In 1965

by Albert Robida

  That was what my mount said. The officer only replies with exclamations of astonishment, as we say “Sapristi!” or “Damn!”

  He turns me around and around, his eyes wide; his men laugh, seemingly making fun of me.

  “Pardon me, Officer,” I say, in a vexed manner, “but I’m dying of hunger, and I’d like to go away with my rescuers, who’ll doubtless take me to some inn.”

  He makes a gesture of command. His soldiers clear the road, line up and depart at a trot to resume their exercises. The arrows whistle toward the target again.

  My rescuers address a few words of commiseration to me. One of them, a middle-aged centaur, a worthy bourgeois with a well-to-do air and a florid face, puts his hand to his mouth, which he opens wide. I understand.

  “Hungry! Very hungry!” I said, energetically, opening my moth wide. “Horribly hungry!”

  It was true. For how many days had I had nothing but splashes of sea-water over my body for my only nourishment. I didn’t know, but my stomach was crying famine.

  “Let’s go to the houses—it’s not far. Perhaps there’s a restaurant…let’s go, hup!” I say, impatiently

  As we get closer to the houses, I perceive two or three centaurs with striped hindquarters like the zebra centaur painted on the target. But their type isn’t the same, their features are different; my centaurs have proud aquiline noses like mine, in the European style; the noses of the zebra-striped centaur seems to me to be somewhat flattened, and their hue is more bronzed.

  I hear a sound of wheels. So they have horses! I want to see...

  No, they’re carriages with arms, drawn by centaur laborers, vehicles laden with merchandise or raw materials, it seems to me—except for one, a rig of very bourgeois appearance. In a species of litter or wheeled chair, there is an aged centauress with white hair, wheeled by two centaurs, whose garments, of a particular cut, must be livery.

  I also see a hirsute fellow passing, a ragged and dirty centaur covered in dust, as emaciated as an old cab-horse. His hands are bound and two uniformed centaurs are trotting behind him.

  My friend points at him and explains. I understand. He’s some vagabond, picked up by the centaur police, and doubtless being taken to prison.

  III. A first glance over the city of the centaurs.

  The Farrier.

  Zephyrin makes the acquaintance of centaurian cuisine

  We arrive in what is at least a big village, if not a town. I won’t waste my time giving you a course in centaurian architecture. Only know that the houses seem to me to be similar to the Asiatic type. They’re large white, pink, yellow or green cubes, very cheerful in appearance: only one upper floor, galleries on the ground floor, and immense arcades framing shops; on the upper floor, more galleries with glazed windows. Yes, they have windows, and even curtains behind them. I perceive that while trotting rapidly.

  There are monuments. We traverse a square dominated by a huge edifice, which looks very much like a temple to me. The other side of the square is occupied by a low building without an upper story, from which a rumor of infantile voices is emerging. I recognize the rumor. I still don’t know the centaurian language, but I can’t be mistaken; it’s something like: B, a, ba; B, e, be, B, o, bo!

  The rumor stops, replaced by a racket of hooves striking the ground, and from all the doors of the edifice there’s a stampede, a gallop of centaur foals, fillies to the right, colts to the left, who run, jump and race, snorting and shouting, with bursts of laughter. It’s the end of the school day, as among us.

  In the blink of an eye, we’re surrounded. They’ve seen me, and here they are, under the legs of my escort, which is forced to come to a halt.

  There are cries of astonishment that seem never-ending

  “Oh what a funny animal!”

  “Where did you find that?”

  “Is it dangerous?”

  “Let’s see!”

  “Are you giving it to us?”

  “Look at its feet!”

  “Can it walk?”

  “Very polite, those little centaurs; a trifle bold, but polite nevertheless.”

  They have slender hindquarters and long thin legs, exactly like our colts. The majority are holding scrolls under their arms, which must be textbooks or notebooks. A few are bouncing balloons or carrying bags of marbles.

  They come to feel and pinch my legs, manifesting a considerable astonishment. They would like to see me on the ground to discover whether I walk on two feet or four.

  “We’ve arrived, haven’t we?” I say.

