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Professionals

Having scaled the wall, they leapt over the bristling shards of broken glass, hoping to land softly in the slop-pile left over from last year’s meager scrapings.

As they fell endlessly, they came to the conclusion that they must have picked the wrong wall. Growing used to the void, they started to think of other things.

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Hierarchy: A Night

“Can you see anything?” shouted Danour. He raised the faint and flickering lantern to his face. His squinting features showed his worry.

“I think this road winds on down the mountain,” Lora answered. “Too bad it’s so dark tonight. No time to be stuck on the summit, with all this wind – it’s not going to be comfortable.”

Danour laughed. “To hell with comfort” he said. “The important thing is for us to get down to the valley.” The words had hardly left his mouth when he stubbed his toe against a human body. It moved. A voice spoke.

“I don’t want to butt in here, but let me tell you this: you’d better not try to go down there.” The speaker struggled to sit up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

Danour brought his lantern over to have a look at this unexpected dispenser of wisdom. It was a man, about forty, with a big moustache and a bowler hat. As the man stood up he went on explaining: “You see,” he said, “at first the summit was covered with lost couples and young families. The brave ones, though, were able to find their way down into the valley. The rest followed. By now they’ve worked out a system: every family’s got its place, packed in side by side from the top on down. You and the missus here will be the final link – you can settle down right here.”

“Now, he added, “let me get some sleep. I’m really tired. Good night.”

Down in the valley, it sounded like someone got a foot tangled up in the strings of a harp, then became overly-apologetic, making careful and elaborate excuses.

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A Day in the Life of Mésange

“I’m going to eat sand,” announced Mésange.

Then she started working the sewing machine. The machine itself sat high on a table with propped-up legs. To reach the pedal, Mésange had to strain, lifting her leg uncomfortably high. Soon this wore her out, and she lifted first her left leg, then her right, in a tremendous effort completely disproportionate to the end result.

Things did not go well: the machine worked erratically, grinding terribly and constantly threatening to flip over and crash to the kitchen floor. Mésange kept at it, though, pushing the pedal harder and harder, sweating to make the wheel go just a little bit faster.

In the end, noticing that the object pierced by the needle was no mere handkerchief but the smooth, shiny body of a fish, she gave it up, letting her tired legs rest.

Her father, seeing her sighing and easing her her right leg down gingerly, said: “Come on Mésange, cheer up. Sure, today may not have been a big success. But so what? Don’t let it get you down: tomorrow’s another day! You’re a resourceful girl – where’s your confidence! Think of the future!”

Consoled, Mésange went and kissed her dolls, set the table, and played at cooking sand.

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What Happens in a Golden Summer

The princess passes: a visit to the Hall of Mirrors. The guards are there, smoking their pipes. She takes a pipe from one of them, tastes it: it is unpleasantly bitter. There is blood on the pipe.

The princess passes: a visit to the geometric gardens. Dukes, barons, and marquises loiter by the hedges. The August evening is thick with lilac. Her breast heaves deeply as she takes in the scented air. There is blood on the lilacs.

The princess passes: a visit to the kitchens. There, she finds boards laden with roasted joints, orange peel, pheasant feathers, sage bouquets. The smell of garlic, the scent of burning evergreens, clouds of gnats. Two servants fight behind the princess. Their struggle is fierce and cunning. One of them pulls out his knife, and hurls it at his rival. The blade whirls through the air, missing its goal. The princess is hit, cries out and falls dead, the dagger in her back.

A storm bursts over all of France.

There is blood in the King’s kitchens.

♦

GABRIEL and MARCEL PIQUERAY were Belgian Surrealist writers. Twins born in Brussels in 1920, they always published under a joint signature. Beyond Gestures, a volume of selected writings translated by Robert Archambeau and Jean-Luc Garneau, will appear in 2024 from MadHat Press.