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.