Palafox

3

We have therefore learned, Algernon recapitulates, that Palafox built a nest from twigs and moss in the shape of a cupola, with a side entrance. That he lives on tortoise eggs, rotting carcasses, and pollen. That he hibernates in a crevice, here opinions vary, or at the bottom of a hole, rolled in a ball or hanging from his feet. We have therefore learned very little — little that isn’t unreliable. We will swear to nothing, will not put our heads on the block for any of it. When you think about it, it seems even doubtful that Palafox thought of building a nest in a tree. When you weigh between nine and ten tons, you tend not to linger long in the foliage, on principle, doubtless one would like to remain a little longer, to enliven the leaves with chirping since the view is fine, unobstructed, the air purer, the sky radiant, but you never do more than pass through, the earth reasserts its dominance through violence, an iniquitous law voted into being by hummingbirds serving them and them alone. If a pear, which was destined to fall from the start, conceived and shaped in this manner, still bruises itself when rolling on the grass, imagine a mammoth, a true mammoth. Palafox would have been wrong to have perched so high, his maternal instinct would have warned him off. Whereas, without worry, he could climb in his hut in La Gloriette park, solidly fastened to the three limbs of the walnut tree that seemed tailor-made to his specifications and needs. In truth, Algernon had designed it for his son, Archie. He often placed the palms of his hands on his wife’s swollen belly: Archie training as a boxer in his mother’s belly developed his left hook and his footwork, the heir to the Buffoons would be a fighter, a chief, a leader of men, a true terror on earth. He would set up his own H.Q. in the plank hut, walls pierced with arrow slits, thatch roof, built by his father.

Archie was born and named Maureen a few days after the burial of her mother which at first had monopolized everyone’s attention. Algernon did not survive the poor dear. What good henceforth to drag oneself through life, he preferred to put an end to it and have the Fontechevades take care of the child. But imagining suicide is one thing, the ornamental lake was dry, the blade dull, the gas jet empty, the high beam worm-eaten, the window painted shut, the car being serviced, railway workers on strike, the revolver jammed, merde, and of course, at this late hour, the pharmacy closed, Algernon unto the breach once again with Maureen in his arms. Invited that summer to La Gloriette for the presentation of Palafox, the Fontechevades had responded yes, they would be at the party. Madame is a saint, a vice-squad volunteer, sufficiently robust and mustached to be put into service in the event of a redeployment of forces, treasurer of a cell fighting against prostitution that has sworn to imprison pimps everywhere and recently made the arrest of an orchid-sel ler who was exposing his flowers in his storefront window, as if in Amsterdam, an early victory. Fontechevade married her only a week after his having embraced military life, for however many conquests certain men may have, they always end up with the same type of woman. General Fontechevade loves his work, prospects are good, there’s time left over to read, which one can use to shoot rabbits, and he travels abroad a great deal, meets tons of people, or tonlets at first, one has to start somewhere, then more later, that’s what we do, pack people in, if not us who will? So it is not rare that the general’s wife should find herself alone in the house with Olympia.

Having already raised a parakeet, Olympia will know how to handle Palafox. Olympia is tall and thin — her parakeet a little green bird — one of those ageless women which time, kidnapper of children and crooked accountant, would not have wished to burden itself with during its bright flight. But the neighborhood cats came to eat neighborhood sparrows from her hand. When she appears at her window, pandemonium reigns, whereas the holy father waving his arms about from the balcony, scares off the sparrows and scatters the cats — over the public square the crowd sings, occasionally it brays, but purr with pleasure?

The Zoological Garden is her little slice of heaven. Were it not for the unfordable moat, Olympia would herself go to separate or — why not? — reconcile the monkeys with their fleas. She never misses watching the feeding of the big cats, tries to be there for the weekly defecation of the sloth, named that because it sleeps on its branch instead of sawing into it. All the zookeepers know Olympia, she walks through the paths of the park as if at home, accompanied by the ostriches with which, in spite of her bun, she shares a certain more-than-passing resemblance, not feature for feature, of course, but more a general vibe, something in the way she carries herself, something in the way she moves, you can sense in observing them wander the preserve that their pads have absorbed the same terrain. Together, they climb the stairs that lead to the terrarium. The porter sends them packing. Olympia presents her ticket: ah, it’s you! Olympia. The Olympian does not say a word. The hall is dark, overheated. A few families circulating in tight packs go window-shopping. A loudspeaker announces the imminent birth of a litter of vipers, and Olympia trembles. And when the lucky lady begins to eat her young two by two, jealousy eats away at Olympia to whom the simple joys of maternity were refused. On the other hand, she babies the general’s wife, dresses and undresses her, powders and corsets her, what century do we live in, washes her laundry and polishes her boots, and is given full run of the household where she attends to any domestic duty that does not endanger the life of ants, termites, roaches, and mice. One clause added to her contract denies her access to the kitchen: it is not unlikely that Olympia had a hand in the spectacular escape of one hundred and ninety-two oysters gathered, according to tradition, to celebrate the Nativity among us. The reasons for their escape remain mysterious — were they afraid of receiving in the eye, because of someone’s clumsiness, the lemon juice actually meant to rinse their fingers? But there was no doubt it was an inside job since the door to the kitchen leading to the garden was found bolted from the inside. However, searches undertaken by the sixteen guests proved in vain, or more accurately fruitless, as did the surreptitious search through Olympia’s own room. But let’s finish with her. When one serves her a calf’s foot or a shoulder of mutton, she sticks in a splint and releases them. That sums up her character. A sketch of Olympia is in order. Let us add that by way of clothing she wears an austere black dress buttoned to her collar, a gray shawl, gray stockings and, recently, by way of ornamentation, three strands of thirty-two, sixty-four, and ninety-six cheap pearls. One might add that her voice is bright and brittle, but that it softens sometimes, when Olympia no longer has to deal with her kind and invites others species to drop by. That’s her. That is Olympia. Never leaving the house without her shopping bag, wherever she might be going, a very big shopping bag, a very sturdy shopping bag, one day she’ll buy a baby elephant, she’s only waiting for the right moment, whether African or Asian, she could care less, African if you have one, or Asian actually, who cares.

