CHAPTER ONE – A SMALL OVERSIGHT

Late autumn weekend. A cold, nearly freezing rain was pouring heavily over the modest mushrooming town of Joujou City.

Built around a toy factory, one might think the place no longer exists. This plant, located in the city center, had shut down following the tragic death of its eccentric owner… Henri Toutrec. He who had roughly sketched the city's layout in a single night.

A rather uncommon architectural feature: the factory still encloses a chapel adorned with childlike and stylized icons. Before the closure, the factory’s deeply devout administrators would ring the bell tower fervently to announce mandatory overtime for their loyal and obedient workers. Sometimes satirical, the tolling would also herald the brutal dismissal of union activists, and even secretaries with rebellious perfume. Workers of the time still say, even now, that the bells had mighty clappers!

But on that November thirteenth, the founder’s death anniversary, they rang no more. A certain uneasy feeling had settled in the air. It was a dull morning when, despite everything, small nuisances became aggravating: the overwhelming din of the boulevards, the infuriating drip of leaking faucets, flies seeking refuge in kitchens for the winter. All these little annoyances seemed to draw attention away from the sharp glares cast at clocks of all kinds.

The misty atmosphere over Joujou City became conducive to mysteries and existential questioning.

The weather dictated the gloom. But even more so, the mood of all those living on dead-end streets; for they felt trapped like rats.

A relentless downpour, accompanying the lingering fog, seemed to demoralize the usual wanderers: the jogging or reflective-walking types, voyeurs seeking fantasies, lost tourists. All except hyperactive children.

The most noticeable absence?… That of the dog owners who, until just yesterday, littered their neighbors’ yards like disgruntled pastry chefs. Lovely flowerbeds, perfectly maintained and decorated in very kitsch style! Manneken-Pis and pink flamingos in bronze, Venus in granite, and little tinplate fishermen.

Incredible, but all those objects looked rather pitiful next to the factory’s oversized promotional resin toys. Clowns, teddy bears with waterproof fur, ducks, and flying heroes. Or, more down-to-earth… vicious enemies with toothless grins, oversized feet, painted in mauve and faded daffodil tones.

This strange and gloomy atmosphere, this naïve showiness, seemed worthy of the best psychological thriller.

Truly, it was not the kind of day to let your dog run wild.

Every street in this town has a dog’s name. Say what you will, it gives each neighborhood a charming snout. Imagine the curious Bulldog Avenue, the wide Labrador Boulevard, or tiny Chihuahua Street. And what about the vibrant Bastard Street born at the crossroads of Fox Terrier and Spaniel Streets! And the once-called “Poodle-on-your-mat Crescent,” recently renamed Wagging Tail Crescent.

The word “poodle” disappeared from the city’s odonyms. The last of that breed in Joujou City was Arthur. His owner, Henri Toutrec, had him dyed khaki green—as if trying to give a bit more seriousness and masculinity to the curly coat of his precious yapper. When a neighbor asked why he dyed his poodle, Henri would respond with a pedantic air, pulling a piece of paper from his pocket to read what a neurotic secretary had drafted under his direction.

“Little… a! If his name is Arthur, it's in honor of the writer Arthur Miller. ‘Little’… for peer, because his kind lives a dog’s life. The misfits. What do you think?”

And everyone would fall silent, not understanding a single word.

Anyway, who would have dared to refute his words? Wasn’t he the unbeatable mayor of Joujou City, and above all the founder of the toy factory “The Little Crooks”?

A bit like the famous Howard Hughes, and resembling a sad sunset, Henri experienced psychological instability and an unbridled character decline. As proof of morbid foolishness, in his delirious fantasy as a mad millionaire, he had traded Arthur—freshly dyed and groomed—for a few bags of plaster of Paris.

A complex forged by repression? Henri Toutrec suffered from a paradoxical and inexplicable shyness for a business leader. Without being inconsistent with himself, he would compensate for this flaw in his individuality by frequently changing his appearance and name.

He always made sure to stay within the law by consulting his perfidious lawyers. The cycle began on June 1st—a landmark date in his life. That of Norma Jean’s birth! At this time of autumn, he could be recognized by his small pointed beard, round glasses, bowler hat, cane with a pommel, a “cat tongue” paintbrush tucked behind his ear, and… a diplomat’s briefcase. All this pastiche was meant to draw a connection to American politician Henry Kissinger and the painter Toulouse-Lautrec. That’s also why he preferred to be called Henri!

His obsession was mainly to convert his appearance into paired aliases. Thus, in previous years, he had gone by names such as “Elvis Einstein,” “Woody Marx” (for Karl), “Marius Mandela,” “Alexander the Great-Piaf,” “René Trudeau,” “Buffalo Confucius,” “Pablo de Gaulle,” and “Walt Lennon.” The latest and most surprising official alias, with its archaic and androgynous tone, was “Adam Eve.” However, his somewhat frail build and unexpected reactions to female hormones forced him to abandon that bold identity.

