Elephant Song

Take 5

Every single facet is linear—the walls, the transitions of the walls, the mirrors, the reflections in the mirrors, the chairs, their inclinations, the arrangement of the products on the shelves, the counter, the tile floor, the strokes of the combs. There is no reason to question any of it, that’s the way it should be.

The lighting makes the space even more desirable—a pure white, angelic—as a make-up that seeps into every pore in every corner of every face. The subjects are flawless, saturated in a platonic cast, with a look whose dimensions may be forged in iron for the diversity that is permitted.

There they sit, inclined, attaining perfection, waiting for their hair to dry. I’m sure personal beauty must be achieved that way. Hair is not meant to escape from its seamless mold.

I notice my own reflection crouched against the wall across the narrow street—a feeble, cowering body, weakened further by this simple recognition. The glass flutters in the wind. Do I look happy or sad? I shouldn’t walk this way any more. I decided so a week ago though my curiosity renews daily. I continue to the post office.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

“How are you?”

“Alright, yourself?”

“Good.”

I’ve wasted seven eighths of my life on formalities. I’m sure of it. Most of the time I’m too tired to defy the conformity. Blandine and I decide to take a walk through the old town.

“Have you been to the ville ancienne?”

“I’ve just passed through, it’s a nice walk.”

We cross the Saone and she explains to me all the obvious tourist things—Fauviere, the working hill, the cusine lyonnaise—all cultural formality. After two hours, we agree to meet up weekly and part.

I make the 126 stairs from the street up to my flat. The elevator costs money. I take the stairs. I count them in French, for practice. The lights flip off by the third floor; by week two I could finish off the staircase with ease in the dark. On the fourth floor, hidden off to the left of a decorative oak door, I come to a pale-blue steel door. On the third try, the key rotates, and I continue up a crooked narrow stairway that leads to the top floor. The dimly lit passageway at the top slinks over dusty floorboards and loose tiles that clink like a child plays the xylophone. Some days I back up and walk over the tiles again.

The hallway reminds me of a barn in the country. There is a mustang hidden behind every door. The doors won’t open. Pent behind these robust walls, each mustang is plated in dust and quickly forgotten.

I turn the key to my door, scraping my knuckle as usual.

“Merde.”

A great situation to practice my curses. I enter my flat. Perched above the quiet side streets, the walls are white and a straight line is hard to come by. Everything is almost-straight—the beams, the light fixtures, switches and sockets, the threshold, closet space, shelves.

The windows look down upon me, informing me only of the color of the sky. Atop a chair, I learn the complexity of the rooftops, and, if I twist my neck far enough, on a clear night I can see Notre Dame de Fauviere, or at least the better half of it, lit as a crown on the hilltop.

The flat is too big to heat as a whole, so I close my door to concentrate the energy. Nearly an hour passes before the heat begins seeping out the faulty upper bow in my door, and another half hour before the heat does the same through the gap caused by the lower bow. My bed is at this level. I huddle here on my mattress, between a barrage of books and an alarm clock. The alarm clock doesn’t get much use.

My days pass slowly, far from relaxing. My only commitment being a plane ticket two months away—contemplation is infinite. What could I create in two months that I couldn’t lose in a day? The walls grow paler and stare at me with greater remorse. I let the time tick toward my departure.

“ Remember that one lady I told you about?” Lucien has few stories about his new job. I enjoy when he comes home—he puts my thoughts to rest, and the moment becomes more important, filled with a chat and two glasses of wine. “She’s unbelievable. I get to work and she’s already working, and when I leave she’s still going. She always says how much work she has to get done but come on man, you got to live a little. I go at nine and I leave at six, that’s my schedule, I do my work when I’m there and when I leave I turn off; I’m free to enjoy.”

I use my time much better when Lucien is around. We find time for a jazz show, a new locale or dinner with some friends. Sadly, Lucien’s work causes the nights to end early. I make back to my fort, open a book, and don’t set the alarm clock.

On my way down for a baguette, I pass the hair salon—people waiting for their hair to dry in every chair. I pause. I’m sure they have pets. I continue for the other side of town.

