the worst. Maureen sniffles. Algernon lists the reasons for hope. First of all, Palafox can remain up to ninety minutes beneath the surface. A privilege of amphibians who may choose between our world and the depths. We rarely see them. They rise to the surface to breathe and, their cup full, dive below once again. Palafox has still a good quarter of an hour left to be carefree. But have no fear, he’ll be back. Be aware, Olympia, that the leftovers of our meals, all mashed together, however lovingly arranged, don’t begin to do it for an animal nursed on plankton. As stunning as this may seem, these microscopic creatures constitute Palafox’s only food. And he does well by it given that his weight, between a hundred and two hundred tons, is comparable with that of fifteen hundred protesters, according to the police, or three thousand according to the organizers, if you think that the disgruntled participant averages around one hundred and forty pounds, it’s roughly that, angry senior citizens and pregnant women cancel each other out.
Maureen blows her nose and mouths a smile, blowfly and young mouse, Maureen has such fine features. She rises. Remarried to a scarlet snorer, the ex-wife of the empurpled bather is painting a watercolor. The paper still seems blank, but as she gets closer Maureen makes out traces of pale color, barely differentiated, as if the watercolorist had drenched her brush in the palest of infusions, cloudy lemony verbena for the hesitant sky, lime-blossom mint tea for the smooth surface of the sea, with a teaspoon and a half of salt for flavor. Maureen likes it, but you’re going to need a drop of strong coffee to paint Palafox’s black fin, over there, oh there he is, at last. (Howling from the watercolorist.) Where would she get a bugle - that subtle instrument that calls us to supper and to battle, two popular melodies massacred by cellists - if a bugle is not at hand, the ex-wife of the scarlet snorer, her third husband is a pale ghost, shouts until she’s hoarse. Panic all of a sudden. Once again, the clamor of men rises to compete with that of the sea. Bathers surge into the surf. The little pot-bellied man backs away from the table, turning over his chair. Suddenly no one knows how to swim anymore, elementary strokes are forgotten, all we can recall are the steps for a waltz, boxing moves, we dribble, we flip, we cobble, we knit, each according to his formative years, pedaling hard, knocking down walls, doing what we must to make the beach ours again, somehow. But Palafox, much more quickly, making up for lost time, gets dangerously close to the bathers. He overtakes them all. He finds footing on the rocks, flaps his wings, not angry in spite of everything to find himself once again where cows tread.
The sea withdraws with a bow, a thousand ironic curtsies to the disappointed children, looking ridiculous behind their fortresses of sand. The young students from the Maginot school of architecture spent their afternoon organizing the defense. They built quite a bastion, fortifying walls with seaweed and stone, digging moats, everything ready for the siege, the Ocean will be in for quite a surprise, the Ocean is going to fall flat on its face, let it launch its attack, we will wait firm-footed, we’ve got a nasty surprise in store for it, and yet not only does the Ocean refuse battle but it surrenders to us a vast building plot and tons of raw materials ... Tomorrow, my dear, we’re leaving now. But mom! But mom! But we won’t have any but-moms. Taking up the defense at the rear, mothers demolish their children, slap them and drag them away. Olympia is gentler with Palafox, more patient, infinitely more delicate, and anyway the little urchin doesn’t put up a fight.
For the night, he enjoys an old zinc bowl encrusted in madrepore, shells and white pebbles. Maureen Buffoon decorated it. The important thing is that Palafox feel at home here, the hollowed-out cephalothorax of a spider-crab
Maureen blows her nose and mouths a smile, blowfly and young mouse, Maureen has such fine features. She rises. Remarried to a scarlet snorer, the ex-wife of the empurpled bather is painting a watercolor. The paper still seems blank, but as she gets closer Maureen makes out traces of pale color, barely differentiated, as if the watercolorist had drenched her brush in the palest of infusions, cloudy lemony verbena for the hesitant sky, lime-blossom mint tea for the smooth surface of the sea, with a teaspoon and a half of salt for flavor. Maureen likes it, but you’re going to need a drop of strong coffee to paint Palafox’s black fin, over there, oh there he is, at last. (Howling from the watercolorist.) Where would she get a bugle - that subtle instrument that calls us to supper and to battle, two popular melodies massacred by cellists - if a bugle is not at hand, the ex-wife of the scarlet snorer, her third husband is a pale ghost, shouts until she’s hoarse. Panic all of a sudden. Once again, the clamor of men rises to compete with that of the sea. Bathers surge into the surf. The little pot-bellied man backs away from the table, turning over his chair. Suddenly no one knows how to swim anymore, elementary strokes are forgotten, all we can recall are the steps for a waltz, boxing moves, we dribble, we flip, we cobble, we knit, each according to his formative years, pedaling hard, knocking down walls, doing what we must to make the beach ours again, somehow. But Palafox, much more quickly, making up for lost time, gets dangerously close to the bathers. He overtakes them all. He finds footing on the rocks, flaps his wings, not angry in spite of everything to find himself once again where cows tread.
The sea withdraws with a bow, a thousand ironic curtsies to the disappointed children, looking ridiculous behind their fortresses of sand. The young students from the Maginot school of architecture spent their afternoon organizing the defense. They built quite a bastion, fortifying walls with seaweed and stone, digging moats, everything ready for the siege, the Ocean will be in for quite a surprise, the Ocean is going to fall flat on its face, let it launch its attack, we will wait firm-footed, we’ve got a nasty surprise in store for it, and yet not only does the Ocean refuse battle but it surrenders to us a vast building plot and tons of raw materials ... Tomorrow, my dear, we’re leaving now. But mom! But mom! But we won’t have any but-moms. Taking up the defense at the rear, mothers demolish their children, slap them and drag them away. Olympia is gentler with Palafox, more patient, infinitely more delicate, and anyway the little urchin doesn’t put up a fight.
For the night, he enjoys an old zinc bowl encrusted in madrepore, shells and white pebbles. Maureen Buffoon decorated it. The important thing is that Palafox feel at home here, the hollowed-out cephalothorax of a spider-crab
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