8
Because of the war, Algernon decides it is preferable to leave the capital. The enemy has mounted a counter-offensive. Their allies are already encircling our allies. We were wrong to empty our borders. Our troops are laying siege to deserted cities, held by a handful of snipers, while the main body of the opposing army advances upon us. Useless to dwell any longer on these events, all this will be told to you in detail after the armistice with a romance as counterpoint, he would be a fighter pilot, she would break enemy lines to find him, hidden in a flour sack or a spare tire, he would be wounded in the course of a raid, she would watch over him night and day, finally he would get his eyesight back and would even be back at the controls of his plane, but wait, will he be able to destroy the arsenal? Or wait, another idea, he will be the lieutenant commander of a warship, she will cross enemy lines to find him, disguised as a barrel of fuel or a lifesaving buoy, he will be wounded in the midst of a mission, she will watch over him night and day, finally he will recover the use of his limbs, will regain command of his vessel, but wait, will he succeed in torpedoing the flagship of the enemy fleet? Thanks to the friendly intervention of General Fontechevade, a one-month leave has been arranged for Supply Corps Lieutenant Chancelade. Thus, it’s time to celebrate, he will be coming back to be with Maureen in La Gloriette.
La Gloriette — Constructed during the reign of Henri IV by Pierre Cormon, intendant of the last duke of Alençon (…) this home, which contributes to the already lovely panorama of the countryside, (…) has five windows on its face; the ones that are at the edge of the façade facing south each jut out a dozen feet, an architectural trick that gives the illusion of there being an extra wing (…); the one in the middle serves as a door (…). Although constructed of granite, a difficult stone to work, its angles, the frames of the windows (…) are decorated by bosses cut to a diamond point. (…) The roof is gracefully contoured at the corners with sculpted latticework mansards and leaded bouquets at the gables, (…) nestled rather elegantly into gutters (…) trimmed with balustrades (…). A weather-cock represents a hunter in the midst of shooting a hare. (…) This little castle as finely wrought as a flower (…) seems not even to rest on the ground. (…) The ground floor (…) leads to a broad walk giving onto a bowling-green… Amidst all the houses visited while scouting a location, we have chosen this one, like us, you have scanned the prospectus, somewhat prefab but solid. At least we can agree about that. Olympia and Palafox have settled into Archie’s shed, made of planks and kindling, that one, but built with our own hands, with a view of the sea. The beach is right there. You can hear the cries of children swallowed up by the waves; above the garden, in this sky of fussy gulls and regimented sheep, a kite demonstrates the superiority of loners and shoulder-shruggers, you hear the cries of the child rewinding the string, rewinding, rewinding nothing but wind. The sun appears episodically, indispensable foil of seaside landscapes, immediately bombarded by creamy cumulus clouds (you will not find this defeatist postcard on the racks of the gift shop). There is a warm wind, which also blows through the branches of the walnut tree where Olympia, her parakeet, and Palafox have set up house. That these two climbing birds managed to reach the shack comes of course as no surprise. But an arboreal Olympia leaves us slack-jawed. She gets up there first. Who would have bet on her? She moves with great agility among the branches, from tree to tree even — professor Cambrelin wasn’t wrong, the current classifications of the species does leave something to be desired, too compartmentalized, we change during the course of a life, we evolve, and like the flying fish chased by the conger eel feels its wings growing, Olympia adapts. The theory of transformism is only valid for terrestrial populations, the kangaroo for example will always have feet too big for Melbourne sidewalks. And while man will seek in vain to contact the Martians and fruitlessly send probes into the cosmos, Marsupials sick of being massacred, sick of hearing the jibes directed at them every time they take their offspring for a spin in their pouches, won’t waste a minute re-boarding their spaceship, hidden beneath the Victoria desert, and return to Mars, disappointed, renouncing the notion of establishing good relations with us and telling their relatives and friends who had remained behind, incredulous at first and then horrified, that humans drag their kids around in rickety strollers and fire without warning on interplanetary travelers.
This respite at La Gloriette isn’t merely strategic. Thus, Palafox will have the time to become familiar with the layout of his future, exploits being too strong a word, and to rehearse his role in the very theater of, operations not being quite right either. Algernon would like to display what Palafox, broken, trained, coached by a refined connoisseur of animal psychology, is capable of. And yet, his performances aren’t limited, disabuse yourselves, merely to displays of athletic superiority. Certainly, he runs faster, longer, jumps higher, further than anyone, and we see that he has mastered swimming, no contest, but that is no reason to conclude, nor on the basis of his brain weighing less than an ounce, that he should remain excluded from the world of art and ideas. Like us, you have heard Palafox discuss the economic policies of Léon Blum and express his admiration (with only minor reservations) for the pamphlets of Léon Bloy.
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.