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.