He was fond of taking paintings. They were quite light. All the French aristocrats with their big wigs looked like they had just stepped out of bubble baths. He chose what he believed to be the best painting and took it home. He would place the painting—and whatever trinkets had tickled his fancy—into his suitcase, put his shoes back on and saunter off down the street.
In his remarkable tailored suit he never attracted attention to himself, despite it being worn out and mended by Poppy. No one could imagine that his home was anywhere but this elite neighborhood. He was also a familiar face to the police officers. They didn’t know his name, but they felt quite sure that they had seen him growing up around there.
The pawn dealer was always impressed by Pierrot’s perspicuity when it came to selecting the paintings. He always plucked incredible works of art, the most valuable pieces in the collection. Yet he was unaware ahead of time of the priceless possessions in the houses he entered.
He crawled up a trellis one evening and climbed gently and quietly into an open window on the second floor. Pierrot put his black-stockinged toes on the carpeted floor, stood up against the wall and took a moment to ascertain where in the world he had found himself.
To his surprise, he was in a room whose walls were covered with a mural of mountains with sheep running across them. There were numerous astral bodies floating around his head. How peculiar to have Jupiter floating just inches away from him. He could reach out and touch it with his finger.
He looked down at the green carpet at his feet. He was surrounded by a flock of miniature sheep and cows and horses. How was it that he had found himself a giant?
Then he looked across the room and saw a very small bed in the middle. Ah, he was in a nursery. He was immediately calmed, then alarmed again when he noticed a small boy had sat up in the bed and was looking right at him. What could he do? His fate lay in the hands of an emotionally volatile and unpredictable child.
He smiled at the child. The child smiled back. He stood on his hands and walked across the room. The child rolled out of the bed as nimbly as Pierrot could do any trick.
Pierrot froze in one spot. Then he began to walk around the room with awkward, stilted steps. He looked like a mechanical doll. He moved as though each of his joints was stiff. There was no fluidity in his movements. But there was an awkward grace to it—as seen in giraffes that ambled about on the plains. The child laughed and laughed.
The boy brought him a tiny top that had on it yellow horses with flowing manes. When the top was spun, the horses became a shooting star whizzing through space at an extraordinary trajectory.
The child insisted that Pierrot take it. “It is for you, Peter Pan,” the child whispered. Pierrot took the boy’s hand and led him back to bed. And tucked him in. He juggled three colorful beanbags until the child squeezed his wee eyes together, his cheeks grew into round peaceful globes and he fell fast asleep.
? ? ?
IT TURNED OUT that the top was a treasure from the Byzantine Empire. The fence knew that although Pierrot had an extraordinary esthetic sense, he was clueless when it came to money or economic worth. And so for the Byzantine treasure, which had been twirled by the hand of empresses and would be cherished by any museum in the world, he gave Pierrot three dollars. Pierrot couldn’t believe that he had been given so much money for a simple top. When he went home, he and Poppy rejoiced. It was enough money to remain high for two weeks. At one point one of Poppy’s socks slipped off and they were unable to find it. That was the most eventful thing that happened during those weeks.
Pierrot fell asleep in the chair, his limbs hanging every which way, like a marionette that had just been abandoned.
26
THE GIRL WHO CRIED “MARCO POLO”
On Christmas Day McMahon made an excuse to be away from the family for a couple of hours so that he could stop by and deliver a parcel to Rose. He said he had to go visit some charities, and nobody in the family questioned this.
When he arrived, he found Rose sitting on the end of her bed, weeping. She said it was the only time of year during which she got nostalgic. She told him about how she had liked performing at different people’s houses with a young boy. They would dance across the carpets on tippytoe. Everyone around them would be so enchanted, they were overcome by rapture. The boy was a very talented pianist.