Palafox

11

And then there’s the matter of our becoming attached to these creatures despite ourselves, it is possible, after so long, Palafox is like a member of the family by now, neither more nor less, he’s a part of the furniture, his death would bring sadness, and that sadness would be relayed by faint nostalgia on the second step of this spiral staircase leading to the dungeon of oblivion where he would be forgotten. And while abandoning him is very tempting, he would surely find us again, whether he had to cross oceans or deserts, he would make his way back to La Gloriette, mangy, scabby, skinny, he would roll around at our feet, he would lick our fingers, no, Chancelade, find another way.

Maureen’s idea, on the other hand, let Maureen have the credit since she hasn’t had much of an opportunity to talk, Maureen’s idea is altogether tenable — what if we were to offer him to a public park to decorate its main pool? Maureen’s idea is altogether tenable, anyone who has seen Palafox slide down a wave would agree with us that his place is there. He swims, one wonders how, without breaking ice or ruining anything. Stately, aware of his standing, he bows to his reflection. Here, Palafox fears no one. He is his own master, his own humble servant. In the background, leaves and fountains, you wouldn’t find him in some hovel with crumbling walls. His two profiles are equally beautiful. A sketch artist would begin by tracing the upper part of the beak, without lifting his charcoal pencil the curve of his skull, the undulating line of his neck, the curve of his back, without lifting his charcoal pencil the contour of his curled tail, a line like the calm surface of a lake, then the bulge in his belly, the curve of neck up to the beak, which he will be able to close at last, but no, he drops his charcoal pencil, he gives up, he’s sprained his wrist, and anyway we don’t like his drawing at all, it looks like a fan in a saxophone, let him keep it. Palafox is oblivious. He floats. He picks up no passengers. He takes silence for a sail. His plumage is white (subject verb complement, we would prefer to stop there, believe us, but were we to do so we would be endlessly referring our readers to notes at the bottom of the pages, to addenda at the end of the book, where we would develop, elaborate, explicate each of our comments, that’s no life either. White, for example, white means nothing, an empty notion, a suspicious tint, beware of optical illusions, of false witnesses, get past it, double-check everything, a trained eye never is fooled, snow is blue, pale, very pale, but blue, sheep are beige, teeth yellow, milk pistachio, gun red, the race pink, nights of insomnia the color of ink and all these translucid pages to blacken still, Palafox’s plumage is white). Two short webbed feet, poorly suited, as our shoulder blades are to gliding, Palafox when out of water yomps, suddenly disgraceful, ridiculous. Take pity on him, you see that he has trouble breathing, put him back in the pool. When half asphyxiated he can’t move, or a little, a convulsion. His swollen lower lip is distended, trembling, his eyes are glassy. Get him something to drink, quick. Like a crumpled carnation in the boutonniere of a dead man, his bronchia. Another convulsion. He’s going to die, help him. Palafox makes hands sticky, impregnates your clothes with his stubborn scent (you’re seeing someone else and don’t even try to deny it). Easy does it, release him above his pool. Splash, so-called splash. Palafox breathes. Weak motions of his tail to begin, swimming on his side, Indian-stroke; back to life, he dives for the bottom, Palafox red in the limpid pool, easy to follow with your eyes. He does not stray far from the edge, reduced to begging. Children lure him with crusts of bread. Palafox hereafter, summer as winter, an autumn leaf, decorates the great pool. That’s all they ask of him. He does what he wishes with his time. From morning to night, then, this wisher shares his leisure with dead rats and other souls in torment. He swells, he floats, he wastes away. His scales grow yellow. A scrawny cat leaps onto the cement rim, he hides a fork in his sleeve, Palafox will not escape him, Maureen, is this really the end you would want for him?

