Caresco, Superman

by André Couvreur

  “You teach, little girl,” he said, in a voice as harmonious as he could contrive, “but do you also practice?”

  “Certainly, on occasion...”

  “Well, I believe than an occasion is presenting itself...”

  He clutched her to his hairy chest.

  She pushed him away violently. “Are you joking, Zéphi? In the state you’re in, old and frightful as you are, you dare to ask that of me? I wouldn’t obtain any pleasure from it, you know! At least wait until your youth as been restored, like mine. And then, what would Marius say?”

  “Marius? What Marius?”

  “Your old friend.”

  “What! He followed you?”

  “No, I met him again here, purely by chance.”

  “That’s all right; I’ll await events...”

  Awaiting events was Choumaque’s manner of action. He no longer had those beautiful burning passions of youth that would once have made him throw himself on Little Panade and take by force the sensual pleasure that she was refusing him, and which would also have caused him to set out in search of Marius to demand a reckoning for his past treason. In any case, he was firmly convinced, by virtue of the disillusionments he had experienced in Paris, that women are generally unworthy of the stirrings they provoke. Furthermore, reading philosophy had made him resolute in that attitude of expectant calm. No: he gazed upon the world with amused curiosity; and from those observations he had reasoned and concluded that brief existence passes easily when one is endowed with Stoicism. Did not life always equilibrate, in terms of good and ill fortune?

  As his interlocutrice thought she had discovered a hint of resentment in his facile patience, however, she wanted to create a diversion and went on: “Come on, Zéphi, console yourself. Instead, come and looks at the panorama that unfolds beneath us from this height. It’s curious, and worth the trouble of being admired.”

  She drew him to the bay window and opened it wide. The chamber gave access to a circular terrace bordered by a perforated balustrade, on which they leaned. At first Choumaque only saw a luxurious vegetation composed of tall trees of an unknown species, distributed in accordance with a charming discipline. He recognized the back of the fantastic palace into which he had gone a little while before. He was looking down on it, as well as the park, the villas and the stone blocks that one might have thought disposed by Titans to represent an amorous couple. Beyond that, however, to the right and the left, nature extended as far as the eye could see, bathed in the red and gold apotheosis of a setting sun. The perspective was uneven, with mountains and woods, which the star’s long streaks touch in places and caused to glitter, in contrast with the shadowed expanses of valleys, like sheets of color and life extended over sleep and repose.

  “You can’t see very much,” said the High Priestess, “but put your eye to this powerful telescope, and follow my explanations. The island, as you doubtless know, has the form of a human body. Direct the telescope toward its contours and you’ll be able, in places, to convince yourself of it. The Superman resolved to distribute his palaces in accordance with that disposition of nature. He occupies the location of the Brain. It’s from there that he directs the thought and action of his realm. Turn the visual axis of the instrument toward that region, and you’ll perceive, confusedly, the mass of brilliant domes beneath which he presides over our destiny. It’s fantastic! You’ll see that in due course. Come and look backwards now. Don’t worry about the telescope; it will follow you of its own accord as soon as we’ve pressed the omnial switch...”

  Indeed, scarcely had they turned their backs on that first face of the view than the telescope, moved by an occult force, came by itself to take up a position within arm’s reach. They leaned on the parapet again, the High Priestess having taken the liberty of putting her arm around the philosopher’s waist.

  “Here in front of us is the natural sequel to the dispositions sketched by the anatomical conformation of the rocky mass. The more you’re able to follow the description, the more you’ll be able to discern it. There, in front of you—that gorge hollowed out in the rock, is near the place where you disembarked. The shiny little crests that stick up in the form of a lyre are immense halls in which the nation is inspired by musical taste and science. The arms that depart therefrom, seeming to dangle into the water of the sea, belong to the commune, whose habitations are there, very different in their architecture from the one which will shelter you for a while.

  “I shall pass over them to arrive at the Thorax, simulated by forests of improbable grandeur, which are presently masked from view. They’re called the Woods of Respiration. Know that they’re distributed like lungs, with concentric pathways depicting fairly faithfully the curves of the rib. People play and dance there.

