Eric Chevillard - Palafox

This respite at La Gloriette isn’t merely strategic. Thus, Palafox will have the time to become familiar with the layout of his future, exploits being too strong a word, and to rehearse his role in the very theater of, operations not being quite right either. Algernon would like to display what Palafox, broken, trained, coached by a refined connoisseur of animal psychology, is capable of. And yet, his performances aren’t limited, disabuse yourselves, merely to displays of athletic superiority. Certainly, he runs faster, longer, jumps higher, further than anyone, and we see that he has mastered swimming, no contest, but that is no reason to conclude, nor on the basis of his brain weighing less than an ounce, that he should remain excluded from the world of art and ideas. Like us, you have heard Palafox discuss the economic policies of Léon Blum and express his admiration (with only minor reservations) for the pamphlets of Léon Bloy.

Olympia never lets Palafox out of her sight. Without her intervention, and only 10 minutes ago, the animal would have been stoned to death. Here’s what happened. Four young lads approaching military age had grabbed, a limb each, a young lass approaching the age at which she might be inclined to send them letters, and raced down the beach with the clear intention to drown their merry captive. This game was all the rage. Another young lass ran beside the group and was photographing it from every angle so that nothing of the scene would be lost and twenty or thirty years later one could laugh as heartily as today. She was the one who slipped on Palafox. The camera fell and smashed on a rock, so many precious touching testaments of our inimitable age that historians will be without, while she sprawled out clumsily, nose in the water but big toe on dry land, about as far from sirendom as one could imagine. Hence, the four young military hopefuls abandoned their war-bride-in-training to steal to the side of the fallen one. Nothing serious, but her foot was itching unbearably. Like poison ivy, she clarified. Palafox was careful not to move. Nearly flat and nearly transparent, trying his best to hide his nematocysts and pass for a plastic bag in the eyes of the nearly-draftables, who were looking around to see what could have caused the double mystery of her skid and her pruritus. Seaweed was ruled immediately out, slippery sure but not prurtitary in the least, then the possibility of an allergy to cold water was discarded, but nothing, then, explained the slide. Of course, a combination of the two could have yielded a satisfactory explanation, the seaweed to blame for the slip and the cold water culpable for the itch, after which the enigma would have been resolved and they could have gotten back to things as they were before, collaring the sweet creature and tossing her into the drink. But it was at this point that the captive caught sight of Palafox. What an odd plastic bag, she remarked while extricating herself. Odd for a plastic bag, came the concession, as she was allowed to wriggle free. A jellyfish! she added while nestling herself in our arms. Pebbles were pouring down on Palafox, crushing his lips and nose, making his various cheekbones swell. He was pretty much torn apart when Olympia interceded. Fortunately, none of his vital organs had been touched. Olympia threatened the killers with their very own weapons, in addition to the pebbles, the translucent shards that the sea spits out and that children fooled in turn pick up and suck like tangy candies. They soon beat a retreat, what a good start, even if they did shout obscenities, albeit from a safe distance. A bit unsettled, Olympia leaned down over Palafox. He was wagging his tail, a good sign. For creatures of his species, such spasms are indicative of everything being for the best. Palafox writhed in the sand, lying on his right side, lifting himself up a few inches before falling once again onto the same spot on his left side — thus a sole, in a world created by someone with a really practical mind, would turn of its own accord in the frying pan. Merciful God, a thousand thanks, Olympia knew which end to grab him by, for there aren’t thirty six ways to catch a crab without risking the loss of a finger, and so farewell Chopin, bye-bye Liszt, kiss triumphant recitals across the globe goodbye. But Olympia, again thanks, knew the technique. She caught Palafox by the scruff of the neck, placed him into the water. He swam swiftly from the shore, splashing a little pot-bellied fellow, immersed up to his navel, sitting as if at his table in the middle of the Atlantic as though he were watching for the imminent arrival of a ship full of rum, smoked meats, dried cod and exotic fruits, all that was missing was a plate and a tablecloth, otherwise he would drink a jet of wine.

How’s the water? Wonders the wife of the empurpled bather who shivers and does his stretches in front of the Buffoons’ umbrella, hardly concerned about obstructing our otherwise excellent view, an eyesore spoiling the otherwise excellent view, etc., the caretakers, paid to care, won’t tarry in their expulsion of this iconoclast from the maritime museum of Willem Van de Velde the Younger. The sea is of a gray tending to blue tending to green (this green tending to gray tending to blue, this blue tending to green tending to gray), she is oil before the swell, oil after the swell, she is salted, refreshing, bumpy, navigable, shipwreck-prone, oil-bearing, all-consuming, fishy, crashing, haemostatic, roaring and abnormally silent… Cold when you get in, the lout continues, delicious when you’re in, cold when you’re out, then he bent over all the way, he flopped down and our horizon brightened, which we scanned for the familiar silhouette of Palafox — in vain. Olympia immediately thinks the worst. Maureen sniffles. Algernon lists the reasons for hope. First of all, Palafox can remain up to ninety minutes beneath the surface. A privilege of amphibians who may choose between our world and the depths. We rarely see them. They rise to the surface to breathe and, their cup full, dive below once again. Palafox has still a good quarter of an hour left to be carefree. But have no fear, he’ll be back. Be aware, Olympia, that the leftovers of our meals, all mashed together, however lovingly arranged, don’t begin to do it for an animal nursed on plankton. As stunning as this may seem, these microscopic creatures constitute Palafox’s only food. And he does well by it given that his weight, between a hundred and two hundred tons, is comparable with that of fifteen hundred protesters, according to the police, or three thousand according to the organizers, if you think that the disgruntled participant averages around one hundred and forty pounds, it’s roughly that, angry senior citizens and pregnant women cancel each other out.

Maureen blows her nose and mouths a smile, blowfly and young mouse, Maureen has such fine features. She rises. Remarried to a scarlet snorer, the ex-wife of the empurpled bather is painting a watercolor. The paper still seems blank, but as she gets closer Maureen makes out traces of pale color, barely differentiated, as if the watercolorist had drenched her brush in the palest of infusions, cloudy lemony verbena for the hesitant sky, lime-blossom mint tea for the smooth surface of the sea, with a teaspoon and a half of salt for flavor. Maureen likes it, but you’re going to need a drop of strong coffee to paint Palafox’s black fin, over there, oh there he is, at last. (Howling from the watercolorist.) Where would she get a bugle — that subtle instrument that calls us to supper and to battle, two popular melodies massacred by cellists — if a bugle is not at hand, the ex-wife of the scarlet snorer, her third husband is a pale ghost, shouts until she’s hoarse. Panic all of a sudden. Once again, the clamor of men rises to compete with that of the sea. Bathers surge into the surf. The little pot-bellied man backs away from the table, turning over his chair. Suddenly no one knows how to swim anymore, elementary strokes are forgotten, all we can recall are the steps for a waltz, boxing moves, we dribble, we flip, we cobble, we knit, each according to his formative years, pedaling hard, knocking down walls, doing what we must to make the beach ours again, somehow. But Palafox, much more quickly, making up for lost time, gets dangerously close to the bathers. He overtakes them all. He finds footing on the rocks, flaps his wings, not angry in spite of everything to find himself once again where cows tread.