The paint was so thick and greasy that he felt as if his whole body were a mask. His hair was tucked into the striped cap, which was tied by a black thong under his chin. The other clowns painted black outlines around his eyes and mouth, and knotted black scarves around his neck, wrists and ankles. I can’t believe this, Joe thought; this is happening to someone else. He felt as if he were standing apart and watching himself be prepared, that he was just lending his body. The tail of the long black breechclout trailed on the floor. No moccasins were big enough, so he was going barefoot. Roberto suggested that he stay within the circle of dancers as much as he could. Everyone gathered at the ladder and shared a last cigarette. Roberto wore his white Taos blanket, ready for a separate exit. One of the other clowns had the dark glasses now. Ben tucked a bullwhip under his arm. The sun had moved west, making the light from the roof dimmer, the angle sharper, and Joe had the sensation that the kiva was sealing over him. Finally, they climbed the ladder one by one, Joe last.

They burst off the roof and down an alley, dogs and boys running at their side. Although Joe tried to hang back, sheer length of stride brought him to the front. There was a tunnel of shade, then the brilliant, droning heat of the plaza and a bigger crowd than before. All the northern roofs were crowded. Outsiders had doubled in number and spread across the whole southern side of the plaza. Only the watching priests and elders were the same, as if they hadn’t moved since morning. Joe expected that at any moment someone would shout, “That’s not a real clown, that’s Joe Peña!” He chased an old lady and a girl into the dancing line.

The entire plaza seemed to wheel around him. His paint was already washed with sweat. He saw Foote. Jaworski and Harvey had come. The drumming started. At the east end of the plaza, among the very last tourists, he saw the Service rider named Al. At the west end was Billy.

Just long enough for Roberto to get to the house, Joe told himself. As the circle of dancers began to turn he slipped through it and used it as a screen. The steps weren’t hard to pick up; a slow 4–4 beat. Hop, slide, half-turn. Without warning, the singers and drummer went to a fast 3–4, then back to the slow 4–4. Joe stumbled, but it was taken as a joke; after all, he was a clown.

The whole idea was that everyone did precisely the same step in the same way without embellishment or standing out. The circle was a cosmic gear moving clouds, calling in game, drawing up corn. Any individuality was a loose screw.