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PIERRE PIERROT first became a clown when he was six years old.
Raised without parents, Pierre had grown up in the care of his grandfather, a true jester in the most traditional sense of the word. His grandfather had brought laughter and joy to countless people, delighting them with his colorful clothes, painted face, and exaggerated, silent, bumbling antics. Pierre deeply admired his grandfather. He’d grown up on the road, following him from town to town, wherever the next performance called.
“Until then, I only ever watched him, helping where I could, thinking how endlessly amusing he was. So cheerful, so full of fun. I was sure that if it felt that way just watching, then doing it myself would be even more delightful.”
Sophie nodded along, and Pierre set down his cup. Then, she noticed he was staring past her, and behind the drawn-on smile, his face had gone deeply somber.
“But it’s no fun,” he said. “No fun at all, being on that side of the stage. It’s terrifying. People—their eyes—are terrifying. All at once, you realize it’s just you up there. Dressed like a fool. Acting like one, too. It’s your voice, your body, your routine that has to make them laugh. And the thought that they won’t—that they’ll just sit there in silence, watching you flail—that’s the kind of fear that jolts you awake in the middle of the night. Onstage, you’re so scared you don’t even sweat. Your hands shake. That’s when I really understood how incredible my grandfather was.”
But even then, little shy Pierre didn’t give up.
He and his grandfather became a duo. The Pierrot duo. The seasoned clown with his practiced, effortless moves and the younger one fumbling to keep up in the most endearing way. Audiences loved them. Wherever they went, bright, raucous laughter followed.
They traveled from town to town, trading laughter for coin. It was bright, fun, vibrant—like something out of a fairy tale. A once-in-a-lifetime journey.
“We paint our faces white so they won’t show emotion,” his grandfather had told him as they did their makeup.
“We draw vertical lines across our eyes because the clown is blind to evil. To the clown, everyone in the audience is a good person.”
In the mirror, Pierre gradually disappeared. And the clown took his place.
“Our lips are red so we can smile bigger, brighter. The clown is a joyous character—he’s always laughing. We draw tears beneath our eyes, but that sadness is not ours. It belongs to the audience. It’s our job to take that sadness and leave happiness in its place.”
One winter, Pierre’s grandfather fell ill. What started as a cold soon left the once-vigorous man bedbound.
While bringing food and water to his steadily withering grandfather, Pierre had no choice but to keep working. They needed food. Medicine. Money. So he kept putting on the makeup of a fool and went out, day after day, trying to make people laugh.
But it wasn’t working anymore. He did all his usual tricks and ran through every gag, but no one laughed.
They could smell it. The desperation. The humanness bleeding through the mask of the carefree, idiotic clown. And because of that, they refused to be moved.
One day, when he returned to his grandfather’s side, makeup streaked with tears, his grandfather scolded him.
“Fool! Clowns don’t cry! They laugh—laugh with all their heart! If not even you think your act is the most amusing thing in the world, how do you expect to convince anyone else?!”
“But I was just a child then,” Pierre said. “I kept at it, day after day, crying inside while forcing the act. I couldn’t even earn half—no, not even a quarter—of what I made when I was with him. But I had no other choice. So I kept going.”
He paused.
“We weren’t traveling anymore. I was stuck in the same town, performing for the same people over and over. Even at your best, they grow tired of you. Fewer and fewer came to see me. I earned less and less. But even then—even when I was weeping inside—I put on the makeup, painted on the smile, and kept performing.”
Eventually, it happened. His grandfather passed away.
Pierre stood there, staring at the empty bed, when something clicked.
“It sort of just came to me.”
He was grieving, but somehow, lighter emotions began to come. He was crying, but started to laugh.
“I felt him. My grandfather was gone. But in a way, he was still there. Performing by my side.”
Just imagining him there, doing those ridiculous, familiar movements—it was funny. It made him want to laugh.
He put on the costume. Painted the face. And then he ran out into the streets, smiling.
“Come one, come all!”
The words slipped from his mouth as naturally as breathing. The world that had been drained of color just yesterday now felt alive again.
“Honk your noses and wiggle your toes—because iiiiiit’s showtime!”
Curious heads turned; a crowd gathered.
“Welcome, one and all, to Pierre Pierrot, Pierre the Clown’s Spectacular Sillytime Extravaganza!”
Pierre became a hit.
Every town he visited, every village he passed through, he left behind laughter and smiles.
He did things his grandfather never had—juggling, magic tricks, singing. People watched with wide eyes as each new surprise came to life. The novelty thrilled them, and Pierre’s fame only grew.
