THE BOOK!

Read below for an up-to-date version of the book Hugo is writing with Nick’s help (SPOILERS):

In the dark halls of the Maceration Building, a controversial child is born. The stand-in sage-femme clutched the baby by the head, neck, and body, still glistening with schmutz and baby dirt. Her hands were rough, like they had pulled one thousand roots from the ground, and in dire need of moisturising. As she stands beside the mother, who was gently resting her head on the cobbles, a man dressed in the finest silks this side of Istanbul inspects the child. The sage-femme hands the child over. The man nods. As the mother reaches up to take her child back, the silken man turns away, his cape fluttering, taking the child with him.

The clock strikes twelve as Jean Silkman strides through the doors of the masceration hall and into the night, baby in arms outstretched. A banshee scream echoes into the night and dissipates in the wind. Back in the dim lights of the birthing chamber,  the Sage-Femme says, ‘Don’t be a baby, it is just an Enfant’. Though the flame of humanity in her eyes betrays the sentiment. The mother is certain he will kill the baby.

15 YEARS LATER

As Jean-Baptiste Duvalle stepped out of the train into a whisper of sunlight, he knew he was about to be shot. A glint of metal stared him down like an untold secret, like a story waiting with bated breath for its final denouement. Jean-Baptiste froze like the bored faces of the statues found around his parents’ mansion. This was the first time he had seen a gun outside of a game or a film. It didn’t seem real, it looked smaller than he imagined, like a toy car in the hands of an adult. A click, and a stream of liquid ejaculated from the end of the device, soaking him from head to toe. Jean Baptiste laughed.

Stood before him in blue overalls, checkered slip-ons, a tie, and no collar to his shirt, was a clown. It grimaced at him, maybe almost as if it were about to cry. Jean-baptiste relaxed and cracked a smile, almost forgetting why he had come to the city. Ahead of him was an arduous task born of necessity. But why did he have to come on clown college graduation day? It seems a little suspicious, doesn’t it? If you sense that, then maybe you’re a little sharper than Jean-Baptiste, so focused on his all-consuming task. Maybe, just maybe, you’ll be able to catch what’s about to happen before he does. 

Etampes boasts a magnificent array of architecture, from the 12th-century ruins of Louis VI’s tower to the fine Romanesque spires of the crenellated walls. Jean-baptiste, still a little moist from his squirtin,g made his way down the narrow streets towards the Anne de Pisseleu Hotel, situated in the heart of the city. It was the baker's dozen of cathedrals, and the religious underpinnings they represented, that drew Jean-Baptiste to this city. While he enjoyed the sight of these edifices, it was not without a sense of trepidation that he passed by their fine and mighty wooden doors. He walked up to the first of these doors and with a piece of red chalk he had carried for three long years, he drew the outline of a bull. 

And so he went church by church, cathedral by cathedral, leaving marks on each door, with his red chalk. This was his first season, and though his prelate remarked that this may feel quite antiquated, he said that it played a vital and important role in the task at hand. The prelate also said, this is the 600th time that the order had achieved its goals, and they had become exceedingly good at it. Jean Baptiste was surprised when he heard this, he didn’t peg the prelate as a fan of the Matrix, particularly of some of the less well-received sequels. He still had a few hours to kill before Benjamin arrived. What should he do now? He wandered by a small cafe ‘Cafe du Depart’ and decided to stop for a drink. He sat down on the terrace and ordered. The lithe waiter, happy Jean Baptiste wasn’t dressed as a clown, or toting a camera, map and bucket hat as so many British tourists did in this season, exclaimed how pleased he was to have a true-blooded Frenchman on his terrace. Jean Baptiste laughed to himself internally, leaned forward conspiratorially and said, ‘Monsieur, je ne suis pas français…’, placing the red chalk on the table. 

The waiter’s eyes widened, and he took a step back. “Oh, monsieur…” he stuttered. Jean-Baptiste nodded to him, confirming what he knew must be warring in his mind. Was this really it? Was this the moment he had been prepared for ever since he was a boy? Jean-Baptiste could picture it as though he had experienced it himself. The waiter, a mere twelve years old, told by his father that one day a man would appear to him with a piece of red chalk and utter that specific phrase. He didn’t know why, but he promised his father that if it should happen, then on that day, he would need to give that man a letter.

Jean-Baptiste held out his hand, waiting to receive it.