  “The Heart is that immense red dome, the swelling of which you can perceive. It is, along with the Brain, the most important system in the realm. Immense factories manufacture omnial, sympathetic, telepathic and other fluids there, the services of which we appreciate every day. Telephony, lighting and the various physical energies have their origin there. Also accumulated there is atmospheric electricity, heat from the central fire, the cold of glaciers and the tidal force of the sea, previously unutilized, which our engineers have been able to store. From there, those fluids are redistributed over the entire surface of our soil by a system of channels, which it would be imprudent to touch.

  “Lower down, at the level of the Stomach and the Liver, you fall into the domain of subsistence. Chemistry concocts our alimentation there, along with the more delightful culinary dishes that we serve ourselves on days of rejoicing. Heady beverages are also prepared there. Poultry-yards full of birds, the rearing of livestock and the intensive cultivation of cereals and fruits are admirably well-ordered there.

  “The systems of water supply and excretion, and waste-disposal succeed those organs, in the location of the Kidneys. Enormous machines distil the clouds, when there are any—which is rare—and valves extract profound and pure water. Nothing is left to the hazard of the elements, which are disciplined to our needs.

  “To conclude, separating in the sea, there are the inferior Limbs, populated like the Arms, and the region of the Ankles, where the slaves live.”

  “But you’re not saying anything about the region I can see at the intersection of the legs,” said Choumaque.

  “You can’t see anything of that from here, you rascal,” the High Priestess immediately replied, gratifying him with a pat on the backside. “You can’t see anything there because we’re four hundred kilometers away, and I suspect that your imagination pauses too gladly on matters of generation. You’re right, however, and in the place you’ve just mentioned, where I live, there are indeed very important sections, entirely consecrated to religious necessity: the Palaces of Fecundity and Birth, and also the Palaces of Sterile Sensualities, and the dwellings of the Courtesans and Gitons. The whole is dominated by the Mount of Venus, which soars into the snows and has been smoking for twenty years. But I dare not say too much about that, not knowing whether you’ll ever be admitted to it, your carcass being in such a sad state...”

  And she stood up, disdainfully, preparing to leave. “I’ll run along now, I’ve already chatted for too long; I need to get back to the Palace of Sterility.”

  “In that costume?”

  “It’s the costume of the day. There’s a festival of Eucrasia in the gardens of dancing, near the place where you disembarked. The Courtesans, under my direction, and the Gitons, under Marjah’s guidance, are meeting with the families...”

  “I did, in fact, catch a glimpse of the lovely rhythms of couples who reminded me, by the grace of their movements and the symphony of their colors, of the ballets of the Paris Opéra, which are the best dances in the world.”

  “Do you think so?” asked the Priestess, with an ironic smile. Then she added: “Au revoir, Zéphi. I must go back. Sleep has been ordered for everyone as soon as the sun sets. In consequence, the tube won’t be
functioning once darkness has fallen. I don’t want to miss it, for I’d be obliged to charter an airplane, which would take an hour to make the journey that only takes eight minutes by tube.”

  “Four hundred kilometers in eight minutes!”

  “Yes—that’s how we travel here. Adieu! May Caresco favor you.”

  “Adieu, Little Panade.”

  “Call me Madame Môme—that’s how I’m known.”12

  She moved a flap of the peignoir that was covering Choumaque’s nudity and kissed him on the shoulder. Then, after a final recommendation to submit to what was demanded of him, and a last glance at the panel of utilities, several of whose buttons she pressed, she turned a cartwheel, performed the splits that had once caused the crowds at public balls to marvel, and finally left, in a dignified fashion, draped in her mauve peplum circled with gold.

  “She’s fifty years old!” Choumaque said to himself, knowing that she was, in reality, over sixty. Then, in a spirit of emulation, he attempted to execute a somersault himself, while laid him flat on the floor.

  It was in that posture that he received the visit of another individual, as unexpected as that of his former mistress. He was still trying to get up when a loudspeaker placed next to the door announced: “Dr. Hymen!”

