Spiritofboz

I found my first character in the bottom of a match box.

He was fast sleeping.

His name was Jack Balance and I had known him a long time.

That day, I was in Milan, in front of a three-story building at 11 via delle Stelle.  It must have been about 10 at night and the house was lit up violently.  Bursts of voices.  Disco music.  Guests coming and going.  A party atmosphere.  Through the half-open door, I glimpsed a funny fellow.  The individual was dressed in a nightshirt and a little tam with a pompom.

In his right hand, he was holding a candlestick with an extinguished candle.

He was running through the corridors shouting “I’m seeking light!  I’m seeking light!  Please light my candle!”  Passersby stopped, smiled, and forgot him at once.  That “seeker of light” will recur.  Boz will devote one of its thousand chapters to him.  A hymn will even be composed in his memory.

While waiting, he beckoned me inside.

Yet I hesitated to cross the threshold.  Afflicted with a sickly shyness, I didn’t want to go into the home of perfect strangers.

Under the bell, a bronze plaque stated the case.  It said:

RING THREE TIMES A GROOM WILL OPEN THE DOOR TO YOU

From bad to worse.

Contemporary art has always intimidated me.  With its pomp and splendors, it had the knack of making me ill at ease.  I didn’t know all the monochromes and I badly understood the stakes of lyric abstraction.  As for happenings, they had the gift of making me blush with shame.

So I decided to hesitate doubly.

“You’re wrong,” said little Jack Balance, still sleepy, but already straight up.  Contemporary art is terrific.  It’s the only freedom we still have left in a world of usurers.  Just think of the ephemeral performances of Paul Norvarty.”

I was about to give him a sharp reply about my way of seeing when I saw my error.  Again I was going too fast.  I was rushing without thinking.  I was going along without taking account of others.  Jack Balance wasn’t an idiot.  Maybe I should have listened to him.

Nevertheless, I stood my ground.

Contemporary art bordered on insolence.  A wind of madness had struck artists.  Their works had become hermetic, provocative, often opportunist, if not plainly decorative.  It was an infamous bric-a-brac.  Both the worst and the best were in it.  The whole thing, horizontally, in single file, without the shadow of a norm.  In material, they channel-surfed like lunatics.  From one fair to another.  From one exhibition to another.  From one sale to another.  Always running lest they miss the latest trend.  Not to mention the snobbery inherent in openings and of dubious pleasure.  Andy Warhol had done a good job: with Pop Art, he had carried out the trick of creating a popular art for the elite.  A paradox.

“Try not to get upset,” said the miniscule Jack Balance.  “They’re not worth it.  Basically, they’re not all bad.  Some are even fine connoisseurs.

Exactly!  I also detest “fine connoisseurs.”  With their self-importance, they could infuriate me.  Come to think of it, they had something in common with J.B.

He also pontificated, when he wasn’t teaching me a lesson.

Anyway, who was he exactly?

In truth, a dressed-up clown with a false nose, dark glasses, and a cap with this inscription: THERAPY.

His obsession was to become a man entirely on his own.  Which was, obviously, impossible for a fictional character.  It resulted in an incessant, nagging drama, as tiresome as they come.  Especially since Jack Balance maintained contentious relations with his Creator.  We read in Boz that the latter wanted him to be mute and afflicted with several by-products: placards, whistles, strange and enigmatic body language.

But we read something else in Boz : that He (the creator), for his own enjoyment, attributed to him a residue of freedom.  Otherwise, what would be the difficulty and hence the pleasure?  It appeared, in fact, that his Creator had created several other creatures besides J.B.  It follows that, occupied with some and forgetful of others, He sometimes failed to keep an eye on everything.  Boz describes several occasions when Jack Balance almost got the better of him.  He then started speaking and couldn’t stop.  A logorrhea not without interest that spoke to us of us, our fears, our desires, our loves and our deceptions.  A logorrhea pleasant to the ear.  A logorrhea that could, however, be cut off in nothing flat.  The instant was staggering and often left our hero slack-jawed in the middle of a tirade.  A crushing silence then prevailed, broken by a thundering voice gushing from an enormous portable radio.  It was through that medium that they communicated with one another.

“I’ve never liked this portable radio,” J.B. commented.  “It’s too bulky and very unsteady.  As for my so-called logorrhea, it is thoroughly exaggerated.  My speeches have never lasted more than five minutes.”

Saying that, he had risen up and was trying, for better or worse, not to get his feet caught in a match.

I took advantage of that to strike one and light a cigarette.

“It’s bad for your health,” little J.B. said to me.

I ignored his comment.

Instead, I rounded my lips to blow a smoke ring.