Madame Fontechevade agreed to part with her maid. Such gestures can show you who your true friends are. Olympia was given over to the care of Palafox, to feed him, wash him, brush him, change his litter. She will live day and night in his intimate company so as to be there to help him if he weakens or best him if he raises a fuss. She will be treated no differently than when she was with the Fontechevades. She will enjoy four hours of freedom per day, two in the morning, two in the evening, during which Algernon will introduce Palafox to our customs. We are all in agreement. Good. Sign here. I wish to reiterate that you will be housed, fed if you are hungry, laundered if it is not too late, that you will be authorized, yes, to keep your parakeet, that you will spend next summer with us at La Gloriette, yes, that you can bring him. You will take your position immediately, Maureen will take you to the pen.

Palafox shows signs of stress. Three elastic strides then he twirls, three elastic strides then he twirls, three elastic strides then he twirls, seventy-one times, finally getting comfortable on his backside. Now is the time to introduce Olympia. The pen, set up behind the house, includes a garden and window-less bungalow where one enters like daylight — which then politely fades — through a low door. Neither trees nor flowers in this garden, but a pond, but a portico, from which swings, creepers, and an old truck tire are hung. The bungalow is soberly furnished. Palafox avails himself of a perch, of a basket, of a cuttlefish bone to sharpen his beak, a cow pizzle for his teeth, an old armchair to sharpen his claws. Olympia gets a mattress, tossed into one corner. Here she is. The surrounding chicken-wire recalls a tennis court, the enclosure has the same dimensions as one, in addition to innumerable bad bounces, the bungalow, the portico and the pond in the middle of the court come as no small consternation to the players. Whether sun, or wind, or an aching shoulder, any excuse will do after a bad game. Olympia makes up her mind to cross the threshold of the kennel. She hasn’t come empty-handed, and Palafox leaps onto the red rubber ball, drops it at Olympia’s feet, who throws it again, etc., things are off to a good start, leaves it at Olympia’s feet, who throws it again, etc., things are flowing, leaves it at Olympia’s feet, who stops. Palafox moans, curls up, bares his teeth, beats the ground with his hoof, all the signs are there, he’s going to charge. In these instances, the thing to do is to stay calm, whistle, play dead, proffer a treat, Olympia knows what to do. Palafox makes a few turns around the cadaver and then finally folds his wings and settles onto the treat. Olympia chose wisely. She rises, Palafox, grateful, licks her hands and face. He rubs against her legs. She pats his neck. He perches on her fist. She scratches his belly. He winds around her neck, her hips. But it would be cruel to prolong these games, and anyway Palafox wouldn’t tolerate this much longer. Olympia puts him back in the pond. So here we have acquired one more fact, we already knew him to be ferocious, but Palafox is also very playful. Maureen brings him a hoop, a ball of wool, Algernon sacrifices one of his slippers that helps him write, a slipper made worn, threadbare, shapeless by work — Everest, to risk a comparison, is more conscientious with his buskins. But Palafox prefers it to all his other playthings. He does not let go of it. Hereafter when we speak of him, you will have to imagine it not far, between his paws, between his teeth, and we will not mention it any more out of aesthetic concern, but know that it’s within eyeshot.

You are dynamic, open, enterprising, you show a real capacity for adaptability, a real sense of responsibility, an admirable availability, a solid background in a related field, you have a methodical approach, creative and innovative, a spirited temperament, you quickly find yourself adapting and adopting a way of speaking that puts your interlocutor at ease, if Olympia hurts herself, we know whom to call. Olympia has no shortage of things to do. It’s demanding work. Daily, Palafox devours fifty kilos of feed. Olympia comes and goes between the millstone and the hayrack, laden with armloads of hay. Three times a day she brushes Palafox’s tangled coat. She must still clean up his excrement, keep a vigilant eye on the cleanliness of the litter. When he runs over, she brushes him, unsaddles him, rubs him down, rolls him in a blanket. Her four hours of freedom, she takes in two equal parts, one for her, one for her parakeet. They each therefore have four intense half-hours of alternating attention. Olympia uses the first to wash herself, the second to refill the feeder with grain and the bottle with clean water, the third to wash or mend her wash, the fourth to clean the cage, the fifth to relieve herself. The sixth half hour is gone before you know it, spent in rapturous conversation. Then, Olympia apprises herself of current events, learns the latest body count, where things unfolded, the seventh half hour. Then the last, Olympia quickly refills water and feed.