  A little man came in. He was short in the legs, with a stiff abdomen sheathed in a long black frock-coat devoid of a collar, like those clergymen still wore in the middle of the twentieth century. On the front of his waistcoat, open at the front, a dozen minuscule instruments of bizarre form dangled, adding a flourish to the neatness of a sea-green shirt, and clashing with one another. But what constituted his eccentricity even more than the garment was his enormous head, coiffed with an opera hat with a flat brim whose brushed-up felt was so bushy that it matched his tousled hair. Under the hat was a strange clean-shaven face, simultaneously comical and cruel: comical by virtue of the deviation of the long and hairy nose, slanting to the right toward a little turned-up side-whisker; cruel by virtue of the penetrating expression of the glaucous eyes, accentuated by thick eyebrows.

  He did not take off his hat, and considered the sprawling philosopher momentarily.

  “Ah! Have you gone mad? Have our institutions already turned your head? A bad start, my friend, a very bad start. Get up. I don’t have any time to waste. Or, rather, no: stay on the floor, since you’re there, and roll over on to your back.”

  He leaned over Choumaque, parted his bath-robe with disgust, and after having studied him momentarily, said: “A priori, you have an ignoble anatomy, and there’s not much to be done with you. You’ve had a bath? So much the better. I’ll be able to examine you without getting dirty. Don’t move. Let’s see...”

  He took a measuring-tape out of his pocket, unrolled it and began to take measurements along the torso, the legs, the shoulders and the face. Then he palpated the organs through their walls of fat, delimiting the stomach, the liver and the spleen, and ausculated the heart and lungs with the aid of a stethoscope hanging from the chain of his waistcoat.

  At the same time, he murmured: “How has this carrion been admitted? My word, it’s revolting! It’s bathed in fat, threatened with emphysema and atherosclerosis. The legs are streaked with varicose veins. And he smokes and drinks! You smoke, don’t you? You drink, you pig? And you weren’t ashamed to apply to come here? And you were let in! Dare to claim that you don’t drink!”

  “In fact, a few beers, from time to time,” Choumaque confessed, nonplussed by this avalanche insults. “But I’ll tell you...”

  “Don’t say anything; you’ll have more intelligence.”

  He had taken hold of the philosopher with an uncommon strength and sat him up. Taking a new instrument from his collection of trinkets, some kind of complex tube that dilated at will, he applied it to his patient’s ear, and then set up a screen level with the other ear. Then, connecting the tube by means of a wire to accumulator he was his carrying in his pocket, he passed long sparks of fire through it, which were echoed in an image on the screen. Choumaque felt a thousand tiny shocks, which stunned him.

  The other looked coldly at the design produced by the omnial radioscope. “The brain isn’t as lamentable,” he conceded. “The localizations there are sufficiently equilibrated. I can only see one anomaly, one excessively developed nucleus…my word! It’s that of philosophy! You’re a philosopher, Monsieur? I’ll even say more: you’re an optimistic philosopher?”

  “My God, Monsieur, if I were less disconcerted by your methods, I’d confess to you that optimism is indeed my doctrine, mitigated nevertheless by Stoicism, which has led me to the theory of equilibrium. For the moment, though, I’d have difficulty putting simple ideas together. Let me collect myself.”

  “Please do, Monsieur.”

  Dr. Hymen had suddenly softened, and a certain deference, doubtless provoked by the discovery that he had just made, gave more amenity to the tone of his voice. Choumaque took advantage of the pause to get to his feet, after which a few drops of blood were extracted from him by means of a prick on his thumb. He then perceived that his inquisitor was making notes on a pad attached to the chain of his waistcoat. He was about to demand explanations regarding the purpose of the examination to which he had just been subjected when the little man, having divined his intention, straightened up, making a courteous hand gesture.

  “Later, Monsieur. We’ll chat later. Today, I’m in a hurry. I still have to identify your friend Girard and your traveling companion, Miss Hardisson. It’s been an honor, Monsieur. You can always find me at the Palace of Surgery. May Caresco favor you.”

