Vanish

The true success of a heist, robbery, or burglary is not the mere acquisition of coveted items, but in the grandeur and cunning of the escape. On too many occasions aspiring thieves have attained unparalleled heights of brilliance in the arts of criminality only to be dashed to petty insignificance by the inelegance and ineptitude of their efforts at elusion. Dear friends, the glory of an accomplished thief lies in an intrinsic and superlative eschewal of all entities and instruments associated with the law, but also an inherent aptitude at making oneself invisible to their efforts to mark you for the gallows.

After leaving the Church of Notre Dame (a necropolis of commedia strewn behind our vanishing corps) our escape was performed with the ease of a warm knife through the body of a Mothais sur Feuille fromage, creamy and delicious.

How one wishes to be an insect aviate in the confines of that canvas tent when this cortege of clowns chronicle their decimation at the hands of the Infantry. What adjectives and adverbs will they service to profit the precise elucidation of their dire circumstances? One shall never know. Alas, the bittersweet pangs of artistry: that the reception of your work must be quite profoundly inconsequential to your continuation.

Our escape required little more than venturing back into the throng of the multitudes. The manic crowd salivating their titillated expectorations of exuberance for the puerile array of Le Cirque de L'Athee paid little heed to a filthy collection of legionnaires. The music from the big top still echoing its repugnant melodies through all quarters of Rocamadour, and yet, while the music remains loathsome in composition and structure, I must imagine that it served as a deafening distraction from the sounds of our sacriligious altercation, and thus, blessed be thy name.

I had placed the Black Madonna in the confines of my Legionnaire's anorak, sheltered from the squalid paws of the masses. We sauntered with contumelious bravado through the Plateau de St. Michel, past the adoring wide-eyed gallery, past the ensemble of acrobats and contortionists, past the zoological cornucopia of exotic beasts, and past the Mother Superior who, being fanned profusely by her tumbling entourage, had apparently succumbed to enervation by the sight of the circus strong man's generous protuberance emanating from the shallows of his loin cloth. As we passed by Monsieur Rameau allowed himself a risky but shrewd quip in her direction.

He stated with matter of fact innocence referencing the Strong Man (who was now approaching the Mother Superior with an apologetic demeanor): "Why don't you allow him to be a member in your congregation? Or are you not in the habit of permitting such girth in your nave and quire?"

Brilliant, Etienne, quite simply.

The heavy breathing that had been emerging from the frail body of this abbess suddenly halted with unequivocal recognition, and she turned to face Etienne who bore the smile of a beatific seraph blessed with bearing the burden of the Virgin Mary to the Gates of heaven. I approached Monsieur Rameau's shoulder, echoing the sentiments of his euphoric blitheness, and held up the sculpture of the Black Madonna.

If looks could annihilate families, we'd all be orphans this evening, for the Mother Superior blanched with all the ferocity of that jealous God so indelibly etched in that consecrated opuscule of her hallowed home.

"Only fair Madame, you stole his toes, we steal your feet" I said with expectant anticipation of uncontrollable guffawing from the ranks of the Infantry.

As I turned and glanced at our band of thieves, I was greeted with blank stares and perplexed contemplations. "She blew his foot off you ignorant dullards, and we stole the very ground she stands on, without this [raising the Black Madonna] she has no support for her sanctimonious babble, her foundations shall crumble" I screamed with impetuous wrath.

The previously mentioned ease with which we escaped Rocamadour was in fact, quite unabashedly, once again, a lie. Raising the Black Madonna for all to see and screaming with unbridled passion, would grant one a degree of attention in most circles; in Rocamadour, where said artifact is the most beloved prize of the entire region, I was a veritable matinee idol, although in this case designated for death, rather than adoration.

