Eric Chevillard - Palafox

The sea withdraws with a bow, a thousand ironic curtsies to the disappointed children, looking ridiculous behind their fortresses of sand. The young students from the Maginot school of architecture spent their afternoon organizing the defense. They built quite a bastion, fortifying walls with seaweed and stone, digging moats, everything ready for the siege, the Ocean will be in for quite a surprise, the Ocean is going to fall flat on its face, let it launch its attack, we will wait firm-footed, we’ve got a nasty surprise in store for it, and yet not only does the Ocean refuse battle but it surrenders to us a vast building plot and tons of raw materials… Tomorrow, my dear, we’re leaving now. But mom! But mom! But we won’t have any but-moms. Taking up the defense at the rear, mothers demolish their children, slap them and drag them away. Olympia is gentler with Palafox, more patient, infinitely more delicate, and anyway the little urchin doesn’t put up a fight.

For the night, he enjoys an old zinc bowl encrusted in madrepore, shells and white pebbles. Maureen Buffoon decorated it. The important thing is that Palafox feel at home here, the hollowed-out cephalothorax of a spider-crab will be his cozy nest. On Olympia’s bedside table, the bowl occupies the space ordinarily reserved for her wig. They go to sleep this way, the two of them, telling each other about their day. Tonight, the distance makes them raise their voices. So, begins Olympia. The conversation, confidences exchanged in the tenor of a harangue, nothing hidden, everything said, nothing invented that isn’t shared, the conversation ends up boring Palafox. Ejecting himself from the basin, he glides for a moment through the shack, propelled by his powerful pectoral fins, before collapsing, cold and slimy, between Olympia’s breasts, which withdraw rather than heave, oh well, if she doesn’t want it she doesn’t want it. The rejected animal releases his octopodal grip with considerable regret and slinks away like a bundle of laundry, a cowl and four pair of pants, back into the basin.

Despite calls to order reiterated by Algernon, Palafox persists in throwing himself under the skirts of visitors, without inhibition he sniffs their ankles and hands, approving of them or not. Nearly deaf — he hears only at the ultrasonic level — stricken with color-blindness, surrounding reality always appears to him in black and white despite the breakthrough of Technicolor — he depends on his sense of smell to determine his interactions. Since the beginning, Chancelade has seemed unpleasant to him. Although the lieutenant wears a cologne containing essence of violet, such a bloodhound won’t be fooled, who smells goat hidden under the little flowers. Circumstances become aggravated, Palafox can’t stand the sight of a uniform. Chancelade, crouched before the basin, makes a mistake tickling him with his riding crop in such a way that he shouldn’t really be surprised to receive a sepia splash across the front of his regulation uniform. He arrived in the cool of the morning. Maureen was still sleeping, head on her folded arm, brunette and pale for Palafox, brunette beyond a shadow of doubt, yet delicately tanned, if you were to ask the soldier’s opinion. Maureen opened her eyes, gray-blue or green-gray or blue-green or gray-blue-green, and delicious when you’re in, and cold when you are out, poor us, who will hereafter encounter only the stares of black olives, marbles in the mud. A ray of light made them blink, Maureen coughed — as for her, it is the fluttering of her long lashes, long long lashes, that gives her a cold. At last, she saw, identified, nestled into, slipped beneath Chancelade. Forget the pretexts collected above by Palafox. His hate is sheer jealousy. With us, he is timid and grumpy. He tolerates Olympia who suckles him, brushes him, walks him. The four zoologists only arouse his distrust. But he loves Maureen. For her, he would go to the ends of the earth. When she leaves he’s barely alive, his anxious eyes seek her everywhere. Behind him, no one. To his right, no one. But look, straight ahead, here she comes. Palafox shoots a glance to the left nonetheless, just to be sure. Then his beak starts twitching, his gullet turns a deep violet, wings flutter, eighty beats per second to rise against the gale, mounting, spinning, lighter than his feathers, poised between heaven and earth. All this high drama, for her.

