Floozman and the Traveling Entertainers

by Bertrand Cayzac

Table of Contents
Vers la version originale

part 4

Howls could be heard at the police station.

“Everything is ugly!”

Horrified, Petula was struggling in her cell, under the influence of drugs. Her hands, stiff as claws, clasped convulsively at the bars. Little remained of the conventions ruling her very normally sexy clothing. Her blouse was torn, and her hair had lost all signs of her hairdresser’s intent.

“Raaaaah! I’m scared! I’m gonna be simplified! Simplified forever! I am becoming soil... turf! Don’t touch me!”

“We had to lock her up,” an officer said. “She’s nuts. The doctor will be here any minute. And we had to send out all units because of the loonies’ fiesta down there on the interchange. We’re expecting instructions from the sheriff’s office.”

The Floozboy involved in the fight was in an adjacent cell. The Flooz-Lawyers were already on the scene. Very quickly, the newcomers discovered Cyril Handlebar sitting in a corner, prostrate. His head was circled with a brownish aura.

Cyril’s prayer, long contained in limbo, finally reached Floozman, given in tune with the screams of Cyril’s wife.

Cyril’s song:

Everything is very drear,
I wanna smash into the wall.
Here or there, nothing is fair,
But life says, Wait! Hold the ball.

It’s so ugly it’s almost pretty,
Working all day in these dull acts
Facts and facts and only facts.
To move ahead, I turn to stone.

Everything is very drear,
I wanna return into your arms.
Take me back and home again,
The race is over, the rats have won.

Floozman retrurned to his senses and trembled with compassion. He embraced Cyril and then rushed to the cell where the deranged woman was standing. He took her hands and said with a tearful voice, “I will free you.” He repeated it several times.

Nodding her head back and forth mechanically, she answered in a sort of doleful litany.

“Set her free,” commanded Floozman. “She has done nothing.”

“That is not in my power,” answered the Mayor. “Besides, she must be cared for. What happened?”

“She’ll be kept in custody,” the officer said, “but will be released when she calms down. The other guy is with you? You! Can I have your papers?”

The Flooz-Lawyers made a ring around Floozman while Zachariah Zai tried to thread his way towards the exit.

“Stay with us, Zachariah,” Floozman shouted. “Trust me!”

At the same moment, an amplified voice trumpeted an announcement out in the street. In the distance came the muffled beat of a bass drum, the music of a brass band coming closer.

“Come one, come all to the show tonight in the field of seeds, by the interchange! A performance unique in the world! You will see twelfth-generation robots fighting Russian gladiators; household devices capable of emotions, straight out of the labs; trapeeze artists genetically modified for flight. You’ll see the future of Plouvigny and our masters of hypnosis will have you forget it. Alchemist jewellers will teach you how to transmute iron into gold and will offer you unique gems.”

From the police station, through the windows’ frosted glass, one could make out a procession of mechanical and animal forms. Horses, and then elephants followed the trucks. Now the music was resounding powerfully in the street, coming ever closer.

In a crash of broken glass punctuated by trumpeting, three elephants ridden by hilarious Floozboys broke into the station. Everything happened in a flash. Through a glittering rain of banknotes and giant butterflies, a cable was attached to the bars, cord ladders were thrown down.

The barred doors fell, and in the greatest confusion, the little troop was heaved up on an elephant’s back and emerged into the street, applauded by the crowd escorting the parade.

The elephant slowed down and fell into step at the centre of the parade. Pom. Pom. Pom. Pom. The small cymbals attached to his legs went cling, cling, cling. The big drum went BOOM! BOOM! The brass blared. The cars waiting in the surrounding streets went Toot!

Petula was sobbing in Floozman’s arms. Zachariah seemed surprised by his own laughter. Caught out of stride, the Mayor hesitated slightly before waving right and left to the crowd, who rejoiced twice as loudly as before.

“You have the authorization, but I do not know where this is leading us,” he sighed.

“This is very much in line with your cultural policy and the like,” grumbled Cyril Handlebar, fully awake now. “In the meantime, the stadium construction is not progressing...”

“Cyril, remember what you have seen,” said Floozman, raising high his eyebrows. “How can you forget?”

“But who are you, come to think of it?”

“I am the one who brings deliverance. Look!” Dipping in the enormous sacks attached to the beast’s flanks, Floozman tossed handfuls of a mixture made up of banknotes, flowers and confetti. Ahead and behind them, others were doing the same thing so that the procession was constantly surmounted by a shimmering halo.

Suddenly, without anybody but Floozman noticing, Petula reached a superior degree of consciousness. For a short moment, her mind opened and united with the minds of all creatures around her.

She received in return a wave of tenderness coming from both the infinitely rich and the animals. Floozman’s presence enveloped her, but it was the powerful thought of the elephant that henceforth modeled her perception.

Petula accepted it and got into the rhythm of the march, acquiring strength and height, keenness and compassion, nostalgia of the herd, of the forests and savannas. Like the expression of a cousin shape, the elephant’s face impregnated her and transmitted a secret, a smile from beyond the thin barrier between species.

Petula looked around and aimed this new, sharp smile at the people greeting her. She took fistfuls of the flowery mixture and threw them into the air, using her arm like a trunk, infinitely delighted to display her gesture to the glistening of the sky.

Now Petula was dancing half naked on the elephant’s neck. Floozman made a gesture, and the music turned into an irresistible psychedelic pulsation. The most attentive could distinguish the ephemeral improvisation of a musician. Hysteria reached a new high. People had to be prevented from throwing themselves under the pachyderm’s paws to take the money.

The parade arrived at the Plouvigny mall roundabout. The local headlines news were scrolling on the giant screens above the main entrance:

IT’S A CIRCUS: PLOUVIGNY’S MAYOR GOES NUTS.

Floozman made signs to command, and a Floozboy ran by the side of the elephant, got a ladder and hauled himself up to the palanquin. He plugged in a TV monitor, which showed:

THE GREATER PLOUVIGNY CITIZEN — THE MAYOR BRINGS IN A BOHEMIAN LIFESTYLE

The Mayor’s administration has brought no surprises. Property taxes have increased continually and, as expected, new jobs have not materialized in spite of promises. Has the Mayor’s office suddenly decided to give the keys to the city to gypsies in order to gain creativity or reverse the crime rate?

PLOUVIGNY TIMES — THE MAYOR’S ELEPHANTS ATTACK THE POLICE STATION

The Mayor waved from the back of the elephant that had ravaged the police station. The crowd was made up of taxpayers as yet unaware that this was a rather unorthodox manner of spending public money.

Before he could scroll down into the other articles, Floozman gave instructions: “Okay, let’s organize a TV game show in prime time. As of tonight. Theme: “the gypsies. Give feedback in real time to the Mayor’s bold initiative. Win circus seats and billions of billions.” And buy the network at the same time. I want to meet the journalists right now!”

Still waving at the crowd, the Mayor added: “An accident. The police station affair was an accident. I must call the police chief.”

“You are really going to shine on TV tonight, Jean-François. Call your spin doctor. And don’t forget, you are welcome to come with us any time if you get fed up with politics. But you are an honorable and generous person. Who will look after the city if you don’t?”

On Floozman’s orders, the Floozboy slipped to the rear of the palanquin and got on the phone. The Mayor blew kisses to a young woman who was calling to him from the sidewalk; then he took his phone and started talking to him.

“Zachariah, I did not ask your permission, but you won’t have to talk on TV. We will take care of everything. The circus publicity is taken care of. All you have to do is steal the circus from us.”

“M Floozman, I thank you. I do not watch television.”

“Perfect” was Floozman’s answer.

* * *

To be continued...