Henri the Clown

Henri the Clown

  An Anytime story for children

  by Michael Wenberg

  Copyright 2011 Michael C. Wenberg

  www.michaelwenberg.com

  Henri the Clown

  An Anytime story for children

  by Michael Wenberg

  When Henri was just a young boy, he began working in the family business. . . he became a clown.

  His job was easy enough. He would tug on a bright green suit and a pair of white and green spotted shoes big enough for a giant, stick a red rubber nose on his face, and then top it all off with a tall, black hat. When he was finished, he would climb into a small purple wagon and then sit quietly as his large gray poodle, Titus, pulled it out in front of a crowd.

  Henri would stay there until his mother waved in his direction. That was his signal to tumble over the side of the wagon and race out of the arena. Because of those big shoes, he would always trip and fall at least once.

  The audience didn't mind. They laughed and clapped anyway, especially when he fell down.

  Henri never thought he was very funny. After all, he was just sitting in a wagon and then running off the stage. What was so funny about that? He wondered.

  “It is because you are a clown,” Henri's father explained one evening, tickling his son's ears with his big, brown moustache.

  “But I'm a Flaubert,” Henri said proudly.

  “Flaubert is our name,” Henri's father agreed with a wiggle of his finger, “but clowns—that is who we truly are.”

  Henri frowned.

  “You may not understand now,” his father added with a reassuring pat on Henri's head, “but someday you will.”

  “But Papa—”

  Henri's words were interrupted by a loud knock. His father pinched Henri on the cheek and went to answer the door. “A reporter from the newspaper,” his father said over his shoulder as he disappeared outside. “We'll talk again later.”

  Henri sighed. The reporter would have question after question for the most famous clown in not just Europe, but the entire world. They always did.

  But as he thought about it more, Henri was glad for the interruption. He had been about to ask some questions that would have seemed crazy. It might have even made his father very angry.

  Henri had always wondered why no one had ever bothered to ask him if he wanted to be a clown. When he was old enough, could he pick something else to do? Or was he stuck being a clown his entire life, like everyone else in the family?

  You see, the Flauberts had been a family of clowns for as long as anyone could remember. Over the centuries, they had danced, pranced, jiggled and juggled, stumbled and tumbled, tooted and hooted all across Europe, from the smallest village to the biggest cities.

  “Clowns,” Grandpa Flaubert reminded everyone in the family at least once a week, “it is what we do, who we are, and what we will always be.”

  No one every disagreed with Grandpa Flaubert.

  Except for Henri, secretly in his heart.

  As the months passed, Henri never seemed to get a chance to ask his questions.

  When he was six, he received his first promotion. Instead of sitting in the wagon, he now played a simple tune on a battered silver trumpet while Titus danced an Irish jig on his hind legs.

  He wasn't a very good musician. Sometimes when he played the trumpet it sounded like a gaggle of angry geese.

  But the audiences didn't seem to mind. In fact, the more horribly he played the trumpet, the louder they laughed.

  Henri quickly grew to hate the sound of the trumpet.

  By the time Henri was eight, he was promoted again. Now he was juggling oranges, apples, peaches, and the occasional head of cauliflower.

  “Why a cauliflower?” Henri asked.

  “That's just so the vegetables don't feel left out,” his grandpa said with a wink.

  After one of Henri's performances, his mother whispered, “You have the gift.” The crowd inside the circus tent was whistling and laughing and stomping, making the canvas walls shake like there was a tornado trapped inside. One day you will be famous all over the world,” she added, “just like your papa.”

  Instead of her words filling Henry with joy, he felt a sadness as thick as a winter fog.

  That night, Henry knew that he had to do something. And that something was so odd, so outlandish, so un-Flaubert-like that Henri feared he would be forever banished from the family if he so much as whispered a word of it to anyone.

  Henri didn't want to be a clown at all when he grew up.

  The possibilities grew in his mind like whirlwind until he was giddy.

  He could be Captain Henri, steering his powerful tugboat through crowded harbors, shoving ships in and out of their places like a pushy beagle.

  Or he could become an astronaut, soaring through the night sky on the tip of rocket, maybe even settling once and for all the mystery of what made a full moon on a summer evening smile.

  He could join the French Foreign Legion, travel to distant lands, protecting animals and small children and sampling candy from around the world.

  What about a cheese maker?

  Jockey?

  Taxi driver?

  Cowboy? Or better yet, Indian?

  Brain surgeon?

  Kite designer?

  The possibilities were endless and Henri fell asleep happy for the first time in months.

  A week later, Henri settled on a possibility that just seemed right.

  A fire truck raced down the narrow street, its siren blaring like an excited hunting dog, lights flashing. It screeched to a halt right in front of where he and his mother were standing on the sidewalk. Firefighters tumbled out of the truck and raced into the burning house.

  Henri watched wide-eyed, surprised by how much it seemed like one of the family's clown acts. His father, uncle and cousins would race into the arena on a miniature fire truck. Once there they would stumble and crash into each other, fall off ladders, finally delighting the audience by spraying them all with a stream of pink bubbles.

  Of course, this was no clown act. Smoke was billowing out of an upper window. Henri heard the crackle of fire, then a muffled crash and a terrified scream. A moment later, one of the firefighters dashed out of the house. In his arms was a small kitten, its ragged yellow fur singed and black with soot.

  The crowd that had gathered clapped and yelled. It was just like one of the Flaubert's clown shows, except this wasn't make-believe. The firefighter gave a mock bow, handed the kitten to a young girl and then dashed back into the house.