Thought of like a totem, as scouts are renamed, he shaped each of his identities. The first word—the given name—represented what he firmly believed himself to be, and the other… what he dreamed of becoming. He inspired respect among his fellow citizens before he began to drift into these civil indignities. Since then, at “The Little Crooks” factory as well as in town, in everyday conversations, he was known as the weathercock with a thousand hats.

As if for a celebration, on the first day of June, a few valiant townspeople would dress up according to the eras fitting their mayor’s whims. But none could admit that the founder of the company worked on the assembly line in a swimsuit three times a week, instead of managing the factory from his office in a dark suit and company-branded tie. In his lucid business phases, he planned to produce toys depicting his curious transformations in thousands of copies.

Every cloud has a silver lining! The entire town eagerly awaited the notable month to be surprised by the boss’s new identity. The day the citizens felt most duped was undoubtedly when he appeared as “Adolph Teresa,” dressed like an SS officer with a pristine white veil adorned with three blue stripes. Still, that year, they were relieved that he hadn’t chosen “Mother Führer.”

On this rainy Saturday, the factory’s closed doors betrayed the definitive holiday for everyone.

Yet the day before, Henri Toutrec went through his usual weekend ritual, which he wished to make ever longer. He would shut himself inside his home, lying on his bed, Arthur’s fur near the photo of his favorite star by his side. A familiar ritual of his last weekends: Henri tried to sip his lukewarm grapefruit juice (cold gave him cramps), and nibbled without much interest on toast prepared the day before.

At exactly eight o’clock, it was time for television, the Internet, or an old-fashioned screening. Children’s animated films… His favorite escape. What he loved most were cartoons starring ducks. His quirky habit was to count the violent gags. His tools: a notebook and a counting abacus (a childhood souvenir). His compilations read: 8,100 explosions, 150 broken arms, 310 cliff falls, 39 electrocutions, 1,026 hammer blows, 72 decapitations, and only 2 cream pies. Don’t think he hated ducks. But every year, with each migration, with each flock, one would inevitably mock him with its needs.

Then he would take a lavender bubble bath—without any kind of duck. Finally, he would wrap himself in an old, slightly torn straitjacket whose sleeves he patiently rolled up. Also, a pair of floral-patterned overalls from a century-old hippie period, which he boldly wore. All this, to finally dive into what he considered to be the most inventive and recreational project of his life.

Quickly, he would go downstairs, then back upstairs. Then the reverse, and so on. All that physical activity was to eventually carry his last bags of plaster up to the attic. That gymnastics contributed to the progress of the work.

He was working on sculpting a six-meter-tall nude woman at the center of his luxurious house. Pose: that of the Statue of Liberty in contrapposto.

Last weekend, last bag of plaster, last effort. The final step before applying color. He anticipated the gentle feeling of caressing the plaster woman—his Liberty—with brushstrokes. The desire to finish as quickly as possible emboldened him. His haste erased from his mind all the advice he had received. Desire and interest expelled from memory the gossip, and also the suggestions—from the most banal to the most critical.

It wasn’t just the nudity of his creation that sparked gossip. In addition, there was the white dust, the result of vigorous sanding, that settled all over his home and surprised the neighborhood.

However, the comments on the architectural remodeling of his house annoyed him a little. Everyone agreed that a double opening of ten meters across two floors dangerously compromised the house's structure. Reinforcing the levels would have been essential.

The work required only one more bag of plaster. With its metal framework, the sculpture reached the astonishing weight of two thousand and thirty-six kilos. He even installed a heating system inside it to warm him during the harsh winter. The mechanism was activated by the little toe.

Until then, nothing had hindered his remarkable creativity or his indefinable passion. Fanatical obsession with women? No, rather a twisted love for just one. Henri had made the irrevocable decision to reproduce her! Her!… The one and only!… The most vibrant and deliciously pastel of blondes!… The most American of stars!… Her! Marilyn Monroe! His unscrupulous loyalty rested only on a simple promise made decades ago.

Henri Toutrec remembered being eight years old. Pious, and remarkably devoted to the Holy Virgin. As an altar boy, he listened absentmindedly to Father Narcisse Tourabalais’s sermon. The priest was paraphrasing with great excitement and grandeur about the Wedding at Cana. Henri, dreamy as all children his age, imagined himself in a white satin tuxedo, standing on a chair, smiling as he offered a priceless ring to a very beautiful woman, much older than he was. With Jesus’s approval as officiant, he kissed his holy "Love-you."

The young altar boy, returning to semi-reality, discreetly and shyly raised his eyes toward a statue of the Virgin. Reverent, yet dazzled by the sparkling drapery illuminated by sunlight through the magnificent stained glass windows, he made a bold and catastrophic prayer aloud with naive sincerity.