Not only did we attract the attention of the townspeople, the rest of the nuns, and the authorities, but the entire troupe of Le Cirque de L'Athee. After all their whole purpose for being in this godforsaken region of the world was to acquire the riches accompanied with ownership of the Black Madonna, so they set their sights upon us and charged at our humble few, encouraging the rest of the town to display no semblance of mercy to the frailty of human bone.

So we ran, and kept running. Thibault was burdened with the onus of carrying Etienne after the first few hundred metres, as Monsieur Rameau's maimed foot barely allowed him ordinary walking abilities, let alone fleetness of gait. Monsieur Riesling, being the faster runner, is probably in Paris by now; we'll attempt to find him tomorrow. Monsieur D'Alsace, once we were clear of the immediate threats of the scourge of Rocamadour fell asleep in mid stride into utter comatose unconsciousness, and deemed in slumbering insubordination that we would rest fairly close to our initial woodland asylum tonight. All of this in spite of my screaming in his ear that I'd have him shot for mutiny.

So we rest, for mere moments. For the tears of Rocamadour are swathed in fury and we must vanish far from the hatred and loathing of Rocamadour. To the Pyrenees, my friends, the mountain hideout of all brigands and cutthroats.

Now children, our infamy begins.

Harlequins

If one contemplates too deeply the boon of the arrival of le Cirque de L'Athee, the ensuing bafflement will cause high degrees of anxiety and further confusion. But, imagine dear friends, a banquet held in your honour, or stretch the imagination to entertain the possibility of weddings, funerals, and birthday parties, what is the common bond? The consistent facet of all convivialities is the presence, begrudgingly or not, of the honouree (aside from the few cases of posthumous memorialization). Without further investigation one sees quite clearly why the performance in honour of the nuns of Notre Dame would be a grand benefaction for the Infantry: noone would be in residence to impede our filching of the Black Madonna.

We left our rustic homestead at the appointed hour of commencement for the circus, and entered brazenly through the gates of the town, unhindered by the thought of being recognized by one of the nuns. Firstly, we knew the circus would grant us a miraculous camouflage, and secondly, we're not scared of women (notwithstanding Monsieur Riesling's inexplicable phobia of prostitutes, but we shall address that at an appropriate opportunity).

Rocamadour was ablaze with lights and sound, a rare occurrence for this otherwise sleepy cliffside hamlet. The overabundance of carnival music was offending the night sky with its stentorious cacophony as the grubby faces of children seemed to meander in all directions, besmeared with the sugary remnants of rock sweets and honey. Bathetic families whisked about with great haste, stumbling in mawkish idiocy to behold the wonders of the circus (begging the question: what wonders?)

The Cirque de L'Athee had brought with them in customary fashion a menagerie of exotic creatures: lions from the plains of middle Africa, elephants from the white sands of Raman Reti, and English badgers (less exotic, but mildly entertaining in a pinch), displayed in magnificent gilded cages along the thoroughfares of Rocamadour. And though I confess a certain fascination with the albino Rhinoceros from Madagascar, the nauseating aroma of feculence that permeated the entire municipality left me somewhat underwhelmed and borderline qualmish.

As we passed down lane after claustrophobic lane of Rocamadour proper, having consumed a king's fill of sensory stimuli, we came into sight of the zenith of the Circus' achievements: the big top (a misnomer in almost every degree as it is merely a large canvas tent). Sprawled across the town square in all its brobdingnagian glory (that is the only word befitting such glory, read your Swift), it was attached with whaling ropes at all edges to balconies, street lamps, store fronts, pub signs, and an unfortunate tramp who had mistakenly fallen asleep on a bench the circus deemed worthy of anchoring their artistic coliseum. From inside the tarpaulin montrosity the delighted cheers of spectators witnessing the droll antics of clowns, harlequins, and the impavid displays of the acrobats and trapeze artists emanated in deafening waves.

Etienne Rameau suddenly grabbed my arm and whispered in my ear, "Mon dieu".