  The entire school bursts out laughing on hearing me speak. I make a sign to my mount, who helps me to jump down. There are cries of surprise.

  “It stands upright on two feet! It can walk!”

  At that moment, as my garments are still soaked with sea-water, I feel a slight chill and I sneeze.

  A universal burst of laughter, accompanied by words that I have no difficulty translating as: Bless You!

  The centaurs appear to me to be good people. My obliging friend takes me by the arm, and leads me to the entrance to the first street, saying something like: “You’ll catch cold, poor little animal. Come this way and get warm.”

  There’s a fire burning in the first house…but what’s this I see on arrival?

  The fire is that of a forge; the house is the workshop of a farrier. In front of the house, the man in question—no, the centaur-smith—is in the process of shoeing, not a horse, but a respectable lady centauress! Just as we see here, in our squares, especially on market days!

  I hadn’t yet noticed; my friends from the beach are all shod, all the centaurs have iron horseshoes, including the schoolchildren; that’s audible when they gallop. The foot of the centauress is held by a centaur-workman; the centaur-smith sets the shoe on the hoof, applying the hot iron with tongs; he hammers and nails it...it reeks of burned horn...

  It’s done; the centauress lowers her foot and comes to look at me curiously before extending another.

  I go into the smithy with two or three centaurs, and I’m taken to dry myself before the fire, which an apprentice stokes up.

  The entire troop outside forms a compact crowd, the schoolboys in the front row trying to slip into the forge. They chat, they shout, they call out to me. Idlers intrigued by the crowd come trotting up and I see other curious individuals leaning over the upper galleries of the houses opposite.

  It’s hot in the forge. I’ve wrung out my jacket and waistcoat in order that they’ll dry quickly. As I feel increasingly hungry, I click my teeth energetically to ask for some sort of nourishment

  Understood! My obliging centaur signals to me with a nod of the head. Let’s go!

  He takes me by the arm and we depart, leaving the farrier to resume shoeing the centauress.

  My protector takes me a short distance to a large house that has an inscription on the façade. We go into an immense hall in the center of which is a large table flanked with a few smaller ones in the corners. Good, it’s an inn, and I’m in the dining rom.

  But the tables are very high, at least a meter and a half. There are neither chairs nor benches, nothing but little leather cushions on the floor. A family is dining at one of the little tables: a centaur, a centauress and a little centaurin. I can see that the tables are adapted to their height.

  A centaur in a white apron hastens forward and takes us to the big table. There are plates similar to ours of a kind of white faience and rounded glasses. But how am I to sit down at such a high table? Am I going to eat standing up? No, the waiter piles up the little cushion one atop another, and now my chin is level with the table.

  In the meantime, my protector has given orders and the hotelier appears in person with the first dish. What can it be? When I consider those equine hindquarters I’m seized by suspicion regarding centaurian cuisine…and I’m a finicky eater! Too bad, it’s pot luck. I’m too hungry.

  Here’s the dish on the table. What luck, an omelet! Was I stupid expecting to see hay ar
riving. It’s a delicious omelet, with bacon and fine herbs, accompanied by a little pancake, doubtless the local bred.

  I draw various bottles and jugs that I can see on the table toward me. There’s water, very good, but I’ve drunk too much during my shipwreck. Here’s a species of slightly sweet yellow wine that pleases me more.

  When the omelet is expedited I make a sign that I’m still hungry. Good, the centaur hotelier responds that he’s understood.

  “Monsieur has chosen the menu,” he says, or something like it, indicating my protector, the corpulent centaur.

  Very well. Let’s see what comes. Now that the edge has been taken off my hunger, what I feel most of all is curiosity. I don’t have long to wait. A centaur-scullion and a centauress, who must be the hotelier’s wife, bring me, one a fuming dish, the other a collection of plates of fruits and pots filled with something resembling compotes or kinds of jam.