I find the café. A man I phoned the day before had told me to meet him here. I told him I would be wearing an orange sweater. He told me the waitress would know him. The waitress has no idea who I’m talking about. I take a guess with the lone man at the far end seated aside the window.

“Excuse me, are you Bernard?”

“Yes, yes,” he says standing, grabbing my hand with both of his, “How are you?”

“Fine, and you?”

“Well, you know,” he shrugs, “I’m trying to make this business. Do you like the movies?”

“Yeah, sometimes…”

“Because this is my plan—I am going to make plastics.”

“Plastics?”

“Yeah, you know those cards, they go like this.” He gestures something with his hands.

I nod a doubtful affirmation.

“It’s a great idea, plastics. Lots of money. I just need computers.”

Bernard wastes no time with formalities. He’s quite refreshing to talk with. After two hours, we decide to meet up once a week. In good spirits, I take a different route back and make sure I miss the hair salon.

I make my way up the 126 steps, pass the pleasant oak doors of the first four floors, clink over the loose tiles, scratch my knuckle as I unlock the door and enter the flat. I check the windows because it’s getting cold. The sky is grey—some days blue, some days grey. I close the bowed door to my room and turn on the heater. Lucien arrives at seven as usual.

“How’s the job working out?”

“Good man, though I don’t really relate well to my co-workers.”

“ That’s too bad. Have you met everybody now?”

“ Yeah, I ate lunch with the three women today.” Lucien pauses. “We talked about pets.”

I meet up with Blandine later in the week.

“ Formalité.”

“ Formalité.”

“ Formality, formality.”

“ Formality!”

“ So, where would you like to go today? Have you been to the Zoo?”

Lyon has an open access Zoo in the Parque Tête d’Or. They have everything: monkeys, peacocks, an alligator, chickens, Chinese leopards. All of the animals are fous. The panther paces, back and forth, on and on. All the cats do this. The bears howl and persistently paw at their concrete retaining wall. One of the monkeys is trapped out on an island, and the chickens, well, they’re chickens.

“You have to see the elephants.”

“Ok.”

The elephants look as if they are 600 years old—flabby wrinkled skin draped from their sides. There are two of them, each distinct. The first rocks front to back, back to front with his left front foot, dangling in the air. Zhoomp, zhonk, zhoomp, zhonk. The second spins his head as if he is trying to say yes and no as many times as he can as fast as he can. Shwoop, shwing, shwap, shwoop, shwing, shwap.

“My god, why are they behaving like that?”

“Oh, that’s normal.”

Zhoomp, zhonk, zhoomp, zhonk.

“What do you mean normal, they’ve gone mad.”

Shwoop, shwing, shwap, shwoop, shwing, shwap.

For the remainder of the day, I can’t shake it—they always behave like this? I try to convince myself that they are dancing, but that only works for a few minutes at a time.

Distracted, I accidentally pass by the hairdresser as I return home. Vacant. I bet they all went back to their oak doors and pets. I sneak toward the window for a closer look. Grotesque linear slum, Shwoop, shwing, shwap, shwoop, shwing, shwap. All of the chairs are still inclined, ghostly suggestions of their thoughtless habitual monotony. I touch the window just to leave my smudgy fingerprint. I know there are no smudges inside.

Once again, I climb the 126 steps, through the metal door, pass the horse stalls, scratch my knuckle as I unlock the door and enter the flat. Zhoomp, zhonk, zhoomp, zhonk. The walls stare blankly, cockeyed and inquisitive. Your crooked inclinations could never house such elite, I swear at them. Shwoop, shwing, shwap, shwoop, shwing, shwap. I climb into my fortress, and stare absently at an open book. My curses no longer come in French; I haven’t yet learned to attach sentiment to the language’s benign sounds.

I think of Bernard, a zhoomp-zhonk himself, apparently free of the anguishing burden of contemplation. The elephants must have reached this state too. I’m sure they are dancing. Shwoop, shwing, shwap, shwoop, shwing, shwap.