Maureen cannot understand her father’s reproaches. She swears it wasn’t her idea. Someone has slandered me. Algernon is willing to believe her. Anyway, if it were up to Maureen, we’d keep Palafox. She climbs onto his back, she pretends to take his bone, Palafox doesn’t hurt her at all. But if Chancelade tries to play with them… Chancelade is acting on our orders, he immediately ties one, two, three pans to Palafox’s tail, as a joke, and then a ladle. Palafox registers the change. First, the good news: Chancelade isn’t going back to the front — where, it seems, right now, sparks are flying — tomorrow as planned. The bad news, once again he has lost a lot of blood.

Be not the producer of effects that should neglect the bidding of the beastie, professor Zeiger quotes his master Guillaume Tardif, author of the treatise The Art of Falconry, a remarkable work in every way but which nonetheless sold not altogether well in its day, 1492, because of the simultaneous appearance of a collection of indiscreet remarks and gossip, more commercial of course, History of the Wrangles Between Pope Boniface VIII and Philippe the Handsome, King of France (out of print). Zeiger was able to find the passage where Tardif described Palafox, according to him, Palafox exactly — here: rounde heade high and talle; a fat short beake; longue neck; broade plumpe breast, skeetish, harde and stong of bone. And, for them among their kinde with thighs slight and weake, they fight with clawes; their haunches high; longues winges that at rest lay crossed upon the taile; a shorte and shorte-tempered taile; nimble faethers, cacheted, spaerse and sublime; a ready red beneath the winges, well spread, fingers longue as well, fine aflight, bold to attackerie toward all manner and prey of means. Yes, admittedly, somewhat disturbing, but how can we be sure it refers to our Palafox? Tardif’s falcon shares its traits, but we can’t really say much more. Call up your memories, you are still a child, you are walking with an uncle in the country. The fine fellow is teaching you the names of flowers, pointing out the cepes, the chanterelles, the morels, and never touch the death caps, you moron, he slaps you and regrets it immediately, wiggles his hips; like a golfer he hits a puffball with his cane which explodes strangely as it takes off from the ground and spits behind it its smoke of red spores, you laugh between your tears, at that moment your uncle stifles a cry, you search out the bird he’s pointing at with his index finger, up there, look, immobile in the sky, above the field, it’s a buzzard. Your uncle enthrones himself on a stump, thumbs under his armpits, he has a belly, you believe everything he says. You’ll swallow anything. Perhaps it is a buzzard. Or a harrier, or an osprey, or a merlin, a sparrowhawk, a goshawk, a kite, or perhaps a falcon after all, and beware of the mushrooms he pointed out, at this distance, how can one be sure that that one is a buzzard? Another thing, Tardif’s falcon never let’s his prey escape. He collapses on the desperate bird and carries it away, plucked, gutted, to his master. Palafox, you know, would more likely marry the dove.

Broaches, ornaments, bookends, piggybanks, buoys, stuffed animals, toys on wheels or whatever, let us end there our enumeration of articles that could be made in Palafox’s image and that we could mass-produce and unleash on the marketplace, our profits would be considerable, but Algernon wouldn’t have his heart in that kind of business (the kind of heart, let it be said between us and in passing as with everything else, the kind of heart at the mercy of an able pick-pocket). Algernon cares for the rosebushes. Algernon collects old earthenware.

Straight and curved scissors, thinning shears, brush, wool card, three hand clippers, #00 ( of an inch), #0 (⅛ of an inch), #1 ( of an inch), Olympia outfits herself. The Modern Style is accepted but a Lion Style, of equal quality, will be given preference. Go for the Lion Groom. Maureen will help Olympia, Algernon will keep Palafox on the kitchen table. The standard of the Lion Groom is very specific, disqualifies those who stray from it, the subject will be shaved on his hindquarters up to his sides. Also shaved will be: the snout, above and below, beginning with his lower lids; the cheeks; front and rear legs, except the cuffs or wristbands, and the optional patterns on the hindquarters; the tail, with the exception of an oblong pompon at the end. Moustache is required for all contestants. The shaping of the fur around the front paws, referred to as bloomers, is allowed. Palafox primped and groomed into such a shape will thus make his appearance in tomorrow’s competition, and if he wins the title we’ll keep him. Everything was decided quickly. Olympia, therefore, was changing the creature’s litter — yesterday’s scoops tossed onto the dump heap, fresh news from the morgue and the stadium — when her stare fell on an ad slipped into the local paper: major exposition-competition, sponsored by c.i.b.i. (Certified by the International Beauty Institute). Maureen and Olympia knew how to persuade us, understood, agreed, if Palafox carries the day we will keep him. Only on that condition. Algernon plays fair. If he is beaten, shoot! One shot from a pistol held behind the ear, we whack him. We will put ourselves at the mercy of the judges. Without their knowing it, they will rule on Palafox’s fate. All things considered, it is normal for judges to have the last word in this matter.

