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Throughout his long existence, Harlequin often recalled a season of his youth that began in jealousy, sank into rivalry, and ended in profound devotion.
Until then, he had never imagined he could be a partner who stayed loyal, nor had he believed he could grasp the essence of love. He was simply used to envying whatever Pierrot admired, then hurling himself into seizing it.
You might insist that one day he would fall in love, only that the hour had not yet struck. Well, my dear friend—before he met her, the haughty Harlequin scoffed at such prophecies.
Rumor had it that the rest of the circus—everyone except Pierrot—placed a wager: could Harlequin ever comprehend love? Could he pursue someone with a whole heart, rather than snatching trophies from Pierrot out of spite?
Harlequin’s answer was a sneer and two words: “No way.”
Let us turn the clock back to the beginning.
That morning, Harlequin was handing out circus flyers on his assigned street, exactly as ordered. Spotting a young lady walking briskly, he approached her in his usual manner, inviting her to the show and offering a free ticket.
In Harlequin’s scheme, the woman was bound to accept; after centuries among mortals, he was convinced of their petty greed and expected the worst of them.
Yet what happened next shattered his expectations.
“Um, sorry, but I already have a ticket—thank you anyway.”
She refused the ticket because she genuinely owned one. Absurd! Wasn’t grabbing freebies human nature? She should have taken his ticket like everyone else, surrendering to raw, primitive greed.
Curiosity stirred. Harlequin resolved to learn what ticket this woman carried. Surely she had not drawn the cursed pink one? If she had, he might quietly warn her—or better yet, wait until she entered the pink tent and then snatch it away.
“It was your colleague Pierrot who gave it to me, so I don’t need another—thank you.”
Under his persistent questioning, the lady revealed the ticket’s source—and instantly seized Harlequin’s full attention. Ah, so Pierrot had noticed her too. Splendid.
Excitement flared in him, edged with jealousy. Why should this graceful stranger meet Pierrot first? That tiresome mime always stumbled upon delicate beauties ahead of him, and the thought enraged Harlequin.
But this was another fine chance to snatch something from under Pierrot’s nose. And the lady herself was rather agreeable to Harlequin; among all the humans he had ever encountered, scarcely any had shown him kindness—none, in fact.
In a world where almost everyone called him a monster, he had found someone who actually said “Thank you” to him—twice, no less—even when he had been rude and had clung to her like a limpet. She had only frowned, yet still answered his questions good-naturedly.
For the first time, Harlequin felt a desire to compete with Pierrot that was not born of pure, twisted jealousy. In part, it was simply because it was she.
“The red ticket Pierrot gave you? My dear lady, perhaps you’d care to exchange it for mine—I believe mine would suit you better.”
He produced a green ticket and tried to persuade her to trade. If he succeeded, he would have scored a point off Pierrot, and the thought of that fellow’s black looks was delicious.
Alas, the pleasant morning was shattered by Pierrot’s sudden appearance. Harlequin glanced at their respective territories and realized Pierrot had been playing hooky. So much the better—the lady clearly meant far more to his estimable colleague than he had supposed. The game was growing interesting.
“Well, well, well, Pierrot. I’m sure you’ve cursed me up and down, inside and out.”
Harlequin watched the sulky Pierrot with malicious glee, exploiting the other’s peculiar code to speak his mind and irritate him beyond measure. He noticed the loaded darts in Pierrot’s hands but only shrugged carelessly; victory was all that mattered now, and pain had never entered his calculations. In his world, cunning, snatching, and teasing were everything.
By the time Harlequin finished his altercation with Pierrot, the intriguing young lady had vanished. Neither of them had won that round. Harlequin tossed off a few more barbed remarks and sauntered away, leaving a murderous Pierrot behind. He had no intention of pursuing the woman himself; Pierrot would seek her out soon enough, and it was only necessary to follow Pierrot.
Harlequin brightened again and began to hum as he resumed distributing his flyers.
It was not until noon drew near that Harlequin—shadowed, as ever, by Pierrot—found her at the café where she worked, a small, privately owned place tucked between two shuttered shops.
