Palafox

10

They did not hesitate to ditch every one and thing to join us, their students, their families, their workbenches, as soon as they received Algernon’s alarming letter they packed their bags, professors Baruglio, Pierpont and Zeiger are La Gloriette’s invitees. You come in too, Cambrelin, since you’re here. The four zoologists lean forward. Baruglio moves aside to let Pierpont pass who moves aside to let Zeiger pass, Cambrelin didn’t have to be asked twice, behind him the three others bump into each other and curse, recall that Pierpont can’t stand Zeiger who can’t stand Baruglio, he who allied himself with the entomologist against the ornithologist, it’s all perfectly clear, it would be unfortunate that a simple question of entrance protocol condemns us to interrupt this story, whatever one might think of it, so close to the end. But Cambrelin steps back out to press on his colleagues, and it’s the same melee all over again. Just as we are on the brink of throwing this manuscript into a drawer, bitterly, to accommodate the touchiness of four professors — indeed, why introduce this one before that one? — Maureen holds us back (inspiration therefore is a pale little face with shimmering eyes), closes the drawer, then leans to open another door by the window and the pace of our story picks up, our invitees barrel into the hall where Olympia waits for them, so there you are, who gives each of them a copy of the preceding chapter. You should know, adds Algernon while they bring themselves up to date on the latest events, you should know, I, in essence, am telling them, that the castration of Palafox has done nothing to modify his anti-social behavior. Yesterday, he bit the mailman and the milkman. As a result, neither milk nor mail this morning, sad breakfast that. Later, a vendor of marble headstones who’d heard about Chancelade’s misadventures came to see what had happened, we reassured him, Chancelade will pull through, the state of my health seemed to concern him, Maureen’s lack of appetite, Olympia, her fear of water in particular, it all interested him. And then Palafox charged and began making loops around his head, cawing, the little guy didn’t take it very well, summer or winter you can count on him, day as night, one cry and he’ll be there. But not all our visitors have his patience, someone will end up trampling Palafox underfoot. We had him well in hand however, he obeyed our orders, pooping in the sawdust at last, and only in the sawdust, no longer eating his fleas, walking upright on two paws, even beginning to talk.

Algernon’s discouragement and discomfort are justifiable, the date of the exhibition approaches, but Palafox has never been less presentable. Now, he barely recognizes us. He won’t give us his paw. He doesn’t come when we whistle. He flees our company, as if he were suddenly afraid of us, takes off as if spooked, flies into the windowpane, tries to hide under the furniture, between the floorboards, comes to rest on the ceiling and stays glued there until dark. Thanks to darkness — rabble finds a friend in darkness — he steals into the cellar and dips into our stores of sugar, rice, coffee, cookies, you never know with this war, he eats his way into our hams, this must end.

We may as well admit it: we are seriously considering getting rid of Palafox. Pupi Luzzatto, contacted by Algernon, offers him a good price. The first number in his program — for the record: Lorenzo, Dino, Stefano, Pietro, Oneto, and Claudio kneel, on the shoulders of whom heave themselves then kneel, Francisco, Luciano and Silvio, on the shoulders of whom heave themselves then kneel Carlo and Domenico, on the heads of whom heaves himself then kneels little Giaquinto — would be even more dazzling were Palafox, with a flutter of wings, to come to perch on the head of little Giaquinto. But the Luzzatto Circus isn’t the only party interested in Palafox. A fight promoter dreams of pitting him against a cock from the Barbary coast, and against a mongoose should he win, and a panther should he triumph, and an aurochs should he triumph, and so on. This sort of spectacle brings the public back to theater, he argues. A good story, well constructed, with unexpected reversals, no digressions or dull patches, an unrelenting dramatic tension, a real suspense from beginning to end, believe me, people will be fighting to get a seat. Yes, or perhaps, but no. No, Algernon says ‘no’ flat out, we won’t let a panther tear Palafox apart (easy winner over the cock and the mongoose) just for the pleasure of the gallery. We hesitate at greater length before declining El Bravo’s proposition, henceforth illustrious Spanish matador, resplendent in matadorial dress — less under consideration, his French equivalents must content themselves with blue and white checkered shirts — for we know Palafox is capable of being the first to gore this handsome hunk. There is always a risk. El Bravo leans over the cadaver studded with banderillas, slices off its ears, its tail, brandishing them to the cheering crowd, one would think he held a toppled tyrant by his hair, the people on their feet cry his name, El Bravo places the trophy on the knees of a señorita overcome with emotion, blushing, who holds it to her heart while batting her lashes and who will keep them on her nightstand long into the future. There are bloody games that passion can forgive, Algernon admits, so long as when we think back on them with a cool head they inspire remorse. Palafox will not die in the arena. Nor will we upon reflection sell him to Pupi Luzzatto. If the animal were disposed to circus life, we would readily exploit those talents ourselves. But Algernon doesn’t think it very likely. Lazing in the sun with his muzzle between his paws, larking about in the hunting ground or in the scrub brush, lying in wait, immobile, to pounce upon his prey, to be consumed raw, then a tongue twenty inches long launches from his mouth, a faded red carpet leading dynastic scarab beetles down into the depths of the palace, the queen-ants and her seconds who will never see the light again, Palafox drinks the dew from a calyx, hoots with a full moon in the background, reads Shakespeare in the stars when among them are enough bats for the bad parts, and falls quadripelegically asleep as if he had done anything more than break stones since dawn — no, it would seem that none of these tricks is well-suited to the ring.