Olympia starts with his head, clipper #0, going against the grain of the fur over his muzzle, cheeks from ears to lips, the underside of the snout, the neck, the throat, shouts a curt order to Maureen, clipper #1, with which she shaves the slightly faded perimeter around the eyes, above all do not emphasize his ungainliness, then, scissors straight, she evens out the hairs of the short mustache, card, yes, she untangles the frizzy mane on his head, curved scissors, and clipping it along the shape of the head, careful, neither too flat on the top nor too low along the nose, so, at last, she grooms the ears, thinning shears, thin without shearing, and the hair around the ears is long, better that way, the head’s done. Clipper #00, onto the body. A cakewalk. Beginning at the tail, Olympia shaves the small of his back, his behind, the thighs, the belly and the flanks up to the middle of the body — stop! — the mane should cover the sides, a dense and furry muff flexible under your fingers, scissors straight, keep it to two inches thick, curved scissors, Olympia nonetheless rounds the angles, and cheats a little when cutting the hair on the chest, in such a way as to obtain an ideal curve from the sternum to the last rib, so the body’s done, we see that Olympia has given up on the patterns on his behind, vulgar according to her, and in terrible taste. For the same reason, she’s against grooming the bloomers on the front legs, clipper #00, she shaves the four legs one after another, then the four feet, sparing nonetheless the fur around the ankles, curved scissors, she trims them into bowls, highlighting the incredible finesse of the feet and their bluish nudity. Now only the tail remains, clipper #00, Olympia shaves it along two thirds of its length, opting at its end for the oblong pompon, it’s done, Algernon can let the animal go. Palafox wriggles his tail. It looks like he’s cleaning a baby’s bottle. The orphan and the dame smile sadly.

With that, as every evening, restful night — the sound of the sea, the only known variant of silence, diffused by a favorable wind yours for the taking, the grain of salt added by a nightingale, only a half-moon, but the prettier half, billions of stars both dead and alive, shimmering, darkness in the house, the regular exhalation of sleepers, their extravagant dreams — as every evening, night without trouble. At the moment when our story starts up again, Algernon pushes open the door to the registration office. We haven’t missed much: rising early, washing absent-mindedly (left to right, then right to left, then low to high, then high to low), scalding hot coffee drunk standing up, one gulp, like a sword it went down, and then out, Palafox on a leash, the sandy roads bordered by bushes and gorse one shouldn’t confuse, the barking of dogs from far off, from nearer still, the tents of the exhibitors in the distance, nearer still, the cages, the dogs in the cages, the bungalows of the officials, we rejoin Algernon at the moment when, understanding that he must pull and not push this goddamn door, he enters the office of the registrar. Palafox is in order, here are his vaccinations for rabies, Carré’s disease and contagious hepatitis. The official responsible for registration — quickly inflate a chubby flat character with rosy cheeks — notes the registration number, x366, tattooed on the inside of his right ear. (Scenes of vaccination and tattooing, whether forgotten or ignored, do not figure in this story.) Make your way to the veterinary checkpoint, hisses the functionary, suddenly less chubby cheeked and who seems to lose his composure in direct proportion to each step towards the door we take, stoops, withers, fades, who still finds enough breath to indicate the adjoining bungalow, then he passes away and rises to heaven, in a zigzag course, crushed against the ceiling and falling again, henceforth useless, in a wastebasket.

