Plume on the Ceiling

In an idiotic moment of distraction, Plume walked across the ceiling on his feet, instead of keeping them on the ground.

Alas, when he came to realize this, it was too late.

Paralyzed as he was by all the blood that had piled up in his head like the weight of iron in a hammer, he no longer knew how to manage. He was lost. Aghast, he gazed upon the distant floor, upon the armchair, formerly so inviting, upon the entire room, an astounding abyss.

How he would have preferred being in a tank of water, in a wolf trap, in a chest, in a copper bath-heater, rather than where he now was, alone, on this ridiculously empty ceiling, at wit’s end, and from which, obviously, any descent would have been fatal.

A disaster! Forever locked into place . . . whereas so many others in the entire world, surely worth no more than he was, continued to make their stolid way across solid ground.

If only he had been able to enter into the ceiling and end, however quickly, his sad life in peace . . . But ceilings are hard, all they can do is “send you packing,” as the expression goes.

No choice when it comes to misfortune, you are offered what is left over. While he was desperately burrowing into the ceiling like a mole, a delegation of the Bren Club that had set out on a search party finally located him by raising their heads.

Without a word, they managed to lower him from the ceiling, having extended a ladder in his direction.

They were ill at ease. They apologized to him. They blamed someone in charge who was absent. They flattered Plume’s pride, pointing out that he had not lost courage, whereas many others, demoralized, would have thrown themselves into the void and would have broken their arms and legs or even worse, given that the ceilings in this country are quite high, dating as almost all of them do from the period of the Spanish conquest.

Plume just flicked the dust off his sleeves, too embarrassed to reply.