Johnny is cheaply regal. The second clown has a heart between his eyebrows and a rich gold and black waistcoat. The third has wobbly spectacles drawn around his eyes. And the fourth is nebulous behind his cigarette smoke. He wears a ski hat and the black exclamation marks of tragedy pour from his eyes.
"What music do you have?"
"Oh, a complete collection," Johnny breezes. "Music from all over Java. And India."
"May I photograph the show?"
"Will you pay?"
He branches into a narrow lane which opens into a dirt yard. There are potted plants, shattered tiles and the remnants of an old road. Beneath a sheet of corrugated metal is a makeshift cafe. Standing amid sunbeams and debris the clown turns on the music and smiles. Notes whine discordantly. In flip flops and drainpipe jeans the clown dips his knees and fleetingly flutters his arms behind his back. This is a gauche and cheerless show.
A man hurries out from under the metal tarp. He gives the clown a coin. The clown bows his head, no longer smiling. In less than five seconds the show is over and the clown is leaving.
The sky is a rare blue, the greens are sharp; what adventure lies ahead!
"When are you going to give us money?" Johnny simpers, his eyes coquettish.
"After I've got some photos."
"C'mon," he purrs. "Now."
I don't follow further.