The veterinarian, but instead read the bill that concerns him, is alone responsible for allowing or rejecting a participant, before or even during the exposition: those specimens that appear sick or afflicted with skin conditions, blind specimens, crippled or deformed, those with one testicle or none at all, females that are visibly pregnant, lactating or accompanied by their pups, and those females in heat. The decision of this corpulent personage with rosy cheeks is without appeal. He examines Palafox, pure formality, and countersigns the registration form while whistling to himself, he wasn’t whistling, he was exhaling. We take Palafox to the cage he has been assigned. He will not leave it again but to be brought before the judges. Any infraction at this point can keep the animal out of the competition and any reward he might have earned be revoked. The organizers decline all responsibility in the instance of theft, loss, flight, sickness, death of animals on display, bites from those animals, whatever the circumstances. In other words, the exhibitors are alone responsible for any accidents or damages that are the result of their animals’ actions, whether involving a third party or the animals themselves, the organizers would be in no way liable. All the toy poodles are in the same boat, we count twenty-one, black, gray, white or brown, shorn into lions, with or without bloomers, bibs around their necks. There are some pretty creatures, but Palafox seems to be the only one apricot in color, an easy trump since the objective of all is to look most like a lion, and therefore as little like a little sheep.

A loudspeaker announces the arrival of the three official judges. They are accompanied by a secretary, two magistrate’s assistants and a ringmaster (a pretty bunch of pink balloons that we will soon release into the blue). The ring, we’re not exaggerating, consists of a space approximately four hundred square feet, the edges of which are indicated by cords, where the masters maneuver their animals. The judges proceed by process of elimination. They confer in hushed tones then convey their decisions to the assistants who carry them out. The disappointed candidates leave the ring, only thirteen remain, twelve, eleven, ten, there are only nine now who have a chance, three black, two white, two gray, a brown and Palafox. The judges deliberate. Deliberate. The sky clouds over, blusters, false star a token in the clouds, it will rain. An anecdote to kill some time: once upon a time in a bourgeois salon containing a housewife and an elephant, a white mouse appeared, the housewife and the elephant scared to wits both hopped onto piano bench, the moral is, women have a reason to be afraid of mice. No news yet, the judges are deliberating. It is raining. A helpful hint while waiting: looking to get rid of a bulky or aesthetically displeasing stone? Stick it in a sack with a bunch of kittens and throw the sack into a pit. In Latin deliberate, endlessly deliberating. Deliberating at length, then award a yellow ribbon to two white poodles and one brown (Not Bad), decided via their rigorous system of evaluation that recognizes their characteristic but not notable features; a green ribbon (Good) goes to two blacks and gray which possess all the characteristics of the breed, certain of which nonetheless might be identified as less than perfect; a blue ribbon (Very Good) to the last black and the last gray, worthy of each other, despite a few pardonable flaws, to be used as breeders; and the red ribbon at last (Excellent) and the title of Champion to our hero, Palafox, presented in perfect condition, manifesting a perfectly balanced and harmonious whole, approaching as best one can the ideal of the breed.

Palafox’s victory — Palafox who flutters around the lamp while we put down these lines — was able to surprise Pierpont, delight Maureen and Olympia, disappoint Chancelade and flatter Algernon, my lessons beginning to bear fruit, at last. Despite the shadow of Palafox dancing across the page, his tiresome and ineffectual buzzing, as if he were imitating with astonishing accuracy that of the famous universal machine tool conceived to execute every manufacturing operation, drilling, milling, cutting, sanding suddenly set in motion, this shadow and this buzzing once again bothering our work today. We have no desire to invent excuses, but is it sheer chance that the most questionable passages in this treatise were written in Palafox’s presence, and if our phrases become tangled each time that he hangs around our lamp?