And why not break stones? Why not work, be useful, take children for walks in the square, or harnessed to a fine barouche take tourists through town turning monuments to see into monuments seen, rid attics of rats, watch the herds, harvest bananas for us from up in the stratosphere, or find truffles for us six feet underground, guide blind men through the maze of streets, gather the hay, pull the plow, clear trees, load the timber, maneuver the press and the noria, we lack workers, Algernon enumerates a few of the careers that are wide open to Palafox, and those he forgets we willingly add, save the unlucky buried beneath rubble or under avalanche, a little barrel of rum around his neck, carry coded messages to our spies, return to the dovecoat with microfilm, or place mines beneath the hulls of enemy ships.

Why not entrust him to me, Cambrelin proposes — who secretly hopes to learn through proximity the art and technique of pilot — fish, to then catch a big blue shark and at last get his revenge on life, which is to say on women who reject him, finding him too young then, the next day, much too old for them, adding with a bit of meanness you stink of algae. Baruglio has perfected an anti-venom serum, now he needs the toxin, Pierpont has an insecticide that he wants to test — for different reasons, the three other zoologists covet Palafox equally. Zeiger is planning an ornithological expedition which will cross the Sahara, if he manages to find some camels, and will then make his way to Asia which he expects to cross on mule back, if he manages to find some mules, before undertaking the long return voyage via Northern Siberia and the Laplands, so that was it, he needed a sixth reindeer for his team. Algernon pretends not to understand. He won’t part with Palafox for anything, the animal cost us so much, in oats, in water fleas, in white mice, which is not to begin to mention Olympia’s upkeep. We intend to get something out all of this, if not some fabulous profit, at least to break even. However, Palafox’s market value remains well below what we’ve spent thus far in upkeep, in the cost of sponges alone to clean up after him, we’re not even close — and yet this one here, come closer Mesdames come closer, not only will it absorb and scour but, do not fear Mesdames come closer, is so powerful it will clean on its own once you teach it the motions, if you are slow and patient with it, and will whistle while it works, whose presence will serve as a definitive deterrent against burglars and neighbors who come to borrow, what cynicism, margarine.

Certainly, we would be wrong to sell him to the first housewife or coral-collector to come calling. Piecemeal retail is the way to go. One example of a thousand — but we’ll list them all, you’re getting to know our tricks — Palafox will be of interest to jewelers, knowing that his tusks weigh, one two hundred seventeen, the other two hundred twenty six pounds, so 217+226, four hundred forty-three pounds of pure ivory to sell, to chisel, to polish, which trinkets will then be aged with walnut stain, having belonged to Yong-Io, of the Ming Dynasty, and which will then be easily sold off — knowing that the pearl from his shell, sliced thin and set in the gossamer net of the rose gold crown, will add sparkle to Madame Fontechevade’s conversation, above all when our old rejuvenated friend will have set the pearl sold with it into a ring, and wear it around her neck, so that the finery is completed, this magnificent necklace of alternating claws and teeth, a claw a tooth a claw etc. - knowing then that the multicolored back of his carapace, hollowed, bared, varnished, and lined with velvet, will be fitted with a silver lid. In this way, Madame Fontechevade will make use of a superb jewelry box in which to keep her booty safe. Or a candy-dish, or why not a sewing kit. Or a makeup kit with all the paraphernalia — because Palafox will prove of interest to cosmetics barons and perfume makers — horsehair brushes, silk brushes, pearl combs, down powder-puffs, brushes made of delicate hairs, musk and civet extracts, blush for cheeks and shadow for lids, rouges made from tallow and carmine (that lover who places a kiss on those painted lips, in addition to that adorable little mouth, kisses too hundreds and hundreds of crushed and pressed Mexican cochineals, then melted into a tube of animal fat, it seems normal to us that he would be alerted to that, if he were looking for a pretext to escape, he’s got it). One more word on this subject — amber-a pretty, vague word, is actually an intestinal secretion. The gray amber Palafox produces will be used in the making of heady perfumes… but let us leave the general’s wife to her boudoir. Palafox will be of interest to milliners, clever scheming monarchists who confect queenly coiffeurs for their clients out of ribbon and rags and the solitary aigrette of a crowned crane. Feathersellers will buy the black and white remexes from his wings, out of which they will design costumes for the stage. Thus disguised, the girl from the chorus line becomes irresistible, infinitely more desirable than a plain woman, the clot of spectators swollen to bursting with desire would pay anything to touch her (there are those nonetheless who remain stone-faced, there are those who take offence, those who think it’s a ruse). Furriers and skinners will line up as well. Palafox’s fur is doubtless our most valuable commodity, we will negotiate accordingly. The artisan will do with it as he pleases, this partisan of the royalist plot, tailoring for some arrogant lady far richer than she is cold a panoply fit for Russian princesses, coat, muff stole, toque, mittens and linings for boots, or instead elect to treat with moth-repellant this silky bedside throw, its four paws outstretched, its head and tail intact. At the hour when lions drink, others are trampled underfoot, flabbergasted carnivorous carpets, perfectly inoffensive if they slip into our dreams, it is absolutely time for us men to go to sleep.

