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All things considered, it’s hard to imagine pulling an animal Palafox’s size from a hat. As a matter of fact, five elephants are now in the ring. While we were hanging on Olympia’s every word, we missed their entrance. They stand stock-still, huddled together, one animal. Giovanni and Noretta Luzzatto bump them, unsettle them, pile into them, palpate this fine flesh in their hands; then, at a sign from Giovanni the pachyderms prostrate themselves, before what, great gods, before whom, or does there exist someone or something worthy of such striking humility, of such reverence, of all that ivory? It would be unfortunate were the answer no, were the effort wasted. Then, they rise as one, interlace their trunks, cradle Noretta. Then they shower her. Then they groom her. Then they don’t know what to do next for a joke and turn to Giovanni who nods to a cluster of stools. Ah! Yes, the stools, they almost forgot the stools, they heave themselves onto the stools, and nothing is sadder to see than these five elephants, torn from their natural habitat as babes, and made to sit like this, ridiculously plumed, while there are old women without seats in the crowd.

In all honesty, scaling an elephant isn’t the hardest thing in the world. It’s just the sort of thing I’d be good at, thinks Algernon.

Pupi Luzzatto announces the next act with an a note of gravity quite rare coming from him — but, of course, what do we know of Pupi Luzzatto and his customary customs? What do we know of his true features? Laughter scrambles a face. Joviality only proves the elasticity of the rubber, after all. That’s Pupi Luzzatto for you. The true waxen face of this orphan, this cuckolded husband, this aging man. For Pupi Luzzatto announces the acrobats. They will risk their lives before our very eyes, without a net, Mesdames Messieurs, in a high-wire act unlike any in the world. Do not applaud during their feats, please, move around as little as possible. Rolando Luzzatto is balancing in the void, suspended by his feet from a trapeze. Rosella Luzzatto, his own wife, hangs from his outstretched arms. Twelve yards away, Nanni Luzzatto, her own brother, balances in the void, suspended by the feet from a trapeze. His own wife, Antonella Luzzatto, hangs from his outstretched arms. But that’s only the beginning: Rolando lets go or more accurately launches Rosella, Nanni lets go of or more accurately launches Antonella, Rolando and Nanni part fiercely, Rosella and Antonella execute a first spiral, Rolando and Nanni split apart, a second spiral, Rolando and Nanni grow nearer nonetheless, a third spiral again and the two brothers at the ends of the arc grab their respective sisters-in-law by the ankles nose down, Rolando Antonella and Nanni Rosella, while Algernon thinks of the harmony of a world where relations between men and women would never be more complicated than this. Then he snaps out of it, and at once he and the rest of the spectators feel the irresistible urge to crack their knuckles, as if they were afraid they had broken a bone. If we were to subsitute for the real trapeze artists above an imaginary string quartet, then all the spectators would feel the irresistible collective urge to clear their throats, as though a choir at mass about to burst into song. The spectators above all else need to remember that they are there, very much alive, they must be understood, that they exist and would be capable of such feats themselves, it’s just that no one ever gives them the opportunity for God’s sake. On the other hand, Algernon will ask all his friends to approach Palafox, to touch him, to harness him, to fight him, it will be an interactive performance. The animal will be allowed to choose his own partner for the high wire act. For this launch into the void, his partner, whoever she may be, will be at somewhat of a disadvantage. Palafox possesses over Madame Franc-Nohain or the general’s wife the double advantage of being able, primo, to glide effortlessly thanks to his patagium, and secondo, to latch onto anything with his prehensile tail.

Next into the ring come Nino and his monkey, Nina and her dogs, Antonio and his velocipede. The Human Cannon is unwell. The evening therefore ends with Clara Luzzatto and her ponies. Algernon rubs his hands together, Palafox’s show will go well, he thinks. The program is almost completed in his head. A bold opening: an arrival on tricycle, trumpet improvisations. Real crowd-pleasers. After the laughter, the shivers, Algernon will crack his whip. Stools and hoops on the grass, if time allows, and trapezes in the trees. Yes, he can see it all. Maureen will look smashing in jodhpurs.

Palafox nearly choked to death curled up on his side like a bum. After having tugged in vain on his tether, he started to graze unhungrily just to pass the time, how else could we explain his clockwise course? The cord wrapped around the stake, and with each new lap the tether drew shorter, and tighter for want of slack, as if caught in a collar, the poor thing falling to his knees and onto his side, nearly choking to death. Sure, all he needed to do was turn back in the opposite direction, counter-clockwise, to see comfort once again restored. But Palafox isn’t there yet. He possesses only the fuzziest sense of the interdependence of space and time in his world. He still has to ask the stars (how dare he?) which way to go. Maureen disentangles him, tosses his peanuts into a saucer. Palafox capers about, rolls around at Olympia’s feet, unties the laces of her boots. No, he’s decidedly not an eagle.

Algernon would get a lot more credit if he were able to get the thing to speak. He’s been trying for quite some time. Palafox as his own ringmaster, that’s the idea. Thanks to so many of you for coming, Algernon repeats endlessly into his ear. Chirp, says Palafox. Articulate more clearly, Algernon instructs. Chirp? ventures Palafox. Better. Once again. Chirp! Recites Palafox. And Algernon is so happy he could kiss him. (Ovid, Cato, Petronius and Pliny all mention the art of teaching birds the rudiments of conversation, whereas Cicero’s silence on this matter could be seen as a silent reproach of the practice. Later, Clement of Alexandria scolded women who tried to teach their nightingales. And yet look at where we are now. We hardly read Cicero, Clement of Alexandria wouldn’t manage to find a publisher for his Hypotyposes, Madame, Mademoiselle, Monsieur, your work unfortunately does not quite fall within the constraints of our list — but each night, in spring, in the gardens and the undergrowth, rise the sad songs of the Roman and Greek women they found so frivolous.

Most of Palafox’s lesson-time is devoted these days to matters of elocution. As for the remainder, just tweaking and fine-tuning. His stride, for example, is still somewhat heavy, halting, which wouldn’t be so surprising if he were devoid of limbs. At first glance you’d be so sure he was, you’d take the bet. But he’s just a torso! exclaimed Franc-Nohain after his capture. In reality, the seal has two paws, which may as well be called flippers since the five fingers are joined by webbing — thanks to which he is able to move forward, in spite of everything, painfully sure, as if he were dragging himself forward beneath a sack of geological bric-a-brac. Palafox should shake it off before he enters the living room of La Gloriette, in order to move with ease between tables, and he should trim his mustache, and above all he should overcome his fear of taking his head out of his shoulders. He has made great lingual leaps. Léon, he says while doing cartwheels, Léon, but the next part of his story is less clear. Léon, he keeps repeating, and once again he unfurls the one hundred fifty ocellus feathers of his tail, Léon gyrryrryrryvnid-vnid… Could it be that he knows some bawdy anecdote about one of the thirteen popes that blessed this name? Unless he meant to quote Tolstoy or Trotsky. But, in that case, Tolstoy or Trotsky?