CLAIR DE LUNE'S
The Part 20
Brother Inchmahome got up slowly, and sat down on the side of Clair-de-Lune on the rock.
“But,” said Brother finally, with a very serious face, his thoughts as if written on his face clearly and sweetly, “if you don't talk, no one will really like you."
"As you say, no one will really like, or hate, what he does not know. I think the problem is, do you feel that this change is worthwhile enough to go through, because you could lose. But this is a great gamble, Clair-de-Lune: a mighty gamble! I think it's better to ever love but lose what we love, as Tennyson says, right?” After saying so Brother Inchmahome was silent for a moment, his eyes glared. “But that,” he continued later, “is a decision you have to make yourself.”
“Dan, Clair-de-Lune,” added, “while you make up your mind,”—it sparkles with humor—“don't forget that everyone you've been talking to likes you. I consider it a glorious achievement!”
Clair-de-Lune couldn't help but smile at her, knowing she had just spoken to one person, Brother Inchmahome himself.
“But I also have one question for you,” continued Brother. “Will a seed that is still immersed in the ground ask itself if people will like it when it appears on the earth and flowers? And should he ask so?”
Clair-de-Lune stared at the stone pool, busy thinking.
He thought about the other girls in his class, and how they hated him.
He imagined the picture of the chalk—was I that bad in their eyes?
Thought—and the writing under that picture. He heard the word spoken, and,
“Bogged!” Then his eyes got wet because he thought of something else.
Oh, Brother Inchmahome, he said with a whimpering voice, if someone speaks, he may hurt someone else! If I talk to and hurt someone else, how?
Brother Inchmahome turned his head and looked at him kindly, and said very seriously.
“But through talk, we can also entertain others, Clair-de-Lune. If you never talk, you also can't help others through.”
Clair-de-Lune looked at him in amazement. Could be
it-clair-de-Lune and nobody—can help others?
“Clair-de-Lune,” Brother Inchmahome said, “have you decided to continue your studies?”
Clair-de-Lune looked at him solemnly; then nodded slowly.
“Then may I give you another assignmentI guess there are still some other reasons why you can't talk. Tell me tomorrow.”
Sunday Clair-de-Lune does not dance. On Sunday he went to church. On Sunday something happened that his grandmother had been worried about for so long. Clair-de-Lune heard something subversive in the church.
That morning, as usual Clair-de-Lune wore her best dress to church. All Clair-de-Lune clothes are recycled clothes from her mother. La Lune had many beautiful clothes in her prime, and Clair-de-Lune's grandmother took good care of her. He has not bought anything new for Clair-de-Lune since he was a baby. And he hopes the clothes that he keeps well in the coffin— will last until Clair-de-Lune is over sixteen and can make money as a dancer. So, Clair-de-Lune always dressed decent—even if, at times, it's a little weird.
Clair-de-Lune's practice dress was made from her mother's evening dress. His grey striped daywear with pink belts was made from a similar La Lune day wear. There are also clothes—dnightwear and so on—which can not be used because the material is too luxurious. Clair-de-Lune's grandmother kept it all, because she thought that if she ran out of money, she could still sell it. At least their lives lasted a little longer. However, until now, he had not had to sell La Lune used clothes.
Clair-de-Lune was always happy to wear her mother's clothes, because she felt closer to her. He admired his mother so much that he felt he was not worth enough to be her son. But when he remembered wearing his clothes, he felt a bond with his mother, as if his mother was still alive; even he felt that between the two of them there was a resemblance. Uniquely, in Clair-de-Lune's mind, it felt as if La Lune consisted of two Perfect Dancers'—s she read in newspaper clippings and the stories of her grandmother, her grandmother, and the woman who used to wear clothes that, even after a long time of death, can still be transformed and warm the body of her child.
There was one outfit that made Clair-de-Lune feel the closest to her mother. This is the dress he wears to church today.
This dress is purple, with a large belt of emerald green and lace collars and cuffs. He also had a matching hat, fringed with white lace, with a green ribbon tied under his chin, and a small greenish-silver glove. That is the most beautiful suit, although it may not meet the tastes of others. But wearing it, Clair-de-Lune, felt as if she were in the middle of a bunch of violet— flowers and her mother was there with her.
This dress was probably her mother's favorite dress anyway.
But about it, his grandmother had never told Clair-de-Lune.
On that Sunday, when Clair-de-Lune was tying her hat ribbon and staring at her reflection in the ancient mirror she was wearing with her grandmother, a sudden thought popped up in her head.
His mother was once Clair-de-Lune. La Lune must have been twelve years old.
As long as he used to think of his mother as just an adult dancer; because that was the only part of his mother's life that his grandmother had ever told him. This is not the first time Clair-de-Lune has thought of her mother as a child. But for some reason, never had such a thought appeared so sharp.
Is it the same height as Clair-de-Lune— or higher?
Is his skin as pale as he—or paler?
Does he have a friend as good as Bonaventure, or Brother Inchmahome?
But then Clair-de-Lune heard that voice again, a muffled sound layer by layer of unfamiliar material, trying to tell her something. He almost stopped it, as usual, as soon as possible.
But today he felt himself so strong, so brave and adventurous that he stopped thinking for a moment, fixed his gaze in the mirror and returned to his original mind.
Seriate...