Palafox’s washbasin is the setting for many a painful scene for all concerned. He holes himself up in the darkest corner of the bungalow as soon as Olympia, a bucket in each hand, heads for the pump, sometimes he will hide under the portico. Five trips are necessary. When the bowl is full, the chase is on, let’s keep it short, we have already been to the pen. Olympia grabs Palafox by the skin of his neck, or sometimes by the ears, and plunges him into the water. Hissing and screaming is all one hears.

Palafox’s excrement: Olympia sweeps or shovels, picks up or mops, or simply seeks in vain, some, nearly imperceptible, disturbing only flies.

More than one hundred journalists, all biases lumped together, collaborate each week in the conception and execution of his litter. Investigative reporting undertaken under conditions less than ideal, by men and women who risk their skins, followed then by the actual layout, involves designers and printers and delivery men and a big guy all bundled up opening his kiosk in the morning and Algernon Buffoon, who had been stamping his feet on the sidewalk for a good fifteen minutes, ostensibly staring at his wristwatch, picking five or six magazines, pulling some coins from his pocket, forking over the change and moving off, crossing the street, getting brushed by a cyclist — these are merely a few facts and acts in his risky existence, as emblematic as any of the thousand others anecdotes one could tell. In his living room, Algernon takes the time to read the magazines carefully. Sometimes he gets up to feed the fire, to get something to drink. He has misplaced his lighter again. He lights his cigar from kindling. A faraway look on his face, his fingers stroke the arms of his comfortable chair. A cat on his knees takes the opportunity to leave. It falls to the floor, supple and silky, as somnolent Algernon tries vaguely to grab it by the tail and falls victoriously asleep, his fist closed around his extinguished cigar. Olympia gathers the newspapers and magazines, goes through them carefully, eyes wet, before throwing them every which way into the back of the bungalow. Palafox later lounges in them. He nibbles them unread, curiosity unpeaked even by those with cover stories promising to tell everything one could want to know about the salaries of executives. In reality, they can vary from simple to triple, with equal qualification, depending on the sector, private or public, cutting edge or family business. Palafox is ignorant of all of this, of course, Palafox has everything to learn. Algernon puts off the I.R. courses for the time being, everything in its time. For now, he teaches him to stand upright. The whip is cracked, Palafox withdraws. Driven back to the chicken wire, he rears onto his rear paws, the whip cracks again, he makes a vague step or two, steals a sardine from Algernon’s hand and falls heavily back down to earth.

Our friend thus alternates threat and reward by design. Similarly the miller moved the otherwise inanimate ass. Palafox is a beginner. First of all he has to abandon his millipedal past. Algernon tries hard to convince him. When he walks on two legs, he will rediscover the instinct to use his arms, then his hands. Without hands no history, no art, no science, why bother to conceive a masterpiece or a rocket engine if its execution is unmanageable? Consider for a moment this brain boiling over with ideas, inventions, projects, this inexpressive thinking head, consider the seed — pure potential — when we’re talking about conceiving a plum. His still swollen fingers will little by little lose their stiffness thanks to appropriate exercise, qwertyuiop, do ré mi fa, he will then have the choice between two careers. But nothing is played out yet, Palafox falls heavily and shakes his mane of flames, despite hyperbole less red than his tail of plumes, it is far too early for applause. Algernon proceeds in stages. He gives his student goals: the portico, leaving the chicken wire, the bungalow, leaving the portico, the chicken wire, leaving the bungalow. Later he will increase the distances: a lap around the pen, two laps around the pen, then one more time, faster, and now backwards, then onto hikes in the country — before the final test of the town, of the random crowds unsure of which road to take. Twelve blows to a gong announce the end of the first lesson. Algernon returns to his daughter, still out of breath after her fight with a duck and a half-dozen oranges, who is using him as a guinea pig for the recipes she will treat Chancelade to, once the enemy is humiliated and the marriage concluded. Olympia takes her meals with Palafox. She swallows a salad and some fruit, compassionately avoiding using either her fork or her teeth too much. Palafox, we have said, eats June bugs and insect larvae exclusively. The second lesson begins at six in the evening. The plan is identical, put Palafox on a pedestal, give him back his pride. Erect, he seems like someone else, the brightest scales on his belly flashing palely, moon-like; in the half-light, he looks like any elegant young man, with his slender waist and his broad snakeskin belt. Then Algernon leaves the pen. Olympia locks the door behind him. Palafox curls up on a special seasonal section of the paper devoted to Graduates and Careers. He dreams, one might suppose. But of what future?