Bookkeeping

Hansen carries a small leather bound note book in a pocket specially stitched in the seam of his jacket, a pen in an exterior pocket. He records sights in detailed drawings, with scrawled notes in small margins alongside, ideas to incorporate in his music boxes. He has a collection of these notebooks, hundreds of sketches of flora and mythological creatures, filigrees or names of favourite songs performed in avante garde theatrics, and the names of their directors, to be contacted at a later date for the acquisition of sheet music.

Upon entering Cirque de la Lune, he tucks his notebook under his arm, anticipating a striking of inspiration throughout the evening.

He is entirely wrong. Within minutes it is apparent there is too much to capture in a single night, in a single book.

He has no plan, no destination in mind as he has nothing to expect. He wanders, taking slow steps as though to slow the passage of time and capture each detail of the circus in mind. The dancing silver flames, the breath of cinnamon and chocolate and autumnal breezes in the air, the blend of each element seamlessly with another so his journey between tents and caravans is dazzling.

He is amazed by the size of the circus, by the multitude of tents and the acts within them. He is further amazed when, at the blush of dawn and the disappearance of the stars, when he is ushered out among crowds, herded beyond the gate, he has not traveled farther than a hundred metres from the Moon Mirror. He will have to come back another night.

He tries to slow his exit as much as possibly, lingering at vendors’ stalls for a last chocolate bird or sugared flower, reading the signs that hang from the front of only a few tents, with looping script and sometimes warnings or precautions. He finally departs, intoxicated by the enchantment of the Cirque, besotted and vowing ardently that he will return.

He pauses at the ticket booth, asking the young man stationed there, wearing a suit of midnight blue stitched with silver stars so it appears to be out from the slowly brightening sky, how long they will be staying. The young man replies in a French accent that he cannot know for certain.

Hansen asks where they will next travel, hoping it will be somewhere closer to Denmark, an easier travel, but the young man only smiles and shakes his head. He reaches into the ticket box and rummages around, rattling Francs and rustling paper, before coming up with a small piece of paper.

Hansen thinks at first it is a ticket, but the edges are heavily embossed with silver, the card black on one side, blue on the other, and cut in the shape of a circle. The young man hands him the paper and he thanks the ticket seller and walks away, before turning the card over to read the script on the back.

Cirque de la Lune

Sarastro

Proprietor’s Office

There is an address listed below, and he guesses the proprietor’s office is stationed in London. He tucks the card into his pocket, patting it affectionately. He has forgotten his notebook completely, it sits in his jacket pocket against his chest, untouched since he placed it there earlier in the evening.

He returns to his hotel room just after dawn has broken, and as he changes into his bedclothes, discovers his notebook tucked safely away, no new inkblots dotting its pages, no scrawled notes. There are no ink stains on his fingers.

He is now sure there is too much to capture in any amount of time, that his notes and illustrations could never do justice to the wonders of the circus. 

Text by Lucie MacAulay