CLAIR DE LUNE'S
Part 2

If the weather is cold he will wear his mother's wool pelisse to go and go home from class. Fortunately, since the ballet school was in the same building, he did not need to go outside.

Breakfast was the same: bread, a chocolate bar, and milk coffee warmed in a frying pan on a small, round stove. Their food was never enough, no wonder that Clair-de-Lune and her grandmother were so thin.

“Sitting upright, Son,” says grandmother Clair-de-Lune. “Remember,

back never stick to the chair.”

Then there is time to leave.

Every morning, Clair-de-Lune descends down six rows of steps—two rows each floor—and wonders inwardly while passing through each door, what's behind that door. On the fourth floor lived an opera singer—a baritone— singerand often, though not early in the morning, Clair-de-Lune heard him practice singing. Indeed, many of the inhabitants of the building worked as actors, dancers, and singers; but the building

large and complicated, and the lunge of most residents there is a mystery to Clair-de-Lune.

How mysterious it is, he still needs to find out.

Along the way on all four rows of stairs,

the closer it became clear, Clair-de-Lune heard the piano player play in her ballet class. (The pianist wears a woolen grey glove with the fingertips cut off, because his hands are always cold). Depending on the season, and when the day is bright, there are patches of sunlight on the window

dusty between the stairs. In one of these windows, it seems intentional in order to be admired by portrait painters (or it seems

I see) Minette, the old Mrs Costello's cat, was immediately purring in her arms, closing her green eyes with

thankfully. Then, as Clair-de-Lune turned around the corner and began to descend to the last step of the stairs, he came across a large double door with the inscription on the wall next to it:

...THE ACADEMY...

...MONSIEUR DUPOINT DANCE...

...FOR THE...

...CHILDREN OF ARTISTS...

...YANG...

...WANNA FOLLOW...

...PROFESSION...

...THEIR PARENTS...

Girls and boys gather there ahead of morning practice— girls wear pink stockings and white exercise dresses, boys wear black sebetis pants, black belts, black belts, and the short-white vest is made of muslin— materialand always, at such moments

it's Clair-de-Lune's heart stuck. He strengthened his resolve to continue his steps towards school, because in fact, the desire to turn around and go back up the stairs. But, he kept walking. At first it was a little slow, then quickly, lowered its head, and slipped among the children, then entered the doorway.

“Broast,” one of the girls—usually Milly Twinkenham who has bright red hair and brown-eyed nuts—murm. “No want

talk to his mother La Lune.”.

In that dance class, Clair-de-Lune doesn't have any

But, after getting into class, things felt more

effortlessly.

Clair-de-Lune doesn't like to come to class early in the morning,

while everyone was still chatting, because, of course, he couldn't explain why he couldn't come along. He always tries to reach

the door was right at the time when Monsiuer Dupoint had his students gather—from that moment the atmosphere would turn silent. Then, silent as well as the others, he will move to barre—handle—and wait, deep

first position, Monsiuer Dupoint begins the exercise.

“Please note, Mesdames, Messiuers,” said.

“We will start, of course with plastic! First position. Stand tall. Hips to the back. Abdominal deflated. Head upright. And..”

Monsieur Dupoint skinny and small,

it seems that he lived only on medicinal tea, which steamed from his cup all the time of training and filled the air with fragrant foliage

vaguely. He often behaves as if his head hurts; as if everything is so confusing to him, and the world really sucks. But, as soon as the children started dancing, her mood started

improve. At first he grunts, but the longer the more cheerful, as if he had forgotten what was confusing him. Even if he tries not to show it, he is very sympathetic to Clair-de-Lune, because

he once danced with La Lune, and every day he saw a slight movement or attitude of the head and arms that reminded him of La Lune. Secretly he often steals a proud look towards Clair-de-Lune; for he is convinced

one day Clair-de-Lune will be a great dancer like her mother and grandmother, and she will be known as her teacher.

And indeed, Clair-de-Lune loves to dance. He liked the long, dusty wooden floor, which had its walls covered in mirrors; he liked to look at the elongated barre on both sides, which was comfortable in his grasp. He likes the sound of Monsieur Dupoint being assertive while counting time or stopping music to reprimand them, then demonstrating, beautifully, how a movement should be performed. She loves to move, dance, until her small limbs feel warm and supple and her face glows. But above all else, Clair-de-Lune loves to dance because that's another way to talk, even if he's mute. He cannot speak with his lips, tongue, and mouth. But while dancing, his arms and legs, as well as his upright body and head, were able to speak. He felt a little burden in his heart, a burden of unspoken things, lifted up.

What does it mean to dance without music? If it is allowed, Clair-de-Lune loves music more than tari— because he knows

without music, nothing else would have happened.

The school's pianist is a music school student who

poor, his face was thin and lethargic, and his eyes were dark. He played patiently throughout practice, trying to keep the time right, stopping and starting as per Monsieur Dupoint's instructions. But after the lesson was over, he used to play beautiful music purely out of his joy, while each child gathered their own luggage, said goodbye, and left, leaving, and Clair-de-Lune slowly packed up unnoticed, only to listen to the beautiful music until it was done.

One morning, after class, when every child

the women did a rehearsal and every boy made a salute, and Monsieur Dupoint allowed them to go home, the young Mr. Sparrow, the pianist, and the, start playing the most beautiful song Clair-de-Lune has ever heard.

And because of that, something happened.

Even because of that, a lot of things happened.

Seriate…