However, Palafox only obeys his master. He is obedient with Algernon. Their sessions in the water have recommenced. This one directs that one from the shore. They work on conditioning as much as they do technique. The former is satisfying. Palafox develops into a powerhouse of 520 horsepower, his average speed approaches fifteen miles-per-hour, peaking at twenty-five, but, still according to his trainer, his margin for improvement is staggering. After warm-ups, they move on to games of skill, Algernon expects this aquatic act to be the lynchpin of the whole show. He claps his hands once, and Palafox propels himself from the water, spindle-shaped and case-hardened, aerodynamic, gaining altitude, then falling, or so it appears, changing course before diving down once again. Algernon claps twice and Palafox catches a rubber ring while in the air. Three times, and Palafox juggles, a bowling pin balanced on his nose, a red balloon balanced on the bowling pin, and bowling pin balanced on the red balloon. Four times, he balances on his tail and poises himself on the crest of the waves, without apparent effort, it’s Algernon we must congratulate. A few minutes of rest have been well-earned. Palafox swims slowly toward the shore; the blurred mass of his body grows more distinct, only his eyes and his tightly set nostrils break the surface. He heaves himself onto a rock, takes root. Where he comes to rest he tends to stay. Palafox always experiences great difficulty tearing himself away. This time again, Algernon comes to his aid. He slips the blade of his knife between the rock and the ventral suction cup of his shell. Palafox skids, freed from all fetters, diving head-first into the water. Back to work. Algernon casts the familiar parts. Maureen rejoins Palafox and sits astride his back. She mounts bareback, arms and legs bare, holding onto the animal’s fins. As expected, Palafox crosses the bay, as expected Maureen waves her hand. Not bad, Algernon notes to himself, certain transitions still lumber, tomorrow we’ll work on timing. But enough for today, time for bed. The day is winding down, soon Algernon loses sight of Palafox and his rider. They approach the horizon and enter the open sea. Maureen embraces Palafox, cheek against soft, smooth little head. Full steam ahead.

A meeting is held at La Gloriette. Has Palafox stolen Maureen away? Has Maureen stolen away with Palafox? Is the duo in cahoots? Where is he taking her? Or is it she who is taking him? Olympia defends Palafox. Chancelade defends Maureen. Olympia rather suspects Maureen. Chancelade rather suspects Palafox. What does it matter, Algernon interrupts, we have to find them, they are at risk either way, thirst and hunger, or the opposite, worse still, drowning, sharks. The Rémora is anchored in the bay, let’s go, Sadarnac will be only too happy to be of use to us. Algernon is correct, the captain offers his services, they set sail immediately. The sea was this calm when I first captured Palafox in the West Indies, Sadarnac recounts, taking advantage of the opportunity, and the night was just as dark. Oh, let him talk. The lights of the coast go out one by one, it is late, the listless men snuff their candles out. There is no looming sign of the storm which would have mauled our ship, a tempest the likes of which has never blown in the memory of any sailor on the seven seas, the Rémora dances like a cork on the waves, like a dead fish, beneath red skies, while the passengers drenched to the bone, to avoid being carried away by the waves sweeping over the deck, bind themselves to the mast, distinguishing already in the tangle of swaying rigging and through the tracery of tatters of sail the black shapes of foaming reefs, look-alikes for the monsters of legend, and gusts shred the forestaysail, the foresail, the spanker and the royal, an overexcited special envoy photographs the shipwreck for the Olympia Gazette, powerful lightening bolts pierce the clouds, so many sensational snapshots, the flying jib ripped to ribbons, the horn of the mizzen broken, the tangled topsail, and amidst all of these the one I like best, Sadarnac tied upside-down to his useless rudder and everywhere on deck the debris of shattered row-boats, we lean on the ship’s rail, splashed by the spray, the sea breeze plays like a child’s hand in our hair. Chancelade directs a beam of light onto the water’s surface, cast by a pivoting projector fastened to the front of the ship. You’ll see how they’re going to turn up, Palafox will be irresistibly attracted by the fishing lamp, last time it wasn’t… there! cries Chancelade… long, what did I tell you, says Sadarnac shutting off his motor. Algernon tosses a life preserver overboard. Maureen, no strength left in her, hangs on, a shivering Palafox curled up in a ball under her arm.