  Perfect! Let’s see the main course! A large slice of roasted meat on a bed of unknown vegetables. Let’s taste it. Not bad. Beef? Mutton? Rabbit? Elephant? Horse? What am I saying, horse? Among the centaurs, that’s impossible. I can’t guess; the taste is unfamiliar. My friend the stout centaur tells me what it is, but I can’t grasp the word. Let’s cut it short and get on to the fruits and preserves.

  Suddenly, I slap my forehead. Damn it! I’m in a restaurant—how am I going to pay? I render myself culpable at that moment of the sin of bilking. I’m quite simply a crook. Quickly, I search my pockets; my money-clip has departed for the sea-bed. Ah, in my waistcoat: three copper coins, one of them English. I’ve eaten more than that! I continue searching. O joy! My wallet hadn’t followed by money-clip; it’s soaking wet, but that doesn’t matter. I take out a hundred-franc bill and I hand it nobly to the centaur-innkeeper.

  “Waiter, the bill,” I say. “Pay, yourself!”

  The centaur innkeeper looks at my banknote, turns it over and back; he shows it to his wife, who shows it to the waiter. My friend the stout centaur takes it and examines it. The blue image seems to interest them; they show one another the figures, which have two arms and two legs like me; then the innkeeper returns the bill to me, shaking his head.

  “What, you’re refusing a bill from the Banque de France, always well received throughout the five continents of the world? You’re refusing?”

  I add the three copper coins by way of a tip. It’s pure generosity for, after all, damn it, I haven’t eaten a hundred francs and thee sous’ worth!

  Things seem to be going badly. My innkeeper frowns and speak rapidly to his waiter

  “Banque de France!” I say. “Me give a hundred francs! Good bill, me have no other money. Bill good everywhere!”

  I talk in pidgin and shout, as if that might make my French more easily understood, but the worthy folk seem even more bewildered and refuse my bill more energetically.

  The stout centaur intervenes, sketching a noble gesture. “Monsieur is my guest,” he seems to be saying. And he also takes something out of a pocket in his tunic. It’s a purse; he takes out a shiny coin.

  “Very good!” says the innkeeper, picking up a rectangular slate on which he traces signs that must be numbers and presumably constitute my bill

  I shake the hand of the stout centaur and I look at the gold coin. It’s round, like ours; one on side there’s a bearded head coiffed with a crown and on the other a centaur on foot, holding a sort of scepter in his right hand and a ball in the left...

  Very curious. I collect the coins of all the continents; I have piastres, sapèques, yen, contos de reis…but not one of those.

  “Bill good,” I say to the stout centaur. “You change bill, give money to me…”

  The centaur takes the bill, looks once again at the image, with interest, and puts it in his pocket carefully, but without giving me any change.

  My lunch has cost me a hundred francs, life seems to be expensive here, I no longer have any but three sous for my entire fortune, so far from home! Damn! Let’s eat copiously—I don’t know whether I’ll be able to dine this evening!”

  And I finish the plate of meat that seemed so formidable, and stuff myself with compotes and jam.

  IV. Captain Zephyrin causes great excitement

  in the streets of the city and the town hall.

  A Family Reception

  There are still as many people in the street when I come out of the restaurant. The entire city has come running to see the unknown biped cast up on the shore by the tempest.

  Where are we going now? The stout centaur makes a speech of which I can only grasp one thing, which is that he’s inviting me to follow him. I’d like nothing better. Politeness obliges me to respond and thank him for all his attentions.

  “Where would I be without you, my dear benefactor?” I say to him. “You’ve nourished me; I’ve seen you give a tip to the fishers who pulled me out of the water; I consider you to be a worthy fellow of a centaur.”

  We continue on our way and we even find in the street the two centaurs of the police force, in the process of taking their vagabond into a large building with barred windows.

  My guide stops and has me precede him into the courtyard of that forbidding edifice. What? Am I too going to be considered a vagabond and lodged in the prison with the other one?”

  “Wait a minute! Wait a minute! I’m a honest traveler—without papers it’s true, and with only three sous in my pocket, but...”

  A smile passes over the centaur’s benevolent face. He claps me on the shoulder. Reassured, I slap him casually on the rump.

  “Let’s go, me confident; you go ahead, me follow!” I say, resuming talking pidgin , which seems more intelligible to me in its simplicity.

