Authors: Eric Chevillard
Palafox (11 page)
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.
(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.
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.
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