Laughing out loud

It was an alley in Paris, one of those back alleys where the forgotten, the lost, the ones that society doesn't want to see. It was here that an acrobat performed his act every night. A guy straight out of a book that should never have been written, with a face so scarred by life it looked like an old road map.

In his harlequin get-up, he had all the makings of a fallen clown. A real spectacle, this guy, with his colorful rags competing for the prize of decrepitude. You had to see him dance, sing and gesticulate in the middle of this godforsaken corner of Paris, between two gargoyles and a street lamp that flickered, as if to say: "Forget it, old chap, this is the kingdom of shadows.

But the acrobat didn't see things that way. No, he had another idea in mind. Every night, while all of Paris was asleep, he'd show up on his little stage of misery, and he'd start playing. Playing for whom? For the ghosts, no doubt. Because there weren't many people around to listen to him.

But he didn't care. He played, he laughed, he sang. He tossed his antics into the void, as if each joke could pierce the night. He wanted to make people laugh, he wanted to bring a little light, even to this godforsaken hole. He was a funny guy, a real character. With his scruffy clothes and crooked smile, he was enough to frighten anyone. But all he wanted to do was play. For nobody, for everybody, it didn't matter. Because for him, every night was a new performance, every night was a new chance. And that was worth all the sold-out halls in the world.

Then one night, everything went haywire. The acrobat begins his act, as usual. He shows up on his cold cobblestone stage, and performs his first antics in the dark. But the crowd is not in the mood. The spectres hanging around start hurling jibes, spitting and words that sting more than a Parisian winter.

They laughed at him, at his outfit, which had seen better days, at his show, which they said had never seen better days. They sneered, all of them, their hollow laughter echoing against the stone walls, clawing at the silence of the night. It was a cruel din, a symphony of contempt.

But the saltimbanque didn't give in. Despite the heartbreak, he continues his show. He clings to his jokes like a castaway to his lifeline, hoping that art, that humor, will be enough to calm minds, to soften hearts. Like a man playing his last card, rolling his last die.

He tries to keep smiling, to keep up the comedy, but even a clown has his limits. His eyes, normally so bright and sparkling, gradually fill with a bottomless sadness. A sadness that says everything his words can't, that tells a story of loneliness, rejection and despair. A story that, like his show, ends up falling on deaf ears, ignored by a crowd too busy laughing to see the truth behind the artist's mask.

They lynch him, these shadows. They pounce on him, wringing the life from his body with spine-chilling ferocity. And when they've finished, when they've let loose, they stand back and watch. They watch the lifeless body, the broken puppet, the man they've killed.

And then they laugh. They laugh as if it's the funniest thing they've ever seen. As if the man's death was the best joke the acrobat had ever told. They laugh, they clap, they cheer. As if, in this godforsaken corner of Paris, death was the only thing worth celebrating.

The silence finally falls, but it's not the silence of death, no. It's the silence of satisfaction. It's the silence of satisfaction, the silence of satiation. A silence that, like the laughter of shadows, bounces off the stone walls, filling the square with a macabre energy.

There, among the cobblestones, lies the body of the acrobat. No more show, no more music, no more dreams. Just a lifeless body, and the laughter of shadows that gradually fades into the night. A laughter that echoes again and again, like an echo of unheard-of cruelty, like the song of a bitter victory. A laugh that, like the man himself, will remain forever etched in the cobblestones of this accursed square, in the hearts of these merciless shadows. A laugh that, in the end, may be the acrobat's only true victory.