“Oh, beautiful lady, you whom I admire both in statues and on the pretty cards I get when I behave… I would love for you to be mine. But you sleep with the man who hammers nails. Sometimes, when I mess up, they say I’m a hammerhead… Don’t I have everything to please you?… Don’t you see that I love you?”

In the church, one could have heard a devil fly. Even Tourabalais had fallen silent.

Then the youngster, in an authoritative tone, continued just as resolutely:

“What? You won’t answer me!… Fine! If you won’t change husbands, I’ll marry another Mary. Too bad, it’ll be the first girl I see, and I’ll make a little Jesus with her. I swear it!”

The congregation burst into laughter without restraint. The priest tried in vain not to snicker.

The laughter, just like the incense, rose to the vault, to the heavens, carrying the promise with a hint of blackmail. With all the distraction that young Henri was capable of, he had spoken this vow aloud. And clearly, Tourabalais, regaining his composure, turned red with anger, hoping to suppress his jealousy until the *Ite missa est*.

But after the said ceremony and the sermonizer’s reprimands…, the imaginative yet sincere child was still waiting for a response from the Holy Virgin embedded in the altar. Alone in the sacristy, surrounded by sacred objects and ghostly sins, he was meticulously tidying the priest’s liturgical items when he became intrigued by a curious holy book.

At the back of the drawer, on the cover of the manuscript, a charming and radiant Mary greeted him! A miracle of beauty! Yes! Just for him, his Mary was answering him! As Henri had just started to read, being dyslexic, he deciphered the fundamental information with excruciating slowness. He held his stitched and revealing missal, his very own sacred book, all while wandering randomly through the words.

“P… L… A… Y… B… O… Y…: Playboy! – M… A… R… I… L… Y… N… M… O… N… R… O… E…: Marilyn Monroe!”

Holding his breath, overwhelmed with emotion, he added: Marilyn is just like a Mary, after all!

Convinced it was a sign from God, just like some adults claimed, he fell silent for a moment. This, to weigh the consequences of his daydreams and to ensure they were not condemnable. In his mind, a memorable click: the clergyman should henceforth do penance for owning that icon-filled volume.

“Father Tourabalais won’t say anything. He already told me I could take all the holy pictures I wanted.”

The child devoured the cover of the men's magazine with his eyes.

“I would have chosen the sacred statues of Saint Mary Magdalene or Saint Veronica. But to do like the abbot, wandering the aisles doing my ‘Kissing Way,’ kissing the statues of holy women on the mouth—I can’t. I’m too small.”

In the center of the magazine, an anomaly for a holy book: a fold-out page that he noticed, quite surprised.

Henri punctuated his reflection with another silence, then...

“Oh!… The bad people wanted to martyr Saint Marilyn! They stole all her clothes. Too bad, I’ll always remember you as the holy naked one. Do you recognize me? It’s me, your husband,”

he concluded, not imagining that, later that evening, it would be his first communion with the blessed orgasm. Precocious!

This trick of fate, this innocent interpretation of a simple magazine, marked the beginning of an unshakable loyalty to Marilyn Monroe.

Now an adult, he was busy recreating the star at a scale he believed equal to the traumatizing promise of his childhood.

Anxious to finish the sculpture, he seemed to dance like Nureyev mimicking a butterfly in flight. As swift as lightning, once again he would rush downstairs, then hurry back up to the first floor, and continue into the attic. Down again, up again, down again. Climbing or descending, scrambling or tumbling—it didn’t matter how. All this maneuvering served to gauge the proportions of the immense nude. That, despite strange, odd, and unfamiliar noises coming from the floors and the surrounding walls. Cracklings he ignored, for he was ready—and so was the plaster.

In the attic, holding the final, ultimate, conclusive compound in hand, Henri was about to pour the white mixture to puff up that famous lock on the right side of the statue’s face. That lock which made it seem as though the actress perceived only half of things.

Henri felt the hairstyle lacked volume. To ensure his Marilyn looked more enticing, more captivating, Henri applied the thickening product gently, but without hesitation.

Just enough volume… but too many creaks and too much weight! A little more of that… And CRACK!

There was a sudden collapse! A loud crash! The floor of the ground level dropped into the basement. Some walls folded in on the finished statue, which fell and crumbled like a house of cards—with the sculptor beneath it. Having become too heavy, the plaster woman, his troubled love, dragged him violently into death.

A fine and suffocating cloud of gypsum dust slowly dispersed, complicating the intervention of the panicked neighbors. While searching through the rubble, they discovered the lifeless body of the foolish millionaire lying in the basement, pinned beneath the statue’s head. Bloody lips beneath dry plaster ones, like the final station of a Kissing Way; a wedding at the last minute.

Standing all around the corpse, the flour-covered neighbors meditated silently on the future of the factory and the town.