In the Shadow of the Palace of the Popes

by

Dave Douglas Davis

Jean-Philippe Bouchier

grew up in Calais,

a dutiful Catholic son

who revered every pope

from beginning to now,

and knew all their names. Every one.

And the things they’d achieved, and

the ones that were sainted,

and the years when the murals

gracing the chancel

in l’Eglise Notre Dame de Calais were first painted,

and which ones were later restored.

And, of course, Jean-Phillipe had no doubt in the least

that a priestly career would be his,

provided he lived a respectable life,

avoiding temptations like taking a wife,

and went to confession each week,

and in adolescence, as his resolve softened –

went to confession more often.

And that was all going according to plan

in October, 1999

when he entered l’annee terminale

at Lycée Sophie N. Berthelot in Calais,

taking History with Madame Gabrielle Gransoleil,

an expert of sorts in ascetic philosophy,

who additionally studied misericords

and related choir stall iconography.

By the end of a month, they were meeting each day

after school, for an hour, then two,

with the purest of motivations,

and nary a thought of a screw.

But the purest of motivations

may lead to ends quite unforeseen:

As Burns has reminded, the best laid of schemes

gang aft agley, if you know what I mean.

And that’s just what happened between Jean-Philippe

and Madam Gabrielle, who inspired him

to study the Catholic ascetics,

and eventually grow to admire them.

And chief among those, in Jean-Philippe’s mind

was St. Simeon Salos of Syria,

who brought sinners salvation, and healed the blind,

though most thought him a twit with an addled mind,

whose actions spanned the range from amicable to

acting the fool, and mugging about,

and generally playing the dolt,

for observers would never be awed

by a man of such humble position,

and they’d instantly know that the miracles they saw

flowed not from the fool, but from God.

So, thusly inspired, our young Bouchier

upon finishing up at lycéein Calais

made his way down to Paris, and thence Avignon

and joined a band of Romani

who belonged to a traveling circus

honing their skills in trompe l’oeil and in magic

and in puppetry, par excellence.

To young Bouchier’s surprise, the Romanis

took him in like a brother long lost

and readily agreed to teach Jean-Philippe

the puppeteer’s art, without cost.

He spent seven years with those gypsies.

By the time those years were behind him,

Jean-Philippe’s magnificent marionettes

were without peer, nobody denied it.

And his scripts, as he called them, though often quite silly

always left his onlookers delighted,

with renewed sense of purpose. Invisibly guided.

So, upon the completion of those seven years,

Jean-Philippe and his friends took a last round of beers

together, and then he removed

to the poorest part of the town

where people on welfare and immigrants lived,

and he found a cheap room, which he shared with a clown

who drank a great deal, never spoke any more, 

and had few smiles left in him to give.

For a number of years now, excepting for Christmas

and Ash Wednesday, as you might expect,

Bouchier has set up with his marionettes

on the Rue J. Vilar, near the Palais des Papes

or more accurately, on the banquette 

where Rue Peyrolerie meets that thoroughfare,

a few steps from the Cathedrale Notre Dame

and what serves as the city’s town square.

He arrives there at dawn, and is there still at dusk

performing his comical skits,

his marionettes dancing and farting and fighting

while Bouchier himself adds his own special wit.

Next to sellers of jewelry, while musicians busk,

and a stooped old crone who sells rosaries

and small crucifixes, handmade (or plurally, small crucifux).

In his first two years there, the Clown would come, too,

as he slowly came out of his shell,

at the urging of Jean-Philippe

to try to reclaim his lost joie de vivre

and emerge from his silent clown hell.

On the day the clown died without warning

in the shadow of the Palais des Papes,

a host of onlookers claimed

that they saw his soul rise, luminescent,

howling with laughter, quite unrestrained

to the applause of Bouchier’s marionettes.

The puppeteer laughed and insisted

that the witnesses must be insane.

But no one who was there was dissuaded

That something unearthly transpired

And no fewer than fifty wandered, unbidden,

into the cathedral, and fell to their knees

before the heavenly choir

that seemed to hold forth from the chancel,

singing into the night with voices angelic

that never seemed to tire.

Well, that day marked the first miracle

of Jean-Philippe Bouchier.

It’s been five years since then, and still he shows up

at the banquette each morning to start the new day

with his cast of finely carved marionettes.

As the sun rises over the ancient palais.

they fight, fart, and dance, and spout endless orations,

each sillier than the last,

with wry observations from Jean-Philippe,

who by now has slowly amassed

an ample host of followers,

who stop by at dawn to enjoy

an hour of master puppetry

and the curiously inspiring commentary

from Calais’ most accomplished, oddly devoted,

dutiful Catholic boy.