by Paul Gallico
The fox yapped again and then called down below the counter, “Hey, Ali! Come up here a moment and see if you can scare this one.”
The upper portion of a huge, tousle-headed, hideous, yet pathetic-looking giant rose slowly from beneath and stared fixedly at Mouche, who stared back. She could not help herself.
Mr. Reynardo performed the introductions: “This is our giant, Alifanfaron—Ali for short. Ali, this is Mouche and she’s crazy about me.”
Mouche started to reply indignantly, “I am not,” but thought better of it and decided to let it go and see what would happen. The giant seemed to be trying desperately to recall something and finally said in a mild, friendly voice, “Fi-fo-fe . . . No no—fo-fe-fi—— Oh dear. That isn’t it either. I never seem to get it straight.”
Mouche prompted him, “Fe-fi-fo . . .”
Ali nodded his head. “Of course. And then the last one is fum. But what’s the use? I don’t really frighten you, do I?”
On an odd impulse, Mouche solemnly felt her heart beat for a moment and then replied, “Oh, I’m so sorry. I’m afraid you don’t.”
The giant said sadly, “Never mind. I’d really rather be friends. Then I can have my head scratched. Please scratch my head.”
Obediently, Mouche gently rubbed the wooden head while Ali sighed and pushed slightly against her fingers like a cat. Once more Mouche felt herself strangely moved and even more so when the fox yipped, “Me too, me too,” like a child that has been left out of something, and came whipping over and leaned his head against her shoulder.
A battered and paint-shy old Citroën with a luggage rack on the roof and a trunk fastened to the rear drove alongside the booth from out of the darkness, and a fearful and astonishing apparition climbed out.
He was a one-eyed negro in the tattered remnants of the uniform of a Senegalese line regiment, a wrinkled old man with a large, rubbery face, naked, glistening skull and a mouth full of gold teeth that testified he might once have known more opulent times.
He wore not a black, but a soiled white patch over his blind left eye which gave him a terrifying aspect though this was belied, however, by an innocent and child-like grin. There were sergeant’s stripes on the uniform sleeve and he had an old World War I kepi on the back of his head. Around his neck was slung a guitar.
He took in the group and shook his head in marvel, chuckling, “Whooeeeee! Who you chasing up this time, Mr. Reynardo? Can’t leave you alone two minutes before you go making eyes at something in skirts.”
Mr. Reynardo leered at the Senegalese. “You, Golo! Cough up that ten franc piece I saw you palm when you took up that last collection this evening.”
The Senegalese grinned admiringly. “You saw that, Mr. Reynardo? By my life, you don’t miss much, do you?” He fished the coin out of his pocket and laid it down on the counter where the fox immediately pounced on it, saying to Mouche virtuously, “You see? It’s good someone is honest around here. Golo, this is a friend of mine, by the name of Mouche. We’re thinking of getting married. Mouche, meet Golo. He’s our orchestra.”
Mouche found herself shaking hands solemnly with the negro who bowed courteously and carried her hand half way to his lips as though she were a queen.
Mr. Reynardo rasped, “Break it up. You’ll be giving her ideas.” Then to Mouche, “By the way, kid, can you sing?”
Mouche replied, “A little. Can you?”
“Oh yes,” Mr. Reynardo admitted. “Heroic tenor. And I’ve got a friend who is a pretty good basso. We could have a trio. Hey, Ali, send the Doc up. Golo, you play something for us.”
The giant disappeared to be replaced by a solemn-looking penguin who wore a pince-nez attached to a black ribbon and was introduced by the fox as Dr. Duclos, a member of the academy.
The penguin bowed and murmured, “Charmed indeed. Forgive the formal clothes. I have just come from the annual dinner of the Anthropofumbling Society.”
Golo leaned against the dented wing of the Citroën and fingered the advance ghost of a melody on his guitar, then struck a firm chord and thereafter, without further introduction, Mouche found herself singing the popular Parisian song hit of the moment:
“Va t’en, va t’en, va t’en!
Je ne suis plus ton amant . . .”