The Mother Superior, ghastly and grim, was being escorted into the circus tent by an entourage of tumbling mimes who with each respective somersault showered her path with increasing volumes of bluebell petals. In her floral wake, the conclave of sycophantic canaries, the sisters of Notre Dame (one of them still carrying her broadsword from the other night) followed sheepishly into the den of sin. Etienne shuddered with reminiscent agony and uttered as barely more than a whisper, "Chiennes".

Moving away from the plateau of St. Michel we approached the church of Notre Dame with judicious care, hesistant to repeat our old mistakes of haste and ill-preparedness. Thibault opened the door without a creak to its old hinges and we all heaved a sigh of relief as we rested inside the sanctuary of the church, ridden with darkness, and cold to the world.

We knew that the Black Madonna rested at the head of the church, beside the altar, as a focal point of the congregation. We ambled in the darkness along the knave of the church, clasping at each other's shoulders for guidance. We allowed Thibault Ives to lead our way as he claims he has always been able to see in the dark, and given his adroit blind navigation of the church, we have no reason to doubt him.

"Elle est ici" declared Thibault, as we stopped just short of the stark silhouette of a miniature figure carved quite decidedly into the shape of a woman. As I reached out to retrieve the Madonna from her sanctified rostrum, all horrors descended upon my being and my bodily functions, as an icy hand gripped my extended fingers from the darkness. In dramatic unison, a burst of torches ignited around the church, eight in all, and I found myself staring into the meretricious make-up of a clown; a single painted tear frozen on the snow white facade of his cheek.

"The Madonna is ours, my dear boy" exclaimed the clown still clasping my arm with surprising strength. His entourage of comedic depravity, deceptively menacing in spite of their cheery make up and false noses, narrowed their distance to our coterie of thieves.

"Oh fuck off" shouted Thibault with unmistakeable loathing as he punched my captor in the throat while pinching the Madonna from the dais in one swift (not the previously mentioned embodiment) maneuver. The horde of clowns descended upon our band of merry thieves, torches ablaze, and violence on their jolly faces. But, oh my friends, the Infantry has had enough of the poor life and the downtrodden subservience of defeat, it is our moment for majesty.

We fought with the bravery of hundreds, instead of five against eight, avoiding the formidable blows of oversized shoes and polka dot gloves, and inflicting upon our humourous enemies a beating unseen since Jerubbaal, the feller of trees, vanquished the Midianites in the valley of Jezreel. But, for this evening, in the cliffs of Rocamadour, we the Infantry were the chosen, and we decimated the tribes of humour and commedia with the fury of thousands.

Gautier insisted on headbutting all his foes. Etienne went after his prey with fists of cracked thunder. Frayne, diving off a pew, tackled a retreating clown to the floor, sending himself and escaping comedian flailing into the confines of the confessional. Thibault picked up an iron wrought candelabra, and punished our attackers with merciless vigilance. I, myself, resorted to interrogating the apparent leader of this band, the tear-stroked clown who insolently seized my hands in the cloak of darkness.

With literal tears of mea culpa, the bafoon explained that quite expectedly a circus with the name 'de L'Athee' had no love for the church of Notre Dame, and had visited the town not to honour the nuns, but to coincidentally deprive them of their riches. The performance had been set up as a cunning ruse to lure the holy sisters away from their beloved treasures, while quite unbeknownst to them, the slippery foxes of the travelling troupe would lay their grubby paws upon the Black Madoona. But, we dear friends, beat them to it, and then beat them from it.

Thibault wiped blood and make-up from his firey fists, sighing that we should leave. As I glanced down the length of the church, bathed in celestial light by the kaleidoscope of stained glass that adorned the walls, Etienne, Frayne, and Gautier were already making their galant escape. Thibault handed the Black Madonna to me with proud deference, and I turned to the clowns of Le Cirque de L'Athee to exact one last reminder of our wrath.

"The Infantry have brought this asperity upon you, remember the name of this band, for if you cross us again, our vehement destruction of your very being will be colossal"

A decrepit and beaten clown in silky pink pajamas raised his hand.

