CLAIR DE LUNE'S
The Part 15

They laughed and laughed, while Clair-de-Lune, flustered and flushed-faced, stood tall in front of them. If only he could talk! If only he could say something—ask what's funny, explain to them that he was unintentionally silent.

But he could not, then, try not to be offended, as if they were not laughing at him; trying as hard as possible to move calmly and gracefully, he inched away.

“Hey, you!” call Monsieur Dupoint loudly from the direction of the piano. “You think my class is what—a street cafe? I don't want any silly girls laughing while I discuss something with Mr. Sparrow. You're dancer artists! You guys should be pondering over this morning's rehearsal in class! Get out! Quick out!” and he clapped his hands as if he were driving away the cat.

That night, in the dark, when his grandmother

nodding over a small book, Clair-de-Lune looked out the window, stared at the city lights below, and thought, once again, of Brother Inchmahome's question.

He also thought about the answer he had given, he said,

and while thinking, he felt he had understood it more clearly. Not only did her grandmother feel better she couldn't talk. Not only did his grandmother not want him to be able to talk. But also, his grandmother had little interest

once against idle talk—ia talk is very insignificant compared to things she thinks Really Important—so Clair-de-Lune always finds it difficult to understand, he said, that he has the right to want to be able to do that trivial thing—even though it is very important for him.

The reality is, before he became acquainted with Brother Inchmahome, he did not know anyone who thought being able to talk was important to him.

Then a strange thought enveloped him.

What about her mother? If he exists, does he want his daughter to be able to talk?

Clair-de-Lune thought very seriously.

Suddenly, shadows appeared in her head about the beautiful La Lune in her goose costume, her big dark eyes staring straight as if out of her portrait. He tried to imagine the woman living with him and his grandmother in the basement of the roof, and getting used to the silence

Clair-de-Lune—but somehow it's hard to match her mother in that shadow. That's why La Lune only lives in books on the top shelf of a closet.

But then a more vague image appeared in his head, of La Lune wearing her daily clothes, talking, laughing, fixing her pointe shoes.

Then, suddenly Clair-de-Lune felt afraid, because it felt like she could hear that strange sound again, muffled in so many layers—what layers are—attempting to get stronger to talk to her, told him something scary, something he didn't want to hear, and he was so overwhelmed with confusion that he had to stop

thinking, out of fear, out of fear…

Out of fear of—what, he didn't know.

Clair-de-Lune calmed herself down.

This time it took longer than usual.

One day, perhaps, he thought in the end, I will try to tell Brother Inchmahome about this. Maybe he will teach you how to calm down. But now I have to answer the question.

Why can't I talk?

Clair-de-Lune calmed down and thought again about how it felt when he tried to speak. That time—just two days ago, even though it felt like it had been longer—ia tried to talk to Mr. Sparrow. He also recalled how he felt before he made the sounds of a young bird in front of Brother Inchmahome.

He knows words: he can read and write! He understood what people were saying to him. He can form sentences in his head. But every time he tried to pronounce it, it was like someone stopped him: something like a hand in his throat; a hand made of iron. At the same time—persis at the moment a word will slide out—ia feels fear; afraid to say the word.

Why am I afraid? Ask yourself.

And the answer immediately came to his mind.

# # #

that:

I'm afraid of what I might say.

The brother, the mouse, and the little girl were sitting on

in the sun in the wild garden in front of the monastery. No need to ask the doorman about Brother's whereabouts this morning. They met him as soon as he emerged from the door. He was lying face down, listening to a blade of grass. Now, as he sat with them, his large robe was spread out like a picnic blanket, the front of which was decorated with dew spots. Around them, on moist grass, grow similar white flowers

star. On top of it, a small swallow glided and swooped into the blue sky.

Brother Inchmahome seriously considered Clair-de-Lune's answer. If only the girl had not looked at him fixedly, she might have laughed. But before he commented, Clair-de-Lune

proceed: continue:

In my heart I know I am evil. If I open my mouth, is this not evil

going out?

Now Brother Inchmahome is angry.

“Who said you were evil?” said.

Clair-de-Lune looked at him timidly. He knew that Brother was not angry with him, but he was afraid too. He doesn't know what to answer.

Because no one needs to tell him.

Surely—apa ya right word—tanya is clear by itself.

Obviously by itself, he said solemnly; and when he spoke Brother Inchmahome thought it was the sad sound of seagulls from the rock below them.

“Clearly by itself?” he repeated; and his eyebrows furrowed in a demonstration, he tried hard to understand the girl. “It's not clear to me. You have to patiently explain it to me. What crime do you mean?”

Clair-de-Lune's face was very serious.

Selfish, he said with the sound of a seagull.

Not knowing thank you, he added immediately.

Cowardly, he said again.

He tried to explain to Brother about

the brave dancers he read in his grandmother's books, and compared to them, he was selfish, ungrateful, and cowardly. Not like them. He tries to explain about his perfect mother, and how scary it is to have her mother's talent (as his grandmother always emphasized)

but it has no spirit of elegance.

Because Clair-de-Lune knew he wouldn't dare

sacrificing her life for Dance. Unfortunately, there were so many things that meant so much to him. He had known for a long time that he would sacrifice Tari if only he could talk. Now he knew that if he had to choose between Bonaventure, Brother Inchmahome, or dance, he would choose his friends. Now both of them are much more important to him than Dance.

Seriate...