CLAIR DE LUNE'S
Part 12's

Bonaventure's mother always emphasized to her the difference between a mouse and a thief - to divide the two corners in the back into a dressing room, one for men and one for women. The handkerchief was both white, and somewhat stained with ink, and embroidered with a CD monogram. Bonaventure actually hoped the initials were reversed. So, he could think of it as an abbreviation of the Dancing Class rather than for example, Charles Dickens.

Last week, Bonaventure designed a poster

beautiful who announced the establishment of his school, complete with dates and times, and the schedule of the lesson. The poster was taken to his friend, a mouse named Leonard, who lived with his wife and daughter

in printing, and has been an expert in making printed goods for rats. (Leonard was even involved in the production of the first published Shakespearean Collection of Works, specifically for rats).

The next morning, Bonaventure got a hundred

strands of posters, and all day long it stuck everything as tall as a rat's eye throughout the building and around the nearby streets. This poster, of course, is too small for humans to see— unless people put in a lot of effort.

But the rats can see it and spread the news to their friends. Before long every mouse inside it already knew that Bonaventure had opened a special dance school for rat—and this news spread even more

it is extensive, because the tissue of the rats is quite large and efficient.

Bonaventure would have been very satisfied if only he had seen what happened that morning in front of a poster he had tacked on near the entrance of the theater.

“Oh, Rudolph, look!” said a female mouse when

look at that poster. He was a snow-white mouse, wore a pink ribbon that he tied sweetly around his neck, and had an unusually expressive whisker. “Special ballet school for mice! This is the one we've been waiting for!”

“Really?” said his fiancee, Rudolph, whose hands were held spoiled by the female mouse. “Well, now you know, my dear.”

“I've been wanting to dance on top for a long time

pentas— in a graceful way, of course. But the opportunity for rats is rare! After all there is you, my love, and the way you jump, even if you have to

done in tight places, so artistic. All this time your talent was wasted. We have to register together, Rudolph!”

“Should, Margot?” rudolph asked, correcting his ever-dropping glasses back, and looking at the poster more

thorough again.

“Certainly must, my dear. I think of your talent more than my own. The ballet consists entirely of jumps, especially for men. Just wait when they see you dancing!”

“Wait until they see you,” reply Rudolph

polite, and they continued the journey while holding hands. Understandably, they just got engaged.

They were the first students of Bonaventure, and they enrolled that afternoon as well.

# # #

When Clair-de-Lune felt the movement of the mustache and

bonaventure's nose under his ear the next day, he had half awoken because his sleep was not good. He doesn't know if he should

join Bonaventure or not—can he come again there before fulfilling Brother Inchmahome's request?

But the thought of not seeing Brother Inchmahome again—or maybe never again—and Brother himself so confused at the thought of what happened to him—feel so painful that he knew he had to go, so much so, at least to explain the situation. He dressed quickly; and stretched out his hand to Bonaventure— because he thought, after he knew the way, he should carry the mouse.

He grasped it close to his left chest; and felt its warm fur, its soft heartbeat and its mustachioed nose peering between its fingers.

Then Clair-de-Lune crawled past her sleeping grandmother, out to the brothels, and down the stairs.

He walked carefully—because he was carrying his friend—so he again forgot to have a row of stairs through before reaching the floor with a stone door.

But, as soon as he put his foot on that floor,

the door was open—as-it would be special for him—and instantly, before he could see anything in the brightness of the morning light, he had already heard the melodious murmur of the sea.

Because he was sad, because he was afraid he could not see

everything else, that wild garden, the mountain, and the sky, seems even more beautiful than yesterday.

“He was in the garden by the sea,” said the doorman

when Bonaventure asked; so they walked through the hall, met two young monks who smiled kindly at them, passed the study, and went out into the waterfront garden, which was adorned with plants, the flowers, and the ravine that glided down fell into the vast sea.

“That's it!” bonaventure said happily.

But, when Clair-de-Lune saw the monk, he

stop walking in amazement.

Brother Inchmahome was sitting in the sunlight on a stone bench overlooking the sea, his figure shining in the light of dawn, like the opening chapter of an ancient manuscript. He was doodling with his cute and delicate handwriting, to his notebook, which he placed

in lap. His brown robe, his dark curly hair, and the pages of his notebook fluttered in the wind, but even so

writing Brother Inchmahome sits very quietly.

Intermittently, with a small graceful movement, he raised his head, sat still for a moment but remained alert, his head staring as if he were listening to something. Then

with a serious face, he wrote again. Is he listening to the sea? Or listen—all things?

Brother Inchmahome's serenity, his peace, his way of listening, was so amazing that to Clair-de-Lune it seemed to fill the air around him, as well as warmth and light. When he had reached the garden, Clair-de-Lune was sad and anxious; now, just looking at Brother, he was calm and forgiven. But Clair-de-Lune hesitated, not wanting to disturb him. Cause anyway, it's

all is his warmth, his brightness, and Clair-de-Lune doubts whether he is fit to be here.

But, Bonaventure did not hesitate. So looking

the monk, he leaped merrily from the hands of Clair-de-Lune, ran on the grass, and climbed onto the stone bench. He then bit down on Brother's fingers

Inchmahome smiled while still writing, and stuck out one finger to

caressing the rat.

“Ah, Bonaventure!” said. “Dan Clair-de-Lune..” It.

write a few more words, close the book, put it on the bench and turn his soft, heart-shaped face towards her. “...Can I call you Clair-de-Lune? Did you ask your grandmother for permission? And there's already an answer to my question?”

Seriate…