Faust stared into the small, warped mirror, and for the first time in a century, he didn't recognize the man looking back.
The white greasepaint was thick and ghostly, turning his skin into a deathly mask. His lips had been widened into a permanent, exaggerated red grin that stretched nearly to his ears, and one eye was circled in a jagged black star while the other was framed by a single, mournful blue teardrop—a lingering tribute to his earlier mishap with the smoke powder.
With his naturally sharp, aristocratic features and "big dignity," the effect was utterly ridiculous. He looked like a tragedy trying—and failing—to be a comedy.
Pippo, still half-masked himself, stood behind him.
"You look like a nightmare that tripped into a bucket of paint," the veteran clown said, his voice surprisingly melodic for a man who rarely spoke. "Good. That's the start."
Pippo rested a heavy, gloved hand on Faust's shoulder.
"Listen to me, Scholar. A clown's face isn't just paint; it's a fortress. It's a mask for the people we perform for. You must smile and joke no matter what is happening behind your eyes. If your heart is breaking, the mask stays joyful. If you are angry, the mask stays foolish. It becomes your protective mechanism. The world can't hurt a man who isn't really there."
Faust adjusted his collar, the movement stiff. "And my specific duties?"
Pippo explained, pacing the small space of the wagon. "You will stand at the entrance to attract the passersby. Your first target? The children. Capture a child's wonder, and you've captured the parents' purses. Second, look for the aristocrats. They are bored, Faust. They are prone to believe in divinations and they love a performance that makes them feel superior. You must be their plaything and their prophet simultaneously."
Pippo paused, pulling a small flask from his baggy trousers.
"And you must be a little drunk. Or at least, the world must think you are. A drunk clown is a safe clown—people lower their guard around a man who can't stand straight. But if you are as experienced as I am, you don't need the ale. You just act."
Pippo suddenly stumbled, his knees buckling, his eyes glazing over as he let out a loud, belching laugh that ended in a hiccup. It was a perfect, pathetic display of intoxication.
He snapped back to sobriety a second later.
"Can you do that?"
Faust felt a ghost of a memory stir—nights in Saxony, winning gold from arrogant counts by pretending he'd had three bottles of wine more than he actually had. As the son of a Herzog, he had moved through social events like a shark in silk, using "drunkenness" to mask his observations.
Without a word, Faust tilted his head, let his left shoulder drop, and began to sway.
His gaze became unfocused, and a lazy, lopsided grin spread across his painted face.
He took a stumbling step, caught himself on the mirror's edge with a clumsy flourish, and muttered a slurred greeting in perfect, gravelly Dutch.
Pippo watched him, his painted eyebrows shooting up.
He let out a low whistle.
"You have a lot of talent. Perhaps too much. You've played the fool before, haven't you?"
"In more ways than one," Faust replied, straightening his posture.
"Good. The next lesson is the 'Atmosphere,'" Pippo continued. He reached into his sleeves and suddenly flicked his wrists. A cloud of colorful confetti and dried flower petals erupted into the air, swirling around them like a miniature spring storm. "You must always have these up your sleeves and in every pocket. A magician-clown should never move without leaving a trace of color. And of course, don't forget the tricks. Palming coins while you stumble, pulling ribbons from the ears of the rich... it must be constant."
Faust looked at the petals settling on his white-painted hands. "That seems... difficult to maintain for hours."
Pippo laughed, a sound that was both warm and a little weary. "Making people happy is the most difficult thing in this world, Faust. It's much easier to make them bleed or cry. Anyone can be a doctor or a soldier. Very few can be a joy."
Pippo turned and opened a heavy, iron-bound closet at the back of the wagon. He pulled out a garment that seemed to catch every flickering candle-light in the room.
Faust stared at the flamboyant attire. "Is that...?"
Pippo nodded, a solemn look in his eyes.
"Yes. That is your attire. The skin of the fool. Put it on, Doctor. Amsterdam is only a day away, and they are waiting for a miracle they can laugh at."