(Tan or tannin, according to Webster, is a brownish or yellowish substance found in plants and used in tanning, dyeing, and as an astringent, making skin rotproof. Webster’s also says that tannin can produce ink, perhaps that’s the secret of those books that become immortal? No of course, what an idea, still we should admit to having gotten our hands on some of this ink, a barrelful, as a joke, for fun, gallons and gallons of the ink, and another barrel, defiantly, in order to last, in order to be read until the end of time, day and night until all the lights go out for good.) Tanned therefore, then curried, mollified, Palafox’s leather will find its way into the hands of a fine leather craftsman, and from there, emblazoned with a crest, provided with a zipper, on the pilot’s shoulders, one of these brave men who even as we write this are bombarding enemy villages, if all is going as planned. But we can nonetheless hope that it will be allocated differently, that the girdle makers and bookbinders will fight over his glossy, flexible skin. By their own admission, there is no finer material to work with than galuchat, named after its discoverer, Monsieur Galuchat, who was the first to have the idea to use the skin of a shark to slim down the silhouette of his wife, fat Madame Galuchat. We will happily pit them against the upholsterers, leather-workers, glove makers and bookmakers, who will not hesitate to outbid the others to get their hands on the piece, since crocodile pumps, it seems, are back in style.

Palafox’s nasal horn won’t be on our hands for long either. They’ll fight over that too. A persistent rumor in Asia, spread by traffickers, attributes astonishing properties to it. Ground, crushed, mixed with a little water, isn’t it said to supply those unlikely to tolerate their profiles in a mirror with renewed vigor and vitality, whether disgraced lovers, flaccid fellows, dried out old men, or limp little fuckers? Crushed, ground, mixed with a little water, we stand by it.

Two days later, Algernon received the recipes from Madame Fontechevade. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves, we’ll slow things down to seconds (insects of the order siphonaptera that are about an eighth of an inch long, with rear hopping legs and a proboscis designed to suck up human blood, according to professor Pierpont’s definition) before ringed eternity, consisting of a succession of legless segments, seals the fate of seconds and our own. We recalled therefore this oriental legend in which the dead awaken and smile again, among other things, thanks to the virtues of the elixir with a base made from the ground horn prepared by their widows. Chancelade seemed distracted. All of a sudden he struck his forehead. Eureka, he cried while picking up his shako, we’ll fatten Palafox, force-feed him chickpeas, like filling him up with gold, his hypertrophied liver will be our ingot, a rare commodity, priceless, do you have a funnel? But the duration of the operation and the risks incurred by this or that person charged with holding Palafox still between his thighs was enough just thinking about it to dissuade us. Nonetheless, Chancelade was right about one thing: Palafox, already so charming and in addition worthy of admiration, would doubtless be, as much as for his qualities as a loyal companion, appreciated for his meat. The list of potential buyers is already approaching infinity, to which now we’re to add roasters and skinners? And why deal with the middlemen? Why not go straight to the consumer? We could slice him up ourselves, price out the parts, brain, sirloin, breast, sparerib, rump, collar, ribs, hocks, rack, filet, tongue, kidneys, tripe, haunches, bacon, sweet-breads, saddle, heart, flank, shoulder, spare ribs, to each his own, everyone gets some, and the head of household grants himself the gizzard his wife and kids coveted, quia nominor leo. But why resort to consumers? Algernon asked the question. The friends I invited to come cheer Palafox, since because of him I’ve had to cancel the spectacle I’d promised them, will console themselves by devouring him, which would make for a memorable feast. Madame Fontechevade has recipes passed down from her mother whose mother passed them down to her, etc., savory recipes dictated to her grandmother by her own father, one of these all-powerful master-chefs who transform the world into an edible pumpkin with a plain wooden spoon. She will be happy to send them our way, she has a big heart. Two days later, she did.

