Eric Chevillard - Palafox

Next into the ring come Nino and his monkey, Nina and her dogs, Antonio and his velocipede. The Human Cannon is unwell. The evening therefore ends with Clara Luzzatto and her ponies. Algernon rubs his hands together, Palafox’s show will go well, he thinks. The program is almost completed in his head. A bold opening: an arrival on tricycle, trumpet improvisations. Real crowd-pleasers. After the laughter, the shivers, Algernon will crack his whip. Stools and hoops on the grass, if time allows, and trapezes in the trees. Yes, he can see it all. Maureen will look smashing in jodhpurs.

Palafox nearly choked to death curled up on his side like a bum. After having tugged in vain on his tether, he started to graze unhungrily just to pass the time, how else could we explain his clockwise course? The cord wrapped around the stake, and with each new lap the tether drew shorter, and tighter for want of slack, as if caught in a collar, the poor thing falling to his knees and onto his side, nearly choking to death. Sure, all he needed to do was turn back in the opposite direction, counter-clockwise, to see comfort once again restored. But Palafox isn’t there yet. He possesses only the fuzziest sense of the interdependence of space and time in his world. He still has to ask the stars (how dare he?) which way to go. Maureen disentangles him, tosses his peanuts into a saucer. Palafox capers about, rolls around at Olympia’s feet, unties the laces of her boots. No, he’s decidedly not an eagle.

Algernon would get a lot more credit if he were able to get the thing to speak. He’s been trying for quite some time. Palafox as his own ringmaster, that’s the idea. Thanks to so many of you for coming, Algernon repeats endlessly into his ear. Chirp, says Palafox. Articulate more clearly, Algernon instructs. Chirp? ventures Palafox. Better. Once again. Chirp! Recites Palafox. And Algernon is so happy he could kiss him. (Ovid, Cato, Petronius and Pliny all mention the art of teaching birds the rudiments of conversation, whereas Cicero’s silence on this matter could be seen as a silent reproach of the practice. Later, Clement of Alexandria scolded women who tried to teach their nightingales. And yet look at where we are now. We hardly read Cicero, Clement of Alexandria wouldn’t manage to find a publisher for his Hypotyposes, Madame, Mademoiselle, Monsieur, your work unfortunately does not quite fall within the constraints of our list — but each night, in spring, in the gardens and the undergrowth, rise the sad songs of the Roman and Greek women they found so frivolous.

Most of Palafox’s lesson-time is devoted these days to matters of elocution. As for the remainder, just tweaking and fine-tuning. His stride, for example, is still somewhat heavy, halting, which wouldn’t be so surprising if he were devoid of limbs. At first glance you’d be so sure he was, you’d take the bet. But he’s just a torso! exclaimed Franc-Nohain after his capture. In reality, the seal has two paws, which may as well be called flippers since the five fingers are joined by webbing — thanks to which he is able to move forward, in spite of everything, painfully sure, as if he were dragging himself forward beneath a sack of geological bric-a-brac. Palafox should shake it off before he enters the living room of La Gloriette, in order to move with ease between tables, and he should trim his mustache, and above all he should overcome his fear of taking his head out of his shoulders. He has made great lingual leaps. Léon, he says while doing cartwheels, Léon, but the next part of his story is less clear. Léon, he keeps repeating, and once again he unfurls the one hundred fifty ocellus feathers of his tail, Léon gyrryrryrryvnid-vnid… Could it be that he knows some bawdy anecdote about one of the thirteen popes that blessed this name? Unless he meant to quote Tolstoy or Trotsky. But, in that case, Tolstoy or Trotsky?

Because of the war, Algernon decides it is preferable to leave the capital. The enemy has mounted a counter-offensive. Their allies are already encircling our allies. We were wrong to empty our borders. Our troops are laying siege to deserted cities, held by a handful of snipers, while the main body of the opposing army advances upon us. Useless to dwell any longer on these events, all this will be told to you in detail after the armistice with a romance as counterpoint, he would be a fighter pilot, she would break enemy lines to find him, hidden in a flour sack or a spare tire, he would be wounded in the course of a raid, she would watch over him night and day, finally he would get his eyesight back and would even be back at the controls of his plane, but wait, will he be able to destroy the arsenal? Or wait, another idea, he will be the lieutenant commander of a warship, she will cross enemy lines to find him, disguised as a barrel of fuel or a lifesaving buoy, he will be wounded in the midst of a mission, she will watch over him night and day, finally he will recover the use of his limbs, will regain command of his vessel, but wait, will he succeed in torpedoing the flagship of the enemy fleet? Thanks to the friendly intervention of General Fontechevade, a one-month leave has been arranged for Supply Corps Lieutenant Chancelade. Thus, it’s time to celebrate, he will be coming back to be with Maureen in La Gloriette.

La Gloriette — Constructed during the reign of Henri IV by Pierre Cormon, intendant of the last duke of Alençon (…) this home, which contributes to the already lovely panorama of the coun tryside, (…) has five windows on its face; the ones that are at the edge of the façade facing south each jut out a dozen feet, an architectural trick that gives the illusion of there being an extra wing (…); the one in the middle serves as a door (…). Although constructed of granite, a difficult stone to work, its angles, the frames of the windows (…) are decorated by bosses cut to a diamond point. (…) The roof is gracefully contoured at the corners with sculpted latticework mansards and leaded bouquets at the gables, (…) nestled rather elegantly into gutters (…) trimmed with balustrades (…). A weather-cock represents a hunter in the midst of shooting a hare. (…) This little castle as finely wrought as a flower (…) seems not even to rest on the ground. (…) The ground floor (…) leads to a broad walk giving onto a bowling-green… Amidst all the houses visited while scouting a location, we have chosen this one, like us, you have scanned the prospectus, somewhat prefab but solid. At least we can agree about that. Olympia and Palafox have settled into Archie’s shed, made of planks and kindling, that one, but built with our own hands, with a view of the sea. The beach is right there. You can hear the cries of children swallowed up by the waves; above the garden, in this sky of fussy gulls and regimented sheep, a kite demonstrates the superiority of loners and shoulder-shruggers, you hear the cries of the child rewinding the string, rewinding, rewinding nothing but wind. The sun appears episodically, indispensable foil of seaside landscapes, immediately bombarded by creamy cumulus clouds (you will not find this defeatist postcard on the racks of the gift shop). There is a warm wind, which also blows through the branches of the walnut tree where Olympia, her parakeet, and Palafox have set up house. That these two climbing birds managed to reach the shack comes of course as no surprise. But an arboreal Olympia leaves us slack-jawed. She gets up there first. Who would have bet on her? She moves with great agility among the branches, from tree to tree even — professor Cambrelin wasn’t wrong, the current classifications of the species does leave something to be desired, too compartmentalized, we change during the course of a life, we evolve, and like the flying fish chased by the conger eel feels its wings growing, Olympia adapts. The theory of transformism is only valid for terrestrial populations, the kangaroo for example will always have feet too big for Melbourne sidewalks. And while man will seek in vain to contact the Martians and fruitlessly send probes into the cosmos, Marsupials sick of being massacred, sick of hearing the jibes directed at them every time they take their offspring for a spin in their pouches, won’t waste a minute re-boarding their spaceship, hidden beneath the Victoria desert, and return to Mars, disappointed, renouncing the notion of establishing good relations with us and telling their relatives and friends who had remained behind, incredulous at first and then horrified, that humans drag their kids around in rickety strollers and fire without warning on interplanetary travelers.