With his colorful music box and his grandfather’s ashes in tow, Pierre toured the country, spreading joy wherever he went. He filled streets with music, made strangers laugh, and lit up faces in every town.
Wherever laughter echoed, you could be sure Pierre the Clown was at the center of it. He was beloved—always had been, always would be.
“But alas, I was wrong.”
Like all forms of entertainment, tastes change with time. What undid Pierre the Clown wasn’t tragedy or scandal. It was simply time, moving forward as it always does.
Once, he had been “it.” Then, one day, he wasn’t.
“It’s all about magic these days,” Pierre said, “And I’m not talking about the sleight-of-hand kind. Shattering a pane of glass with a gust of wind, making a tablecloth swim mid-air like a fish. It’s flashy, new, and memorable. Of course, the young people love it.”
A wistful look passed over his face.
“Don’t get me wrong. I’m not bitter. I don’t blame them. I made my living riding the wave of what was hot, too. No, when that happened, I just…figured it was time to retire. I don’t live lavishly. What I have should last me till the end of my days.”
He shifted, then smiled at her. Wry, sheepish.
“So, I figured, if it was the end, I should remove my makeup for good. Really, it’s my fault. When I was younger, I was diligent about taking it off properly. But as I got older, I got lazier. Started just rinsing it with water. A little bit stayed behind every day. And that little bit built up, thicker and thicker until, well,”—he gestured to his face—“this.”
“You’re joking…” Sophie whispered in disbelief.
“Well, usually I would be. But not this time,” Pierre said. “I’ve tried everything. Every cosmetic store, every remover I could get my hands on. Nothing works. The markings of a clown… They’re stained into my skin. Permanently.”
Whatever Sophie was going to say next evaporated into thin air. Was it even possible for something like that to happen?
“I resigned myself,” Pierre said. “Figured I’d live out the rest of my days as a clown. But then I saw your flyer at a bar.”
He paused, his voice quiet.
“Being a clown, it’s awful, really. Wherever I go, people look at me and expect something. A joke. A trick. Something funny. And I’m sensitive—I can feel it. I know what they’re thinking. So I give them what they want, even though I don’t have to. I’m not obligated. Not anymore.”
Suddenly, he jumped up and caught the still-fluttering dove mid-air, gently calming it before returning it to his box. Then, with a flick of his fingers, he produced a ball. One became two. Two became four.
“I want to be human again,” he said softly. “A normal person, without the face of a clown. I want to cry when I’m sad, not just laugh. I just want to be…Pierre.”
“I…understand,” Sophie said slowly, still absorbing it. “Would you mind turning this way, please?”
He did, eyes closed. Sophie leaned in to study his face.
And sure enough, through what she’d assumed was powder, she could see pores. Skin. She’d thought he was wearing a full face of makeup, but no. This was him, au naturel. Ghostly white. Bright red. Deep blue. And beneath one eye, the teardrop mark.
Ordinarily, she would’ve thought it was just hyperpigmentation—natural discoloration that comes with age. But after hearing his story, everything he’d endured, Sophie couldn’t shake the feeling that it was more than that.
What if Pierre Pierrot had always been crying?
When he’d been nervous. When his grandfather died. Even when he stood in the spotlight, beloved and roaring with laughter—what if he’d still been crying all along?
Maybe the colors had sunk deeper, embedding themselves in his skin to protect him. So that no matter how hard the tears came, no one would ever see them. So no one would ever have to witness that terrible, unwanted thing—the tears of a clown.
But no. That was just a fantasy.
Sophie shook the thought away, that wistful, impossible idea, and raised her hands to the man’s face.
“Pain, pain, go away.”
May little Pierre, who longed to cry, be allowed to do so at last—openly, honestly, without shame.
“To the mountains you go, to the mountains you stay.”
May he step out from behind the painted smile, become human once more, and quietly consider the life still waiting for him.
When the light faded, what sat before her was an ordinary old man.
Shorter than most. Smaller than she expected.
But unmistakably human.
She handed him a mirror. Pierre took it carefully, raised it to his face, and leaned in, fingertips grazing his cheek.
“I…” A tear slipped down his face. The mirror trembled in his hands. “I look just like him.”
“Oh, Grandpa!” he said, clutching the mirror to his chest.
Were you watching me, Grandpa?
Did I do good?
I smiled big, just like you said.
I laughed and made others laugh, just like you taught me.
His small, hunched frame began to shake—softly at first, then harder. Again and again.
With each quiet sob, a new soap bubble drifted up from behind him, floating gently through the salon before vanishing in a soft burst of color.