of Wonder are clearly long gone, like Claudia’s talent for performing miracles. Her last one, the so-called wonder cure for Georgi’s incurable vanishing white matter disease, was eleven months ago. Since then the inevitable doubts have surfaced, awkward questions from the paparazzi, disgusting tweets from his disgruntled mother. Was Georgi’s cure faked? We will never know. The poor child died in a cliff-top car crash – days after meeting Adelphi. So, is Ms Sardinella a fraud?

Engulfed in her tatty crimson velvet chair with its chipped gilt arms, the maestro sits: gazing into the mirror, dressed in her black pants, slicing chunks off a fat banana into a bowl of bran. She has applied her uncanny make-up to her white porcelain face: a spider’s web across her forehead, cheeks, candy pink blusher, rose lipstick. Her hair is strawberry-blonde, bushy, tied up in schoolgirl bunches.

Claudia has a kind, loving face. She looks exhausted. Tell-tale smudges stain her bleary grey eyes. The burden of an awesome responsibility? Anyway, she seems relieved to see me. She has been brave throughout her miserable life, her suffering, not once feeling sorry for herself. I am all she has left in this world. Her only companion since I befriended her a week ago. She looks into my face and smiles,

‘Simon, it is good of you to come! Other men shower me with flowers, chocolates and token gifts but they don’t believe in me.’

What other men, Claudia? You’re deluded. There are no other men, are there?  

‘Try keeping me away!’

Laughing at her, I lift her up off her bare feet, like an infant in my arms, embracing her with unbridled affection. She squirms like mad,

‘Put me down, Simon!’ she shrieks, wriggling free. ‘I haven’t finished my face yet.’

I set Claud on her throne, the baby queen on her chessboard. Her feet don’t touch the ground. I watch, mesmerized, as she seals her face, wondering which masque she will wear tonight. She paints shadows under her sad, sludge-grey eyes. Blackens her nostrils with charcoal. Pencils hair-fine fissures on her chin. Fits a snow-white ruff to her neck. Glues sticky-toffee popcorn to her chest. I find her transformation disturbing, if not sensational.

A cruel downturned slit of rouge splits her face ear to ear, accentuating her small, pursed lips. She fluffs up her dainty bunches of blonde hair. Once she has made-up, Claudia sticks out her raspberry tongue, pulls a wicked smile, and springs to the floor. She hauls on her black-red-and-grey-striped shorts, then squeezes into a breath-taking black corset embroidered with red hearts, a white spun-sugar tutu. Finally, she slips on her pair of black lace-up stilettoes. The clown looks into my eyes and nods. I bow my head. She kneels, clasping her twisted hands, closing her sore eyes, and prays:

‘Dear Lord, I do not want to be a saint, some of them are so hard to live with. Give me the strength to create good in me today and to renew the health of those less fortunate.’

‘Amen to that, Claudia,’ I say.

*****

She staggers around the arena, squirting plumes of water out of the squeezy tubes in her false toecaps. I follow her, from a safe distance, and take a ringside seat to watch. Despite all the negative publicity, the Big Top is heaving-full with wailing, screaming, children with swollen heads, stubby arms, stumpy legs. Designer babies – gone wrong. Painfully deformed children. Grossly disfigured, blind blonde-haired girls in pretty-pink bows, frilly-party frocks. Identical brown-eyed boys resplendent in claret bowties, burgundy waistcoats. Solitary women, pining for their long-lost menfolk. Hoping for an impossible cure. Praying for a miracle that they know will never happen.

I look around the tent. The circus ring is an empty void. No smell of freshly-shaven sawdust. No scattered straw, safety-net, or high-flying trapeze. Her Circus of Wonder complies with health, safety and moral obligations. It recognizes animal rights. But the arena itself is devoid of entertainment, fun, laughter. Suddenly, there is an amateur, pre-recorded announcement – for the juvenile audience to enjoy:

‘Kids! The performance is about to begin! Switch your phones and tablets to flight mode! Flash photography, videos and selfies are not permitted inside the tent!’  

Before the audience can boo-hiss, three speakers crackle and hiss into life – playing taped brass band music.

A wavy-haired boy sits opposite me on his mother’s lap. He must be seven now: pale, scrawny, sad eyes, a teak-mole on his left cheek. He could really do with a haircut. Scruffy navy tee-shirt, grubby denims torn at the knees, dirty red and white baseball boots. I feel sorry for him. The child looks neglected.

Mother, on the other hand, is a picture of health: well-tanned olivaceous skin, lush, long, burnt sienna hair. She looks rich, has expensive tastes in clothes: a peach silk crepe-de-chine blouse, its sleeves rolled up to reveal four solid silver bangles. She sports perfectly-pressed, figure-hugging, chalk-white jeans, smart mustard suede espadrilles. But there’s sadness in her smile. Despair in her eyes. Has she given up hope? All of her wealth won’t buy his health – or her happiness.

The clown cries clichés at the top of her voice, ‘Hello, boys and girls!’

‘Hello, Claud!’

Their screaming deafens me. She works her audience like a real pro: egging them on, craning her head, hand to ear,

‘What was that? I didn’t hear you?’

‘Hello, Claud!’

The kids’ cheers grow louder and louder.

‘Would you like to watch with mother?’

‘Yes!’ they cry.

They’re on their feet now, those that can stand, roaring at fever pitch.

‘Would you like to meet Adelphi?’

The mob brings the house down, ‘Yes! Yes!’

‘And who shall rub the magic stone?’

The brunette seated five along from me goads her child on, ‘Go on, Ash!’

‘Me! Pleath! Me!’