It extended, stretched, and got lost near the house next door.

“You and your sermons,” I said.  “Won’t you ever stop?  I like to smoke, that’s all!  It calms my nerves.”

Unable to answer, Jack Balance whistled and raised a placard that read: “If you continue, you’ll get lung cancer.”

Meanwhile, inside the foundation, the noise had reached its height.

Gleeful exclamations.  Shouts of admiration.  Erudite chitchat.  You would have thought you were in a barnyard when the cock is in heat.  Wondering what was going on.

“It must be an opening,” said J.B.

“An opening?”

“Yes, an opening.  If you want, you can go in.  Nobody will stop you.”

“But I’m not invited.”

“That doesn’t matter.”

It did to me.  Never mind that I was Boz’s scribe, I wanted to remain polite.  Maybe it was out of date, but I valued good manners. They allowed me to survive in a world of louts.

“Come on, let’s go!” said J.B.

“I don’t dare.  I’m too shy.”

“You already said that.”

“I will never say it enough,” I replied, blushing up to my ears.

When I came up with an idea.

For two, it would be easier.

With Jack Balance at my side, I might give it a shot.

But J.B. was too small.

He was so miniscule.

A real Lilliputian.

The art critics would have laid into him at once.

And I didn’t have any more confidence in the collectors.  They would have made only a mouthful of him between two zakuskis and a glass of champagne.

“So?” asked J.B.

“Nothing to do.  You’re not big enough.”

“That’s not serious.  You only have to stretch me.  It shouldn’t be very complicated.”

“That’s what you say.”

Yet, it wasn’t a bad idea.

But how to do it?

My name wasn’t Merlin.

I had nothing of the magician who can put frogs to sleep to change them into princesses.

I was only a poor scribe, in a striped suit and a pink tie.

“Exactly! exclaimed J.B.  “That’s all we need.  You’re a marvelous writer.  That should be enough.”

It all clicked in.

The solution came to me all at once.

You mustn’t miss what’s in front of your nose.

No need to rack your brain.

It was much simpler.

It was even disarmingly simple. 

WHAT I WANTED, ALL I WOULD HAVE TO DO WAS WRITE IT!

My imagination would do the rest.

Hence, I wrote.

I wrote that Jack Balance grew.

And Jack Balance started growing.

I wrote that he developed.

And Jack Balance developed.

I wrote that he was not to go beyond 1 meter 70.

And Jack Balance complied.

It’s hard to imagine the intoxication felt by the writer on such occasions.  He has total freedom.  No one would dare give him advice.  His whims are kings.  He is omnipotent.  He is emperor of the white sheet he fills as he likes.  For example, I could have transformed J.B. into a giraffe or an undertaker.  Unless I made him an elephant as big as a freighter.  Or: simply by my will, I could have changed him into a pigmy, even a Jivaro head shrinker.  Drunk on my power, I was content with an aerial adventure.

Yes. 

You read correctly.

In fact, observe what is produced.

J.B. and myself became very light.

We rose off the ground.

We took to the heights.

We flew.

We floated in the atmosphere, hand in hand.

“Bravo!” applauded J.B.  “I knew you could do it.  Your pen does miracles.”

We sailed now among the clouds, charmed by the event.

“You’d think you’re in a Chagall picture,” I said.

“Drop the references.  They can only weigh us down.”

“Chagall isn’t a reference.  He’s a great painter.”

“You’ll think you’re imitating him.”

“That’s wrong.  I’m content to adore him.”

“Continue and you risk a trial for plagiarism.”

“The sky belongs to everybody."

So we were discussing the merits of mutual influence, suggestion, unconscious imitation and hypnosis, when an abrupt gust of wind brought us back to reality.

That was the roof of the nearby building.

“We’re going to pass through there,” said J.B.  “At least I hope so.”

He showed us a few shifted tiles and a hole 70 centimeters wide.

“I hope I’m thin enough,” I said.  “If not, watch out.  One might get stuck.”

I was already regretting last night’s dinner: spaghetti carbonara, sprinkled with parmesan; followed by an osso buco glazed with meat gravy; followed by a serving of Bel Paese cheese; followed by a tiramisu enhanced with cognac; followed by an espresso; followed by sweets; followed by an excellent strawberry flavored limoncello.

A real disaster for the figure.

“You always have to exaggerate,” commented J.B. letting himself slide into the opening.  “Last night, there was no more limoncello and you couldn’t drink espresso because the machine was broken.”

“So what!” I said to myself.  “As if that changed anything at all!”

 

This entry was posted on Monday, September 11th, 2006 at 10:40 am and is filed under 3- The Book of Boz, Tree. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.