  Before reaching the door he raised his arms in the air, and Choumaque thought that he was about to collapse, so full of evident effort were his features and his sparkling little eyes. He did indeed collapse, voluntarily, his body folding in two and his legs taking the place of his head. He was standing on his hands. He maintained himself thus momentarily, swaying; then, with a muscular thrust that caused his bones to crack, he completed his somersault and came upright again. His opera hat had not parted company with his hair; his pendants had accompanied his exercise with a metallic clink.

  He disappeared, this time leaving Choumaque utterly astounded.

  That, thought the philosopher, was a serious man accomplishing an action that one might consider to be childish. But Mirror-of-Smiles and Madame Môme withdrew in a similar fashion, from which I conclude that it’s a simple manifestation of politeness. It’s doubtless the demands of good manners that force everyone to leave performing somersaults, and there must be a superior reason for it that I can’t imagine. I’m merely astonished by the constant association of the grotesque and the marvelous. Let’s await events.

  Having ruminated thus, and having relieved his mind of any other reflection by his customary strategy of expectant inaction, he suddenly felt very hungry. The prospect of an excellent meal, the possibility of which his former mistress had enabled him to glimpse, and, on the other hand, the prospect of Marcel’s company, directed him toward the door that connected the two apartments.

  He knocked, without receiving any reply. Then, wanting to open it, he searched in vain for the non-existent handle. It was the same with the other door, which opened on to the landing. He was locked in.

  As his belly was screaming famine more imperiously, he remembered that satisfaction of all the instincts, all the commodities of life and all the pleasures of sensibility could be demanded from the famous utilities panel that filed one of the room’s side-walls. He therefore advanced toward one of the buttons, which he believed to correspond to the word meal, and put his finger on it.

  A click responded to his gesture, and he was surprised to hear a delightful tune emerging from the floor. He waited for it to end, applauded internally, and then, not seeing any aliment appear, perceived that he had mistaken the switch, and pressed the one for soft music, next to the one for cheerful music and the one for great lyricism. Searching further, he noticed the word poetry, and as there was n
one for philosophy, he rejoiced, promising himself that he would play a great role in Eucrasia.

  For the moment, however, more material necessities continued to solicit him. He finally discovered the pigeon-hole of alimentation, and pressed the button. Alas, there was a disappointment as tormenting as his hunger. Instead of steak and potatoes, and pâté de foie gras garnished with a tempting salad, he saw two little capsules sprinkled with white powder appear, each about the size of a marble.

  “That’s how they expect me to furnish the haggis!” he said, aloud. “There’s only enough in those two hazelnuts, at the most, to fill the cavity of my third left molar. This joke surpasses the limits of my tolerance, already considerable extended. But, for want of larks...”

  He decided to swallow the complete aliment stoically, not without suspicion. Scarcely had he absorbed it, however, than he felt his appetite satisfied and his heart ballasted, as after a good meal. A few agreeable belches demonstrated to him that a fruitful labor of digestion was operating within him. He cheered up.

  In my eatery in Paris, he said to himself, I complained about the service, which was slow, and the quality of the nourishment, which, belated in its appearance, was parsimonious. At the most, to help me be patient and console me for my host’s avarice, I had the opportunity to contemplate at leisure the pulpy complexion and double chin of the fat idol enthroned at the till. Here, the service is rapid, digestion facile, and I don’t have to regret the gift of a tip. It’s evident progress, and I ought to rejoice in it. But will it be the same tomorrow...and what will I think of it tomorrow?

  Outside, darkness had just fallen abruptly. A great peace reigned. The walls were illuminated by a kind of phosphorescence, gentle on the eye, and Choumaque understood that omnium, in its luminous manifestation, must be built in to the constitution of the buildings. But what should he do, now that he was alone and the doors would not open?

  He wandered around the room briefly. He was tempted to have recourse to the panel, to press all the buttons successively, to listen to verses and music, to see magic shows and ballets, to watch a play at the Athénée-Comique or the Théâtre Français—for the labels promised all those distractions and even more marvels of thought, of voices and of harmony, captured by machines and distributed at will. But a heavy fatigue gripped him, the result of the voyage and so many successive astonishments.