  No, the prison doesn’t open for me; we turn into a gallery and traverse a vast room in which four young centaurs are working, sitting on little leather cushions, at high desks, like the restaurant table. They’re writing with goose-quills on large pieces of paper or ledgers. My entrance has a considerable effect. The young individuals have seen me in the square, but they come to study me at closer range with ken interest.

  My guide opens a door and we go into a second room, with walls garnished with pigeon-holes and tablets, like the first. A centaur of imposing appearance, who is working at a desk cluttered with stacks of paper, stands up. I guess that I must be in the office of the local mayor, in the presence of that official.

  This one has not yet seen me; his eyes widen with surprise; he circles around me, makes me lift my head; he feels my knees, bends down to look at my shoes, and utters exclamations. My friend tells him about my arrival in the land, pointing through the window at the distant blue sea and the beach where the waves cast me up.

  The official pushes cushions with his hoof and invites us to sit down. I’m forced to cross my legs in the Turkish fashion, which makes me seem very small beside my friend.

  The official takes a large sheet of parchment, sharpens a goose-quill and looks at me gravely, pronouncing a few words in an interrogative tone. Doubtless he’s asking me for my name and my forenames.

  I respond immediately: “Zephyrin Canigousse, long-haul captain, domiciled in Bordeaux, Rue...”

  The official makes a gesture.

  “Forty-two and a half...”

  Another gesture

  “Traveling on business and at liberty here by virtue of misfortune at sea. You must have perceived the great tempest that raged a few days ago, a true cyclone, Monsieur le Maire! Can you imagine that my ship, the Rose de Mai, a fifteen-hundred-ton steamer, out of Bordeaux, as I told you, which set sail toward Indo-China, Siam, Tonkin, China and Japan, in order to...”

  The mayor, his pen suspended over the paper, interrupts me.

  “Am I going too quickly? You’re not entirely satisfied? Wait, Monsieur le Maire. Permit me to write my name myself; I’m familiar with the orthography...”

  I stand up and I borrow the mayor’s pen. He’s already scribbled a heap of distorted signs on his paper; underneath, in my fin
est calligraphy, I write my name and forenames, my address in Bordeaux and the name of my defunct ship.

  “There,” I say, returning the pen to him. “That will be more regular.”

  The mayor tries to read in his turn, and scratches his head. Then, taking up his pen again, he looks at me attentively and writes. It’s evidently a description that he’s recording; he gets up to come and verify the color of my eyes; then, in response to a summons, a centaur clerk arrives with a measuring-stick and measures me, like a conscript.. What vexes me is that they all seem to think me very small, with my one meter seventy-six. Well, I’m not like them, half a man planted on three-quarters of a horse.

  Finally, it’s done. The mayor shakes my friend’s hand and deigns to clap me on the shoulder benevolently.

  “Let’s go,” says my guide, drawing me away, after obligatory salutations.

  Mechanically, I look for a tobacconist’s shop in the street. My lunch is never complete if I can’t light my little pipe afterwards. And I can feel it in my pocket—the sea hasn’t taken it. Alas, there’s no sign of tobacco in the street. We go past merchants of fruit and vegetables, a carpenter planning planks in his yard with his apprentices, a metalwork shop in which centaur craftsmen are hammering in cadence on the anvil, a bakery-patisserie in which centaur bakers in aprons are putting flat loaves in the oven, and a draper who is displaying his fabrics to lady centauresses, so interested that they don’t see me passing by.

  In sum, I glimpse most of the trades familiar to us, the equivalent of what one would find in a small provincial town. I even perceive a notary’s office—at least, I suppose that’s what it is; there are three centaur clerks scribbling on high desks and who get up tumultuously as I go past, in response to a summons from a young guttersnipe. Why, there’s even a clockmaker. So the centaurs are no longer using the ancient clepsydra, or even the sundial. It’s true that I remember seeing a clock in the mayor’s office without paying any attention to it, by reason of having so many subjects to astonishment, amazement and stupefaction piled upon me since the morning.