My brother was in love, and love makes us do stupid things.
A year earlier
All I got were instructions on how to reach the House of Clowns. It was supposed to be simple. Wait for the train to La Maddalena, jump on, ask for Rocco, and get there in one piece. But that’s not how it went.
I waited at the empty railway station with two other men, each holding their clothes stuffed into black trash bags. Before I even turned around, they noticed how well-dressed I was, and theydid what they knew best.
They dropped their bags and ran toward me.
I stood my ground, ready to throw a punch, but before I could even land one, one of them stabbed me low in the abdomen. Pain ripped through me as the other pulled the gold watch from my wrist and tore the chain from my neck.
Then came another stab, this time just below my collarbone. With that single strike, my body went limp. I gurgled in pain, watching as they took not only what I had but what was left of my life.
It is true what they say; life really does pass fast when it flashes before your eyes.
All I could see were the two of them running away, their old sneakers slapping against the ground as they disappeared into the distance. I tried to speak, to move, but my body would not listen. My vision dimmed.
Just before my eyes closed completely, I saw the train arriving. Metal roared and lights blurred, and across its side were big red letters that readCasa dei Clowns (House of Clowns).
I don’t remember much. Just that I woke up in a wagon with two donkeys breathing beside me. A man was leaning over me, patching my wounds. He was tall, muscular, and his face said he wasn’t happy I was there.
He jabbed a finger at me, then at his chest.1“Ja, Branimir. Croatia. You?”
My throat worked, but no sound came out, only a wet gurgle.
He sighed, muttering something that sounded like a curse in Croatian. “Gdje mene nade baš danas, u picku materinu?!”2
Before my eyes could close again, he was on his knees, slapping my cheeks to keep me awake. The stink of the animals and his sweat mixed in my nose until I could taste it.
“Hmm…3zašto? Why? You? Here?”
Pain rolled through me when I tried to laugh, twisting in my gut and crawling up to my head. Every nerve lit up. I pointed at my throat, trying to explain I couldn’t speak.
He reached for a bottle filled with clear liquid and shoved it toward me. “Drink. Ehh… good.” He lifted his thumb, hit his chest. “For heart.” Then pointed to his mouth. “4For grlo… ehmm… throat.”
I nodded. He tilted the bottle to my lips, and the liquid burned down until my throat screamed. My eyes snapped open, and my brows pulled tight against the pain.
The man chuckled. “Good, good,” he said.
I didn’t know if it was healing me or killing me. Either way, it felt right, just until everything went darkagain.
I heard shouting somewhere beyond the walls. Then a sound reached me.
When I saw the painted clown face and those icy blue eyes, I knew it was Rio.
I was in a bedroom now. From the smell and the look of it, I had already made it to the House of Clowns. I lay on a low bed with white sheets. They smelled clean, but everything else reeked of rot, alcohol, and cigarettes. I would have bet this was Branimir’s room, the Croatian’s.
Rio moved closer, whispering, “They’re coming.”
Before the footsteps reached the door, he pulled a knife from his pocket. The metal caught the light for a second before he pressed it against my cheek. He sliced from the middle of my lip to the corner. Heat flared under my skin, and I tasted blood before I even felt it. He clamped his palm over my mouth, holding me silent while pain pulsed through my face.
“This is for your own good,” he breathed. Then he wrapped a bandage around my head, covering half my face.
The door slammed open. A man stepped in wearing a black suit and a cherry-red coat. His boots struck the floor as he crossed the room.
“Who is this?” he asked.
Rio didn’t flinch. “We found him on the train track. He was robbed. Needs work. I think he would do well in the stables.”