The bug has come to rest on the notebook. It is walking between the lines, either ahead of or behind the pen we handle happily with enough virtuosity to avoid a shock which would prove fatal to it, alas! We would have to elect to consider this ugly blot of blood and ink as the last period of our story. We blow on the page to chase Palafox away, he topples onto his back, flimmering without rhyme or reason his three sets of legs, pathetic, this driver caught beneath his immobilized vehicle, tightening this, unscrewing that, infuriated by his powerlessness and the uselessness of his efforts, nailed there until the tow truck arrives, the finger to which he now clings, elytra disjointed, little wings all creased. He crawls the length of the finger to its tip, knuckle, phalanx, changes its mind, frightened by the moist depths of the palm, half turn, phalanx, knuckle, tip, he halts on the nail, there’s no way around it. It’s our turn to decide-a flick ends this episode.

The reception is tomorrow. Palafox does not know the first word of the text written in his honor by Algernon, he has not perfected any of the routines or magic tricks that he should perform, he is barely able to perform the simplest addition problems by stomping the ground with his hoof. Algernon comes to his senses. He gives up on the idea of the show. Anyway, Palafox showing his face will be enough to satisfy the curiosity of those among our invitees, exhausted by all the talk, who have never even seen him. His somewhat unsophisticated manners may be a source of shock to Madame Franc-Nohain, the wife of the president having withdrawn from the world with her hairdresser, her doctor, her Scottish-terrier and a string-quartet, she only frequents her sycophantic courtiers, so reverential that they have never seen her face, and only tolerates around her housekeepers afflicted with scoliosis, as if petrified by respect, another advantage, they fit perfectly into attics. But let’s not exaggerate, Madame Franc-Nohain is also a noble spirit, she doesn’t hesitate to get her hands dirty when the moment requires it, as, say, when it comes to giving aide poor countries require, she devotes hours stolen from her own personal hygiene to embroidering the altar linen for the missions. Palafox’s unsophisticated manners could offend her, if he were to nibble her wig, or if he were to fly directly into her ear, such signs of affection would seem out of place, or at the very least premature. You can’t just suddenly be a courtier (except in enemy territory, where bodily punishment is inflicted on women without waiting for a second date. In this respect, all freedom is left to privates, all latitude, it is right that they should feel personally involved in the murderous war in which they figure and disfigure others, first as murderers then as murdered: it makes them brave. Then, they only better defend the interests of their country. Of course as soon as they’ve dishonored the old mother and daughter of the enemy, the privates finds his way back to their battalion, end of story, their shore leave is scuttled if they’re missing a button).

Our invitees will want to pet him, pick him up, we should dress him up, his scaly nudity will induce in them a very human repulsion. Who can explain why, in a few days, his skin has become rough, has lost its luster. So, Palafox is barely presentable. Olympia tries a series of hats, cotton coats, cardigans. The imperative for elegance seems secondary to all others, not to say reprehensible, we voluntarily ridicule those who can’t try on a tie without being before any one of a number of mirrors. One forgets that pants were invented or discovered by a man who clothed himself elegantly; they made their way into the collective consciousness and now sell better than loincloths. Olympia moans about it. Nothing suits Palafox. He slips on a coat, fine, then slips out of the right sleeve before disappearing into a pocket. Olympia is at wits end. According to professor Baruglio, however, these fittings, all these manipulations have led to the exceptional event that we are witnessing now. Nothing extraordinary, Baruglio retracts. Palafox is writhing on the ground, his old skin slipping from him like a stocking. He is molting, Baruglio says. We immediately lose interest in the cloth and direct our gaze on the stripper’s skin, Palafox regenerated, as if new, with his smooth glittering scales, his almond-green back decorated with black lozenges which form a perfect zigzag from head to tail, the red stripes along his sides, his immaculate cream-white belly. Dressing him is no longer an issue, this goes without saying. A little pink bow between his ears perhaps, because Olympia insists, a few little bells in his mane.