Pluck Palafox while he’s still warm, begins the letter from the general’s wife, without beating around the bush. Clip fins and tail. Put him on his back and cut into the underside of the rump. Remove the air bladder, the intestines and other viscera and make sure not to puncture the sac of venom. Roll him back over, cut the neck, scald the paws to remove the skin. Bone, dress, stuff with garlic bread, baste with lard and braise. Allow it to brown. Then add butter and diced onion to it and allow that to brown. Collect the soft roe in a bowl. When Palafox’s redness is gone, add salt and dust with flour. Add white wine and bouillon, an equal amount of cider, pick it up with thyme, horseradish, spices, ground pepper and a pinch of cayenne. Figure an hour and a half cooking time (stir regularly from right to left). Add pitted olives, sliced pickles, a teaspoon of mustard and twelve little quartered mushrooms. Return the casserole to full boil for ten minutes. Skim off the fat, bind with starch from the refrigerator. Turn it out of the pan, glaze it with the cooking liquid and the roe, sprinkle parsley, garnish with halved hard-boiled eggs and send to the table with tomato puree or boiled potatoes (serve a ravigote sauce on the side). Another suggestion, submerge Palafox alive in a pot of boiling water. Add shallots, bouquet garni, lemon zest, sweet pepper, saffron, chervil and a finger of Madeira. Beat with a whisk. Cover. Let it cook over a high flame for a good two hours. Then coarsely dice Palafox (carefully remove all the small bones), thicken the juice, marinate. When the pieces are golden, season with sweet peppers, shaved truffles, tarragon and ground nutmeg (optionally cinnamon and clove). Cover it all in small bards of lard. Serve with Creole rice. Or…. Madame Fontechevade lists a dozen such recipes. In the pan, on the spit, in the oven, braised, court-bouilloned, on coals or under embers, such that one would believe Palafox equally succulent grilled, breaded, minced, raw or spiced. Finally she recommends, should we wish to eat him later, that we first salt and then smoke the animal, you never know with this war, you just might find yourself very thankful to have stocked provisions. Start by curing the meat in a bath of spiced vinegar (7 oz) and crushed juniper berries (.7 oz), submerge it in a bucket of brine with a pinch of saltpeter for every pound of salt, do whatever else you can think of during the next three weeks, then take it out, drain it, hang it in your chimney and smoke it under beech or laurel, wait a few more days, take it out, rub it with ashes, wrap it in a thick cloth, dear friends, be well, be careful, cover yourselves when you get out of the bath.

Algernon exults, we’ll have to figure on a month if we prepare Palafox according to Madame Fontechevade’s recipe, and since the reception is going to take place in exactly one month, everything is going according to plan, our job will have been to adjust the various gears in this delicate chronometrical instrument, with patience and meticulousness, without throwing a wrench into the rhythm of the saga. Slaughter Palafox immediately. This morning, he slit the throat of Olympia’s parakeet, the little bloody ruffled body which he didn’t devour right away, that he toyed with for hours, of which he grew bored, to which he returned, the little green bird intriguing him much as ram’s testicles intrigue us when served in white sauce announced coldly by that mistress of the house however little inclined she is to salacious asides, we’ve all been there, what do you do? — what face to put on, what place setting to use, is this really edible? — and we decide to adopt the same behavior of the other guests before trying whatever it is, they seem neither surprised nor amused nor disgusted, use the fork, and it seems excellent, Palafox drove the cat away that had claimed the corpse but then Palafox ate the rest. Olympia, for her part, despite her resentment, refuses to wring his neck. Chancelade volunteers. Chancelade is still suffering from the wounds Palafox inflicted. He grabs a knife in his fist and heads towards Palafox, bound. Seeing Chancelade approaching, the animal changes color, reclothed in the livery of ferocious animals and venomous insects, alternating yellow and black stripes-a disarming defensive strategy — Chancelade blanches, how typical, and drops his weapon. Console yourself, Cambrelin says, with the knowledge that his drab flesh would have left you with little more than the aftertaste of silt and worms, a mouthful of bones, tough and riddled with nerves, adds Zeiger, somewhat fermented, adds Baruglio, and very toxic, concludes Pierpont, and anyway the flagellate protozoans are hell on your system, Palafox included, be consoled: he was inedible.