"Oui, mon enfant" I said.

"What does asperity mean?" spluttered the clown with every fiber of his body aching with unhinged agony.

"Precisely. What does asperity mean?" I exclaimed, as I vanished into the night.

Circus

This morning Etienne Rameau returned from his morning scouring of the surrounding flora and undergrowth of our newly acquired asylum with the elated mien of a man somehow rewarded by the adventitious benevolence of Canaan. His usually staunch appearance, at this juncture, betrayed a certain mischievous infantine mirth.

"Boys, the circus is in town" he gleefully exclaimed.

Upon hearing such news, Gautier D'Alsace allowed his mouth to drop open to an unnaturally capacious breadth. His predictably present cigarette dangled precariously from his lower lip, and suddenly, with suicidal zeal, plunged itself into the abyss of woodland chapparal. One can only assume that this flagrant disregard for the sanctity of rolled tobacco divulges Monsieur D'Alsace's esteemed regard for the spectacle of the circus arts.

Glancing at Monsieur Riesling and Monsieur Ives who were in similar states of fish-like wonder, staring at Monsieur Rameau's ridiculous visage, coveting the inviolable erudition he now seemed to posess for his providential discovery, I realized for that moment I had completely lost command of the Infantry.

In furious impetuosity I pegged a nearby pebble at Etienne's audacious mug, only to miss entirely. My message however was quite clear and the timorous glances that now settled upon my guilty character were encroaching my command and authority to further inadmissable degrees.

"No circus!" I declared with dictatorial imperiousness.

The collective sigh of the Infantry was acutely pitiful, as though the last refuge of hope for jubilance in this invidious world was purloined from their scant hands. Monsieur D'Alsace lit another cigarette in plenary surrender to his interminable dysphoria. Monsieur Riesling returned to foraging through the moss of the riverbank (an entirely useless activity, I had earlier exclaimed, but with little heed from the decorated bastard). Monsieur Ives simply stared at me with the umbrage of sedition.

Rameau maintained his ridiculous grin, despite the overwhelming melancholy that now plagued our bivouac. Upon further interrogation it became clear that Rameau's vibrancy had very little to do with the mere presence of the circus in Rocamadour; his increasingly disquieting mirth was much more closely related to the potential for mischief.

Rameau reached back into his pocket and removed a slightly moistened parchment, his grin widening with each deliberately contemplative gesture he exacted before our utter befuddlement.

"I found this on a tree not far from this very spot as I was wandering, and I think you might be interested, I know you might be interested, I know you will be interested, I can already tell you're interested, to see the contents of this roll of paper I have in my hand" declared Rameau with the cloying ardency of a street urchin receiving a shiny centime.

As he unrolled the parchment, displaying the anticipated caprioling of crudely drawn acrobats and trapeze artists, swathed in all manners of garish colours and bawdy attire, at first little indication seemed to palliate Rameau's disconcerting fervor. When, all of a sudden, and you shall applaud Oh Sons of Saul, the words leapt forward like the paradisaical effulgence of a thousand exploding suns, and crawled down the length of my spine as the capricious centipede would wander on the delicate folds of flesh that course the length of my back, only to be swept into a maelstrom of pleasure by the concupiscent avarice of a dozen pilfering trollops, to be pampered and honoured in every regard for the rest of eternity. My response was similar to this, not exactly the same, but the only comparison I can muster with the limited elbowroom that language affords a rhapsodist such as myself.

Written in gold lettering resembling the script of the ancient bibles resting in the catacombs of a cathedral:

In honour of the true and gallant service of the Church of Notre Dame of Rocamadour, Le Cirque de L'Athee shall entertain and delight the people of Rocamadour for one evening only.

The date inscribed on the poster is tomorrow night, and the distraction this affords us can only be the gentle gift of the heavens.

The Madonna is ours. (Figuratively)