Mood Indigo by Boris Vian Page B

seating arrangements of a row of philosophers, who were perched on gallery stools, by the old-fashioned luxury of her noble elevated position.
    It was almost time for the lecture, and the crowd was growing hectic. An organized din came from the back of the hall, set up by several students trying to sow seeds of revolt in the spirits of the faithful by declaiming aloud passages selected at random from
The Bourbon on The Bounce
by Baroness Orczy.
    But Jean Pulse was drawing near. The sounds of anelephant’s trunk could be heard in the street, and Chick leaned out of his box-office window. In the far distance the silhouette of Jean Pulse emerged from an armoured howdah, under which the rough and wrinkled hide of the elephant took on a bizarre appearance in the glow of a red headlamp. At each corner of the howdah a hand-picked marksman, armed with an axe, stood at the ready. The elephant was striding its way through the crowd, and the fearsome plod of the four columns moving through the crushed bodies unrelentingly drew on. At the main gate the elephant knelt down and the specially selected marksmen got off. With a graceful leap, Heartre landed in their midst and, hacking out a path with tilting axes, the group made its way to the platform. Police closed the doors and Chick raced along a private corridor leading out behind the stage, pushing Isis and Alyssum in front of him.
    Chick had cut some peep-holes in the back of the stage which was tastefully draped with hangings of festered velvet. They sat there on some cushions and waited. Just a yard in front of them Heartre was getting ready to read his notes. An extraordinary radiance emanated from his ascetic athletic body and the throng, captivated by the overpowering charm of his slightest gesture, waited anxiously for the starting signal.
    Numerous were the cases of fainting due to intra-uterine exaltation which affected the female section of the audience in particular and, from their hide-out, Alyssum, Isis and Chick could distinctly hear the accelerated breathing of the twenty-four gate-crashers who had stolen in under the stage and were quietly undressing to take up less space.
    â€˜Remember?’ asked Alyssum, looking tenderly at Chick.
    â€˜Yes,’ said Chick. ‘That’s where we first got to know each other …’
    He leaned towards Alyssum and kissed her tenderly.
    â€˜Were you under there?’ asked Isis.
    â€˜Mmm …’ said Alyssum. ‘It was lovely.’
    â€˜I bet it was,’ said Isis. ‘What’s that, Chick?’
    Chick was starting to open a big black box that he had with him.
    â€˜It’s a recorder,’ he said. ‘I bought it specially for the lecture.’
    â€˜Oh!’ said Isis. ‘What a good idea! … Now we needn’t bother to listen! …’
    â€˜Quite,’ said Chick. ‘And when we get home we can listen to it all night long if we like – although we won’t because I don’t want to spoil the records. I’ll get copies made first and maybe I’ll get “His Martyred Void” to make a commercial pressing for me.’
    â€˜It must have cost you a lot,’ said Isis.
    â€˜Shhh! …’ said Chick. ‘That’s not important.’
    Alyssum sighed. Such a little little sigh that she was the only one to hear it … and even she did not hear it very clearly.
    â€˜We’re off! …’ said Chick. ‘He’s started. I put my mike amongst the others on the table so that nobody would notice.’
    Jean Pulse opened his mouth. At first all that could be heard was the clicking of the cameras. Photographers and reporters from the cinema and the press were having the time of their lives. But one of them was knocked over backwards by the rebound from his camera and a horrible confusion ensued. His furious colleagues rushed to his aid and sprinkled him with magnesium powder. He disappearedin a blinding flash to the general