She had not much voice, it was true, but there was a softness and an ingenuous earnestness in it with a slight throaty quality that was young and pleasing and blended astonishingly well with the unctuous but not unmelodious tenor sung by Mr. Reynardo, supported and interlarded by deep basso “poom-pooms” contributed at the proper musical moments by Dr. Duclos.
“Be off, be off, be off!
I am not your lover any more . . .
Another has taken your place . . .”
The music completed the spell under which Mouche found herself and carried her away into this strangest of all strange lands of make-believe into which she had wandered out of the unhappy night.
The song was catching the ears of their neighbours too. The fortune teller and her husband ceased quarrelling and came nearer to listen, their gypsy eyes glistening in the torchlight. The workman and the truck driver were clapping their hands to punctuate the “Va t’en”. A passing cab-driver pulled up to the kerb and got out. Late home-goers lingered. Other concessionaires came over from nearby pitches which they had been engaged in dismantling. Soon a considerable crowd had formed a semi-circle about the dingy little puppet booth.
These were hard, rough people, mostly; the night was cold and the hour late, but they too succumbed to the spell of the odd little talking dolls, the music and the new ingredient that had been added—the waif.
Even this brief space of time had seen a transformation worked in Mouche. The listlessness and despair had been shed. If anything, her gauntness, the hunger-thin frame and the large, tender, believing eyes shining from the pale countenance added to the attraction as in company with the sly-looking, amorous fox and the pompous, stuffy, over-dignified penguin she acted out the verses of the song, playing first to one and then the other as though she had really changed lovers.
They ended with a shout and a thump of Golo’s guitar and his hearty chuckle was heard above the applause and bravos of the audience. Mouche did not even notice Golo reach behind the booth for a battered tin poilu’s helmet with which he passed swiftly through the crowd, or the response to his collection in bills and coins, for she was too absorbed with Mr. Reynardo and Dr. Duclos who were taking elaborate bows.
“You were in excellent voice tonight, my dear Reynardo.”
“Permit me to compliment you likewise, friend Duclos.”
To Mouche, Reynardo remarked, “You know, I could make something out of you, Baby . . .” and Dr. Duclos added importantly, “Your sol-fege is not at all bad, my child. I say of course that everything is diaphragm control . . .”
From somewhere in the depths of the booth a bell rang. Mr. Reynardo let out a yelp. “Oops! Supper! Sorry. Nice to have met you, kid. Come on, Doc.”
The fox and the penguin disappeared beneath the stage. Golo regarded Mouche for a moment with the sad creamy eyes of an old negro who had seen much. He said, “Who are you, Miss?”
Mouche replied, “Nobody.”
“You brought us good luck.”
“Did I? I’m glad.”
“Where you go now?”
“I don’t know.”
His question had restored the chill to the night and the feel of the hard-packed earth beneath her feet. The fairy tale was over then. Yet the echoes still lingered and her heart felt strangely light.
Golo nodded. To have no place to go was familiar to him. He said, “You excuse me, Miss. I better get things ready to move.”
He went to the car and unstrapped the big theatrical trunk from the rear. Someone at Mouche’s elbow went “Pssst!” Another half-doll occupied the stage, an elderly woman with a pronounced moustache and indignant eyebrows. She was wearing a coverall and mob cap and carried a dustcloth with which she took an occasional wipe at the c
ounter. When Mouche turned to her she first peered furtively to both sides and then addressed her in a hoarse whisper. “Don’t trust them.”
Instantly Mouche was swept back to this other world. “Don’t trust whom?” she asked.
“Don’t trust anyone. I am a woman, and believe me, I know what I am talking about.”
“But they were all so kind . . .” Mouche protested.
“Hah! That’s just how they do it. I am Madame Muscat, the concierge here. I know everything that goes on. You look as though you might be a respectable girl. The things I could tell you . . . They’re all a bad lot and if you take my advice you won’t have anything to do with them.”
Mouche was not one to listen to gossip and Madame Muscat was exactly like all the concierges she had ever known. Nevertheless she felt a pang at her heart, the kind one experiences when ill is spoken of dear friends. She cried, “Oh surely that can’t be so . . .”