Still turning the ticket over in his mind, Harlequin avoided open quarrel with Pierrot; he needed only a few minutes alone with her, nothing more.
He waited at the counter for the iced coffee he had ordered, rehearsing the words that would let him present his own ticket. Yet when she approached with the drink and a gentle smile, the careful script vanished. Instead, he simply repeated what he had said that morning.
“Well… although I don’t quite understand how your circus keeps its books, perhaps you have quotas to meet? If so, I’d be happy to accept your ticket, but I’m sorry—I can’t give up the one Pierrot gave me.”
She slid the iced coffee across to him, considered for a moment, and answered—this time differently from the morning. Harlequin studied the narrowed eyes, the playful curve of her mouth, and felt an unexpected restlessness.
Whatever she had imagined on her own was, after all, the very effect he had sought, yet it left him unsatisfied. He wanted to possess her completely—her, her gaze, everything.
The word that rang in his head was “take,” not “trade.” It’s not fair, he thought, jealousy of Pierrot flaring again. Even without knowing how his colleague spoke to her in private, his mind raced ahead, tormenting itself and feeding the craving to win.
That evening Harlequin spotted her easily among the spectators. It was neither telepathy nor magic—only the single gentle glance amid a sea of mocking, fearful, ironic stares. It came from her.
He began to understand why Pierrot had been moved.
If he, Harlequin, met someone kind enough to look past his monstrous mask—someone who treated him as if he were merely another man—he would fall, too. Without question.
He still could not define love, but he knew one thing: this contest with Pierrot was no longer driven solely by jealousy; he acted because he wished to, and that wish was enough.
When his turn came, Harlequin performed with the small props he had made, recounting fragments of the circus’s history. Though he never broke concentration, he let his eyes drift toward her several times, anxious to read her face.
What if she did not like what she saw?
After the performance, Harlequin slipped into another casual disguise and addressed her in the same flirtatious tone he always used. His aim had been to distract her from Pierrot, yet the words that left his mouth sounded more like an attack than a compliment. He had never learned to speak kindly; what should have been tender persuasion came out as unreasonable, mocking pestering.
She said nothing, but impatience flickered across her youthful face. She stepped back, trying to put distance between them, only to find the canvas wall of the tent at her back—nowhere left to go.
Harlequin laughed at the trap. His thoughts were as sordid as Pierrot’s, he supposed; both of them were monsters, their minds steeped in dark, petty cruelty. He drew out a heart-shaped badge and pinned it to her collar with exaggerated affection.
“I think green suits you better, my dear lady. See how lovely this shade is? You look as though you’ve already fallen for me.”
“Perhaps you’re enjoying all of this, aren’t you? Have you asked your heart whether you’ve truly been caught? Or is your denial just a way to prolong the chase?”
He waited for hesitation, for the flicker that would let him claim another victory over Pierrot. Instead, disappointment arrived. Her clear eyes remained steady, as if his taunts had been nothing more than remarks about the weather.
Humans, Harlequin had always thought, were dull, disposable things—good only for food or stage props. They strutted like gentlemen yet brimmed with greed. He despised them, even while knowing he was no different.
But the woman before him stepped outside the game he and Pierrot played and gave an answer he had not foreseen. Cornered, she lifted her chin and met his gaze without flinching. Her voice was cool, deliberate.
“I have no interest in your contest with Pierrot. Stop pestering me, Harlequin. The sort of love you describe—full of tests and tricks—only disgusts me.”
He stared, speechless, as she brushed past him and pushed the tent flap aside. He wanted to call her back, but the words caught in his throat. That she had seen the silent rivalry between the two clowns startled him; that she rejected him without hesitation stunned him even more. Yet it was only natural—how many sane people could ever love a strange clown?
The sudden setback did not crush Harlequin; instead, a scalding sense of injustice and curiosity sprang up in the deepest part of his soul, thrusting outward in every direction like young bamboo shoots after a spring rain, until he could hardly keep still.