  “Did you see the kitten?” Henri's mother exclaimed with delight. “Your father should do that in his act.”

  Henri was just as enchanted as his mother, but for a different reason. He stared at the empty doorway. “That's what I want to be,” he whispered.

  “What's that, dear?” His mother asked.

  Henri just smiled.

  From then on, Henri couldn't get enough about firefighters. After he was done with his school lessons in the morning, he would curl up on his bunk in the family's trailer and read about the firefighters of France. He learned about the history of firefighting, and then started reading about firefighting in other countries.

  “Why aren't you juggling?” his grandfather asked one evening.

  “This is interesting,” Henri blurted out. He was reading a book about fighting forest fires.

  “And juggling is not interesting?”

  Henri dropped his eyes and shrugged.

  He could feel his grandfather watching him. The old man started to say something more, but then he let out a snort and stomped off.

  Henri expected trouble. But nothing more was said. After that, whenever his gr
andfather reminded everyone who they were and what they had always been, his darks eyes always seemed to find Henri's face.

  Because the Flaubert's were always traveling, Henri and his cousins didn't go to a regular school. They used the mail and their computers to send lessons back and forth to their teachers.

  Even so, Henri had homework, just like any other kid. And that's what he was doing when the fire started.

  At first he didn't notice anything. He was reading about frogs.

  But Titus, who was kept in a nearby trailer with the other animals and supplies, was barking and barking. “Be quiet, you mongrel,” Henri yelled at the top of his lungs. “I'm trying to read!”

  But Titus didn't stop. If anything, his barking became even louder.

  And that's when Henri smelled smoke. He didn't hesitate. He hopped off his bunk, raced out the door, around the corner of the trailer, and then skidded to a halt.

  The trailer that was home to Titus and many of the animals was pulsing smoke out of a back window like an old steam engine.

  Henri knew there was no time to wait, no time to get help. He dropped his chin and dashed towards the smoking trailer. If he didn't act fast, Titus and the rest of the animals would be dead.

  “HENRI!” he heard his mother scream.

  Henri pulled open the door, and then ducked as smoke billowed out. He gave a reassuring wave to his mother, and then crawled into the trailer.

  When firefighters arrived 20 minutes later, the flames had already died out and the trailer was a smoking hulk.

  Henri sat on the grass, wrapped in a blanket. He had a red burn on his check, cuts on his hands, and one eyebrow was singed.

  He was also surrounded by all the animals from the trailer, three cats, four dogs, two parrots, a white rabbit, and, of course, Titus, the poodle, who had his head on Henri's lap.

  Henri's father and mother were kneeling beside him, looking angry and relieved all at the same time. “What were you thinking?” Henri's father scolded. “You could have gotten yourself—”

  “—killed,” Henri's mother wailed, glaring at Henri and then pulling him close and giving him a ferocious hug for about the 20th time.

  Henri was still in a daze. What he had done was already a blur of images. The burns and cuts didn't hurt. Not yet, anyway.

  In fact, right at the moment, Henri realized that he had never felt so wonderful. “I knew what to do,” he said softly. “I had to do something. Titus was inside.”

  Henri's father started to say something more, but then a puzzled came a cross his face. “All those books—” he said to himself. “I think I understand now.” His face softened, a faint smile came to his lips, and his eyes became distant.

  “What do you see, Papa?” Henri asked.

  “When I was a boy about your age,” Henri's father said, “I wanted to fly airplanes. I'm sorry I never told you that.”

  It took Henri a moment to understand what his father was saying. When he did, his eyes widened with surprise. “So…so…if I become a firefighter when I grow up instead of a clown you won't hate me?”

  Henri's father gave a booming laugh, picked up his son, tickling his ears with his big brown moustache. “Au contraire,” he whispered. “I would be the proudest man in France! And we would always save the best seats in the circus for when our son, the firefighter, and his friends come to visit.”

  “Clowns—it is what we do, who we are, and what we will always be,” Grandpa Flaubert interrupted, “except when someone decides to become something else like a butcher.”

  “You mean, firefighter,” Henri giggled.

  “That, too,” Grandpa Flaubert said, as everyone laughed. “And that, too!”

  The End

  Authors Note

  Though Henri Flaubert and his family are imaginary characters, he and his story were inspired by an actually family of clowns.

  The Rossi family have been clowns for more than 300 years, performing with circuses throughout Europe nearly 340 days each year.

  This is truly a family business with many of the Rossi's becoming clowns at very early ages. Victor Rossi was just five when he became a clown. His father and grandfather were even younger, just 3-year-olds.

  Traditions that go back to the 17th century play an important part in the family's act. In addition to clowning, many of the family members are also skilled musicians and jugglers. The children do regular schoolwork in the mornings and then practice the art of clowning in the afternoons. For the Rossi family, making people laugh is serious business.

  But times are changing. There are fewer and fewer places for families like the Rossi's to perform. And some children, like Henri in this story, are deciding not to follow in their parent's footsteps.

  If you're interested in learning more about clowns, ask a librarian for suggestions or go online to the International Clown Hall of Fame at www.theclownmuseum.org.

  About the Author

  MICHAEL WENBERG lives just up the road from the Point No Point lighthouse on Washington State’s Puget Sound. In addition to working in technology, he’s the former CEO of the Walla Walla Symphony. He enjoys backpacking, hiking and kayaking the waters of Puget Sound with his wife, Sandy, and their dog, Gracie.

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