Golo went by carrying the trunk on his shoulders. He paused and said reprovingly: “You oughtn’t to say things like that, Madame Muscat. They ain’t really so bad. They just young and a little wild.” To Mouche he said reassuringly, “Don’t you pay her any attention, Miss. Wait until I put her in this trunk again. That will keep her quiet.”
Madame Muscat gave a little shriek at the threat and ducked quickly beneath the counter as Golo continued on behind the booth.
In her place there appeared then finally one more puppet, an old gentleman who wore square steel-rimmed spectacles, a stocking cap and leather apron. The expression painted on his face contrived sometimes to be quizzical and friendly, at others, when he moved his head, searching and benign, For a moment he appeared to look right through Mouche. Then in a gentle voice he spoke to her saying, “Good evening to you. My name is Monsieur Nicholas. I am a maker and mender of toys. My child, I can see you are in trouble. Behind your eyes are many more tears than you have shed.”
Mouche’s hand flew to her throat because of the ache that had come to lodge there. It had been so long since anyone had called her “child”.
Monsieur Nicholas said, “Perhaps you would care to tell me about it.”
Golo appeared again. He said, “You tell him, Miss. He is a good man. Everybody who has troubles tells them to Monsieur Nicholas.”
Now the tears came swiftly to Mouche’s eyes and with their flow something loosened inside her so that standing there in the garish light before the shabby puppet booth and the single animated wooden doll listening so attentively to her, the story of her trials and failures poured from her in moving innocence, for she could not have confessed it thus to any human.
When she had reached the end of her unhappy tale, Monsieur Nicholas concluded for her, “. . . And so you were going to throw yourself into the Seine tonight.”
Mouche stared, marvelling. “How did you know?”
“It was not hard to tell. There is nothing to seek for one as young as you at the bottom of the river.”
“But, Monsieur Nicholas—what shall I do? Where shall I go?”
The puppet bowed his head as he reflected gravely for a moment, a tiny hand held to his brow. Then he tilted his head to one side and asked, “Would you care to come with us?”
“Come with you? Oh, could I? Do you suppose I could?” It was as though suddenly a vista of Heaven had opened for Mouche. For she loved them already, all of these queer, compelling little individuals who each in a few brief moments had captured her imagination or tugged at her heartstrings. To make-believe for ever—or as the day was long, to escape from reality into this unique world of fantasy . . . She held out her arms in supplication and cried, “Oh, Monsieur Nicholas! Would you really take me with you?”
The puppet contemplated silently for a moment and then said, “You must ask Poil du Carot. Officially, he manages the show. Goodbye.”
The stage remained empty for an appreciable time. Then an insouciant whistling was heard and Poil du Carot appeared bouncing jauntily along the counter, looking nowhere in particular. As though surprised he said, “Oh, hello, Mouche, you still here?”
The girl was uncertain how to approach him. He was mercurial. His mood now seemed to be quite different. She ventured: “Monsieur Nicholas said . . .”
Carrot Top nodded. “Oh yes. I heard about it.”
“May I come please, dear Carrot Top?”
The doll with the worried expression looked her over. “When you ask so prettily it is hard to refuse . . . After all, it was I who discovered you, wasn’t it? However, if you come with us you wouldn’t always be telling me what to do, would you? You know I have a lot of responsibility with this show.”
“Oh no . . .”
“But you’d look after us, wouldn’t you?”
“If you’d let me . . .”
“Sew on buttons and things?”
“Darn socks . . .”
“We have no feet,” Carrot Top said severely. “That’s the first thing you’ll have to learn.”
“Then I’d knit you mittens.”
Carrot Top nodded. “That would be nice. We’ve never had mittens. There’d be no money, you know . . .”
“I wouldn’t care . . .”
“Very well then . . . In that case you can come . . .”
“Oh, Carrot Top!”
“Mouche!”
