The Merry-Go-Round turned slowly because Constance, the mule that was moving it, tried to follow the conversation of its owner, old Mr. Glaärneck, with Mr. Mouton, the young hot-dog vendor who every day came by the carousel, pushing his cart. “Trains,” Mouton said, “could never become popular, in this country, because they require too much public invesssment. –Well,” Glaärneck said, “what makes you believe that a railroad requires more public investment than a god damn highway?” The conversation ended there because Glaärneck’s only patron that morning, a little girl riding a yellow-painted wooden catamount, had fallen down her mount, and off the platform of the carousel. She was screaming when a small bird with a long beak fell from the sky, right next to her, and dead!
Her screaming stopped abruptly when the girl saw the bird, not because it was dead, but because it had been carrying an envelope with its beak. On it was written something the child, at seven years old, could readily read: her own name, Narwalle. Little Narwalle picked up the envelope, and quickly stood up. Soon her mother was there with old Mr. Glaärneck and young Mr. Mouton. “Is she hurt, my poor darling?” the woman asked the hot-dog vendor. “What is this dead bird doing here?” Mouton asked the carousel owner. “What is that name written on your envelope?” Glaärneck asked the child. Little Narwalle said that was her name, and that the bird brought it. “Let’s see what’s inside.” the carousel owner said. The child opened the envelope. Inside was a single square of yellow Washi with only this one sentence written on it:
“She saw him light a cigarette though her office window and wondered if he could see inside her building too.” little Narwalle read, albeit with difficulty. “How weird,” her mother said, “because yesterday, that situation happened to me. –Did you write this letter?” Mouton asked. “Of course, not!” the woman answered. “Who was the man whom you saw lighting a cigarette?” Glaärneck asked her. “I don’t know him,” the woman said, “but his skin was blue, and it looked like jello.” A blue jelloman? “His name is Pango.” Glaärneck said, and he turned to find the dead bird, but its body was gone. “What is happening?” the woman asked. –I will tell you in a few minutes.” the carousel owner told her.
“Do you have to let it linger?” the woman said. “What?” Mouton asked. “I am afraid Pango might be wanting something from you or from your daughter.” Glaärneck said. “What?” the woman asked. “What?” Mouton repeated. “Give me a hot-dog and a bottle of water.” the carousel owner asked the young man. “What?” Mouton asked again. “JUST DO IT!” Glaärneck shouted, but he was also laughing. The young man ran to his cart, then he came back pushing it. “Mustard or ketchup?” he asked. “Give me only a bread roll and one of your transparent plastic cups filled with water, please.” Glaärneck answered, then he said: “Panisomancy is the ancient art of discovering hidden knowledge using bread.” He took a tiny piece off the bread roll, then he dropped it in the plastic cup handed to him by Mouton. “Let’s see what this tells us.” the carousel owner said. The crumb simply floated. “Maybe that piece was too tiny?” Glaärneck said.
He dropped another piece of bread into the water. This time, the crumb sunk to the bottom of the cup where it assumed a bloated form; its irregular shape was easy to recognize. “A tooth!” everyone exclaimed. “A tooth! A tooth!” repeated little Narwalle who said: “Before falling down the yellow cat, I felt I had a shaky tooth.” Everybody looked at the shaky tooth. “Is that what Pango wants?” the girl asked. “Yes, my poor darling.” her mother said. “Who is Pango?” Mouton asked. “Someone who doesn’t like to be spied on.” Glaärneck answered, and he looked at the woman. She blushed, then she said: “The bird! the bird!” The dead bird was back. It seemed very much alive and well; it was now standing near little Narwalle. “That’s a common snipe. I wonder what it’s doing here, in town.” Mouton said. “It’s waiting.” Glaärneck said, then he turned to the child. “If only there were some other way…” said the girl, then she violently shook her tooth until it came off. She gave it to the bird; the animal caught it with its long beak, then it flew away. “Can I ride the yellow cat again?” asked little Narwalle. “Anytime you want.” said a voice. That was Constance, the mule!
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[Picture: A sketch for Fizzy, a friend of Narwalle’s mother by reading_is_dangerous]
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