Georges-Olivier Chateaureynaud - A Life on Paper - Stories

"Ladies and gentlemen," said the mistress of their new feathered friend, "my parrot can speak like you and I, but this is not the only gift God has given him."

She paused. Orne took advantage of the silence to sally forth with a remark he hoped would make Philippina laugh. Oh, Philippina's laugh, that brash workaday guffaw!

"Let me guess-it reads tarot cards?"

His neighbor's reaction filled Orne with delight. She opened her mouth, that pink grotto where frolicked the plump manatee of her tongue, and out came the laugh he'd been waiting for.

"Yes!" The gypsy pointed Orne's way an index finger whose sharp and tapered nail could, he thought, have enucleated rabbit or man with equal ease.

"Yes!" she repeated. "You've guessed it, sir, except that this bird has no need of cards to tell the future. Have you ever asked yourself how long you've left to live? Legends from my native land have it that our hearts know and sometimes warn us in whispers that our minds refuse to heed. Ask the question and my parrot will read the answer in your eves.

"Is it expensive?" asked Blandeuil.

"Next to nothing. Consider that if the date proves distant, this knowledge will either allow you to go on living more peacefully and happily than ever before-or, on the contrary, to take all the necessary measures. And yet such precious information will cost you almost nothing, for you can ask the bird three questions for the modest sum of one hundred francs each time."

"You mean I'll have to fork over a hundred francs a question?" Macassar asked.

"Exactly," the gypsy replied. "But whether the first answer frightens, upsets, or fully reassures you, nothing obliges you to go on, and you'll only have paid a hundred francs."

Ludwig Propinquor had come by the reputation of a freethinker, which he was fond of upholding. He pulled a roll of bills from his pocket and counted three out on the table. "By God, a Propinquor fears neither death nor spending. Here are your three hundred francs, all at once."

He turned to the parrot. "Well, my little pullet, how much time have I left to live?"

"Pardon me, sir," said the gypsy, "but that's not how to go about it. You must say, for example, `Handsome bird, have I more than twentyfive years left to live?' And he will answer yes or no. If you want to know more, ask him a second question, framed in the same manner: `Handsome bird, have I more than or just this many years left to live?"'

"I get it," Propinquor said. "So be it! Let's see: I'm thirty-nine; I belong to a family generally blessed with longevity. `Handsome bird, have I more than fifty years left to live?"' he asked, imitating the voice and burlesque mugging of Louis de Funds.

Impassive, the parrot waited for the merriment to die down before pronouncing its verdict.

"Yes!" it said at last, with conviction, before turning its head to preen itself.

Ludwig beamed at the applause. With a lordly flourish, he proffered the gypsy three bills. "I'm satisfied with my half century; keep the change!"

"The gentleman knows how to live in style! It's only fair that he should have a long time to do so! Who's next?" asked the woman, tucking the bills away. "Who will delve into Fate's plans?"

Around the table there were light coughs and sidelong glances. Doubtless some trick allowed the gypsy to control the parrot's answers… Ventriloquism, perhaps? Yet the illusion was so convincing it intimidated. There was a moment of uncertainty, almost discomfort. Then in spite of himself-so to speak-Orne jumped in.

" " Me!

He dug out his wallet and laid a hundred-franc bill on the table. "I… well… Handsome bird-"

He would have liked to shine, all the more so because he felt Philippina's gaze upon him, but he knew himself to be pitiful at impressions. If he couldn't be funny, he could at least be nervy or brave-or seem brave, since it was all a trick anyway. Of course the parrot had no connection with the stars above. It was nothing but a gray bird with a big beak and big round eyes. It answered whatever it was ordered to by the device hidden in the perch and shoulder pad, operated by its mistress.

"Handsome bird, tell me: have I more than a year left to live?"

No.

"You're not going to believe that nonsense? It's a trick, of course. That gypsy just wanted to have a laugh at your expense."

"I'm sure you're right, but it really rattled me. I'm too impressionable, too sensitive… Less than a week, according to that stupid creature. What if it's right?"

Orne swayed as he spoke. It could hardly have been called a binge, but all the same, it'd taken him several Irish Coffees to recover. The darkness of the street hid Philippina's irritated expression. Leaving the restaurant, she hadn't slipped away quickly enough, and now she could no longer manage to rid herself of him.

"If it's true," she snapped, "if you die this week, it'll be pure coincidence."

"You really know how to cheer a guy up!" Orne said.

"But why did you keep pushing on? From a psychological standpoint, less than a year feels better than less than a week."

Orne nodded apologetically. To the three questions he'd asked" Have I more than a year, a month, a week left to live?" — the parrot had answered no three times over. The gypsy had pocketed his three hundred francs, then scarpered off with her parrot on her shoulder.

"Philippina, the more I think about it, the more upsetting it gets, because it's bad business. Predicting the impending death of a client in front of other potential clients is bad business! If you ask me, it wasn't a trick. The parrot spoke the truth."

"That's ridiculous-oh my, it's late!"

"Don't leave me! You don't understand: I've maybe less than a week left… Philippina, I wanted so much to spend my last days with you!"

"Excuse me?"

"I've been crazy about you for months now. I didn't dare tell you. Now, in the face of imminent death, all my shyness has disappeared. Philippina, be mine, even if only for a few hours, so at least I'll have known happiness!"

Philippine rolled her eyes skyward. Just her luck. Her gaze, finding no help in the heavens, fell once more to the world below. She picked out headlights on the avenue, an available taxi. Saved!

"Dear, dear friend! I'm very touched, really, and also very flattered! You're a man who's so-but excuse me, please, here comes a taxi. At this late hour, it would be a crime to let it slip away!"

She lifted her arm and practically threw herself onto the taxi's hood. A moment later, the cab carried her off into the night.

As he was crossing Market Square, Orne stopped short before one of the machines. According to the article by Lupus, there were three in all: one behind City Hall; one in front of the elementary school, its use forbidden to minors; and the one now before him. He drew closer, curious. The automatons of lithographed iron, in their basrelief firing squad, gleamed in the moonlight. Their uniforms evoked the Empire, without Orne being able to say which, exactly: First or Second. In any case, the soldiers looked quite distinguished in their dress blues and gold-buttoned trousers, white gaiters and leather bandoliers, the appropriate expressions on the twelve faces individualized by mustaches and sideburns of varying shades, a military cap tilted to the right or the left, jammed tightly down or tossed back behind the head. Both arms, the only moving parts, were for the moment drawn back to the chest, in their hands carbines that a mechanism permitted them to aim at a post a few steps away. You were shot more or less point-blank, so there was no need to fear any inaccuracy of aim. The customer was sure to have his fill of bullets. To one side was a mechanical officer, identified by his pistol and epaulettes, mounted on a little cart that slid along a rail, bringing him to the dying man in order to administer, for the sake of good form, the coup de grace. Peering more closely at the post, Orne found a clever adjustable pedestal allowing each user to adapt it to his or her own size. Thus the coup de grace, delivered of necessity at a standard height, would not run the risk of missing. A duly lighted notice clarified a few operating procedures. The requisite restraints consisted of thin iron hoops that automatically closed around the body of the self-condemned. As for the body's disposal, a diagram outlined the workings. A door opened behind the post, which turned, then pitched forward as the hoops retracted into their housings. The freed corpse fell into a temporary casket that slid into a slot in a morgue chambered like the barrel of a gun. They'd thought of everything, reflected Orne admiringly.