Mouche never knew exactly how it happened, but suddenly she was close to the booth, weeping with joy, and Carrot Top had both his arms around her neck and was patting her cheek with one of his little wooden hands. He wailed, “Mouche, don’t cry. I always meant you to come. I only had to pretend because I’m the manager . . . Welcome to Poil du Carot and the family of Capitaine Coq.”
From below there sounded the sardonic yapping of the fox and the shrill voice of Gigi, “Why does she have to come with us? There isn’t enough for everybody now.” Madame Muscat whisked across the stage once croaking, “Remember, I warned you.” Ali arose and rumbled: “Gee, I’m glad. I need looking after because I’m so stupid. Scratch my head . . .”
Carrot Top suddenly became efficient. “Not now, Ali. We’ve got to get cracking. Golo . . . Golo, where are you?”
“Right here, little boss.” The Senegalese appeared from behind the booth.
“Mouche is coming with us. Find her a place in the car . . .”
The negro shouted “Bravo. That’s mighty good luck for us. I find her a place in the car.”
“Then come back and strike the set, Golo.”
“Yes, sir, little boss. Strike the set. I’ll do that. You come along with me, Miss, and I fix you right up.” He picked up Mouche’s valise and went with her to the Citroën where he stowed it in the luggage boot in the rear. Then he looked into the back seat of the car which was buried beneath pieces of old clothing, newspapers, maps, bits of costumes for the puppets and props, packages, a bottle of beer, a half-eaten loaf of bread, tools and a spare tin of petrol along with other masculine litter.
Golo began a futile rummaging. “Don’t look like they’s much room, but . . .”
Mouche took over. “Never mind, Golo. I promised Carrot Top I’d look after things. I’ll have it tidied up in no time.”
As she worked, Mouche sang, “Va t’en, va t’en, va t’en . . .” humming the melody happily to herself. But through her head were running new words to the old song, “Go away, death! You are not my lover any longer. I have found a new one called life. It is to him I shall always be faithful . . .”
She cleared a small space for herself on the seat, folded the clothing and the maps, wrapped the bread and a piece of sausage she found, stowed the costumes carefully where they would not get dirty, and while she was at it, gave a good brushing and cleaning to the old car which in a sense was to be her future home, one that she would share with Carrot Top, Reynardo, Ali, Mme. Muscat and Gigi, Golo and all the rest.
So bemused and enchanted was she that not once did she give a thought to that other who would also be there, the unseen puppeteer who animated the seven dolls.
Yet when Mouche discovered him nearby she found herself unable to call, or even speak, so strange and ominous was the sight that met her eyes.
For the booth with all its endearing occupants had vanished from the spot it had occupied and now lay flat, a compact pile of board, canvas, oil-cloth and painted papier mâché, tarpaulined and roped by Golo who was finishing the job with the sure movements of long practice. None of the puppets were in sight and reposed presumably in the trunk that stood nearby.
But the pole with the flaming gasoline torch was still there and against it leaned a man Mouche had not seen before. He was clad in corduroy trousers, rough shoes and was wearing a roll-neck sweater under some kind of old army fatigue-jacket. A stocking cap was pulled down on one side of his head and a cigarette hung from his lips.
In the wavering light it was not possible to judge his age, but his attitude and the expression on his face and mouth was cold, cynical and mocking. His eyes were fixed on Mouche and she could see their glitter reflecting the torchlight.
It was like a chill hand laid upon her heart, for there was no warmth or kindliness in the figure lounging against the pole, his fists pressed deeply into the pockets of his jacket. The shine of his eyes was hostile and the droop of the cigarette from his lips contemptuous.
Mouche, in her marrow, knew that this was the puppet-master, the man who had animated the little creatures that had laid such an enchantment upon her, yet she was filled with dread. For a moment even she hoped that somehow this was not he, the master of the dolls, but some other, a pitch-man, a labourer, or lounger from a neighbouring concession.
Golo, straightening up from his task, looked from one to the other, the silent man, the frightened girl, and presented them to one another elaborately, as though they had never met before, as though the man had not been able to look through his one-way curtain behind which he sat as he gave life and voice to his puppets, and study each curve and hollow of the girl’s face, and every line of her thin body.