What an interesting woman! He would have her—even if Pierrot lost interest later, he would pursue her until he could claim her completely.
Harlequin still burned with jealousy over everything Pierrot possessed, yet that single, monotonous emotion no longer ruled him where she was concerned. He had to admit he was drawn to her for herself.
Perhaps she, too, was an actor, able at a glance to decipher the meaning of his shabby tricks; then they would either love each other madly or—like actors who know one another too well—quarrel and part in anger. Harlequin turned the thought over and over. He dreaded being treated as either possibility. Despair seized him: he longed to win her heart, yet feared he would only make matters worse; bungling affection was, after all, one of his “strong points.”
So Harlequin began to study the ways mankind professes love, and tried them one after another. Perhaps some small gesture might alter her opinion of him.
He wooed her with stubborn persistence: now with a bunch of flowers conjured from thin air, now with a “chance” encounter he had staged, now with a few carefully chosen words spoken under the pretext of discussing some trivial matter. He used every device he could imagine to declare his love. Yet each time Pierrot interrupted with angry shouts, or the gesture fell flat, and her calm gaze told him plainly:
“Harlequin, don’t deceive yourself. You’re only eager to outdo Pierrot; that isn’t love.”
Oh yes, my dear, I was eager to outdo Pierrot—but that was the past… No, that is too absolute. What I mean is… in your presence I do this only because I love you.
He wanted to explain that he had changed, that he was no longer the man who had envied Pierrot and competed with him in everything. But just as in the old fable of the boy who cried wolf, no one believed him—least of all Pierrot.
Pierrot stayed on guard, watching Harlequin’s every move, afraid that one day, while his back was turned, he might lose his home. Harlequin, for his part, cared nothing for Pierrot’s suspicions; they were of no consequence. He cared only for the opinion of the lady who filled his thoughts—but, alas, she seemed to share Pierrot’s doubt.
Harlequin never won her heart before the circus moved on to the next city.
Nor, fortunately, did Pierrot.
In that sense they were even—but the thought gave Harlequin no comfort. He cared nothing for rivalry now; he cared for someone who, it seemed, did not care much for him.
He had considered slipping a love potion into her tea and keeping her forever. What did her present reluctance matter? Given time, he could change her mind, and that would be his real victory.
He never had the chance.
She died.
He had always known how fragile humans were, yet he had never imagined the young, radiant woman could vanish so quickly. A sudden heart attack—minutes, no more, and a life was erased. There was nothing he could do.
“The day before it happened,” he remembered, “she said to me, ‘If you truly aren’t competing with Pierrot just for the sake of competition, perhaps one day I’ll give you the answer you want.”
Those words had lifted him higher than any applause ever had; he had believed himself halfway to happiness.
What use was Pierrot’s long vigil? If she had loved that dull mime she would never have considered Harlequin at all, and the thought had thrilled him.
After he heard she was gone, Harlequin kept silent for hours.
From one human life he had learned two lessons: love and death.
He followed the circus through city after city, meeting women with the same hair, the same job, the same smile. None stirred him.
He believed he would never understand love again. Pierrot, too, fell into a long silence, more withdrawn than ever, bound by his own rules. Harlequin felt a flicker of pity; perhaps that was mutual sympathy.
Still, their old habits endured: Harlequin eyed anything Pierrot wanted, and Pierrot carried his darts, ready to turn them on himself at any moment.
Something had changed, yet neither would speak of it first.
Later, Harlequin heard the saying, “Deep love does not endure, and extreme wisdom is fragile.” Some claim that obsessive affection burns out quickly, but to him the notion is absurd.
If love is fleeting, how can his heart still be tied to hers? She occupied only the briefest span of his long life, yet her love has left a scar no time can erase.
Love deepens,life shortens? Love deepens, life shortens?
Perhaps that's what the really means: that your own depth of feeling will somehow shorten the life of your beloved.
Harlequin thought silently as he packed his bags with methodical care. He would traveling, keep going to every city that she wasn't in, until the end of his days.