A blind boy in a wheelchair pleads, propelling himself forward with a sensor in his mouth. His useless arms hang limply from his saggy shoulders. His legs dangle, loose as a ragdoll’s. Thankfully his eyes are sealed. The drug’s shocking side-effects sicken me to the stomach.

‘Hello!’ Claudia beams, ‘And what’s your name?’

The invalid pushes his languid tongue to one side of his mouth and mumbles, ‘Asther.’

Claudia points out the culprit, the fertility-drug-addict single mother,

‘Is that your mama, Asher?’

Mama sheds a tear, and waves back, proud of her bambino. The audience goes wild.

‘Yeth,’ the kid wheezes.

My throat swells. The poor child can’t be much older than two. Claudia weaves her magic spell, bewitching and beguiling him:

‘Would you like to rub the magic stone?’

‘Yeth!’ he lisps, gulping air.

Mama rushes to his side.

‘Let me!’ the kid begs.

The lights go out, one by one. The arena is pitch black. Save for a spotlight on the clown. The kids gasp as Claudia draws out an ordinary-looking flat stone. Sort of stone you might find on any pebble beach. If you look hard enough. She holds the rock to the smarming child’s palm. I wince. I toe-cringe. I can’t bear to watch.

‘Rub the stone, darling!’

The invalid rubs the stone with his thumb. Nothing happens! Claudia wilts, struggling to stay composed. The crowd hold their breaths. I watch in stunned amazement as the clown slyly dips a hand into her jacket pocket… and produces a new magic stone. She leans over the boy, swaps stones, and mouths in his ear. I am savvy, I can lip-read:

‘Try this one.’

Nothing happens!

‘Try again.’

Nothing! Mama clenches, unclenches her fists, and fills with rage. The child looks frightened. He starts crying. Mama spins the wheelchair round, glowering at Claudia who turns frosted white under her snow-white make-up. My heart goes out to the poor child. Claudia stutters a heartfelt apology. Mama makes her feelings expletively clear before exiting the Circus stage right, with her tragic, bawling bambino in tow.

Once the aggrieved party has left the misnamed Circus of Wonder I hear the accusations fly. All eyes turn on hapless Claud. Her mascara runs. Tears of a Clown plays in the background. The lights come on. She cries her eyes out, screaming at the kids. At that moment, I realize, Claudia Sardinella is completely insane, gaga, loopy, a kook, but she must let the show go on,  

‘Hello!’

‘Hello, Claud!’ 

‘Would you like to watch with mother?’

‘Yes!’

Well I’ll be damned! They’re on their feet again, baying for her.

‘Would you like to meet Adelphi?’

‘Yes!’

‘And who shall rub the magic stone?’ the clown asks, sniffing, coal black snot running from her nose.

The audience falls silent, parting like waves as the wavy-haired boy leaves his seat with his mama. Shuffles down the aisle. Enters the ring. I watch the child sidle up to the clown and stare down at his feet. I share his mother’s anguish. Her guilt. She took the fertility drug, Neutrazine, in good faith. Nine months later, she gave birth. To this mute cripple.

‘Hello, Roberto, Lana. It’s been a long time, hasn’t it’ Claudia says, her voice hushed.

Lana looks guilty.

‘I am sorry that we drifted apart, Claud,’ she says morosely, ‘I will never lose you again.’   

The lights go out. One by one. The arena is pitch black. Save for one spotlight. The children gasp as the clown draws a fresh stone. And places it in the boy’s palm. Okay, I admit, I look the other way!

‘Rub the stone, Roberto!’

The little boy rubs the magic stone. Nothing happens, at first. Then, the stone starts to glow, an eerie, luminous, blue. The clown chants her magic spell.

Oh, my God! Claudia has become Adelphi! Condensing, morphing, into a holographic entity wearing a diamond-encrusted top hat, sequinned tails, fancy gold booties! I see her change! With my own eyes! I watch him spin on his revolving shiny silver podium! Conducting with a black sooty wand like a demented sorcerer’s apprentice!

An announcement follows:

‘Clowns! Lions! Acrobats! Trapeze!’

I gawp as the boy claps his hands! Oh, joy! His crooked hands unravel! Thanks be to God! Adelphi smiles down benignly at us, snapping his white-bone fingers.

The next spell…

The weirdest clowns appear, rollicking around the arena, tumbling, blowing rude raspberries! The mute chuckles with delight! Next come the lions, running freely across their celestial savannah. Rearing on their haunches. Roaring like fury! The children all tremble at the fetid smell of freshly-torn zebra on the beasts’ hot breaths. Thirteen acrobats cartwheel into the arena, whirling dervishes, startling us all! Way up high in the apex, three little men with wiry moustaches and skinny leotards rock and swing and soar through the air, catching each other!

Roberto blinks his eyes as if awaking from a deep sleep! Hope lights his eyes! Joy is written on his face! His arms and legs straighten! He reaches for us! I watch, astounded, as the crowd applaud as one. The crippled walk! The blind see! The deaf hear! We marvel as Adelphi rises serenely above us!

‘Blessed are those who heal the sick and forgive those who sin against them,’ he cries, ‘Go to your son, go to your wife, Simon!’

‘My son! My son!’

I burst into tears and hug my reborn child. Lana turns to me; her face radiating happiness. She looks plaintively into my eyes. Her shoulders heave. Salt tears rinse her blushing face. I hold her close. I love her, I cherish her. I’ll never let her go again. Mothers wail with joy as their girls and boys play joyfully in the ring.

Lana and I can’t stop hugging our son. He speaks! He looks into his father’s crying eyes, and shouts:

‘Now do you believe in miracles, Papa?’

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