CLAIR DE LUNE'S
The Part 25
A porcelain cup containing rose-scented tea was steaming on his elbow, but he had forgotten about it.
This afternoon, after training the dancers from the Dance Company, he crossed the road, and climbed the narrow stairs leading to the back room of the theater. This is where the music and notation repository that records all the ballet dances that the Company has ever performed. Make time
an hour for him to find what he was looking for; but he found it.
Now, while reading the script, he smiled gently—and wipes away the tears. It was like hearing that music again. It was like watching him dance.
But then he thought again of that night, when the dancer did not rise again after saluting, and Monsieur Dupoint's face turned anxious.
Then he remembered Clair-de-Lune.
Monsieur Dupoint closed the manuscript, put his hands on it, palms down, as if to calm or stop the actions of wild creatures that could not be expected.
“Earthing?—ya,” murmur. “Layak?—ya. But—dangerous?” he sighs. “I think it is. And in the end, a girl's life is more important than any dance.”
Even if Monsieur Dupoint happened to lean back for a moment to breathe fresh air in the window, and stare across to his ballet class, he wouldn't see Bonaventure staring at the stars there, because Bonaventure is too small and gray. But he might be able to see Minette's graceful figure twitching outside the building, jumping from one roof shade to another roof shade and choosing her way across the street slope, his green eyes reflected back every light of the lamp.
He does this habit every night.
For Minette, Dance and creation bring no happiness. He was a hunter, and therefore he practiced destructive arts.
He had checked the windows of the dance school, as usual, and it turned out that everything was too close for him to sneak in. He knew that there were rats living there, and he knew that other rats were visiting him. This, and not her interest in ballet, led her to try and try again to get into that ballet school.
Mrs Costello fed her more than herself, because this mistress had no one else to love.
Minette is rarely hungry.
No, Minette hunts rats just for fun. As Leonard of the printing press said: each has its own pleasure.
# # #
Throughout the night Bonaventure designed his ballet dance while Monsieur Dupoint worried about the script. While Minette was walking on the roofs of buildings, Clair-de-Lune lay on her bed thinking.
At first, when his tired eyes bore on the candlelight that bounced off the ceiling—because his grandmother was still awake an hour or so after telling Clair-de-Lune to sleep—ia thought of La Lune, which looks very different to what his grandmother always described. Not the Perfect Ballerina, without love or concern for anything but Dance, but rather the wild, cheerful and light girl, wanting to be free but forced to make a terrible choice, which broke her heart.
After his grandmother went to sleep, he gazed into the darkness at the stars in a piece of sky that looked through the window on his bed—when he felt he could not bear to think of his mother further—though by him would Sergei Superblatov, Lisette L’Oiseau, Eleanor Wood, and others, and for the first time she felt no admiration, but compassion.
As the night wore on and the stars disappeared one by one and the sky turned pale gray, Clair-de-Lune thought, I can choose, I have a choice. And immediately he sat on his bed and said to the dark gray sky with the voice of his young bird:
I choose love.
And it seemed that the sky heard him, and looked at him kindly.
But, when he lay down on his pillow again he thought, maybe, who knows, I really don't have to choose.
Then the sky began to light and Clair-de-Lune was eager to meet Brother Inchmahome, because there was so much he wanted to convey, and he knew in this world only the Brother could understand. How lucky I am, he thought, how lucky, because even if I can't talk, there's someone I can talk to!
And just at that moment, feeling happy and safe, he fell asleep.
“Wake up, Mademoiselle Clair-de-Lune! I'm too happy to sing nina bobo! Anyway, I don't think you're sad anymore, wake up and let's go to the convent! Because I have to tell Brother Inchmahome about my latest success! About class! About my dear students! About their talent, dedication and intelligence! About the dance company! About my rise as a choreographer! About my ballet dance! About the importance of ignoring Restrictions!”
Bonaventure jumped up and down on the pillow at the side of his head, so impatient with excitement.
Clair-de-Lune quickly changed clothes and followed Bonaventure out of the roof basement and down the stairs.
“You think my class is good?” ask Bonaventure anxiously. “Professional? I mean, the part that you saw?—ah, what a pity yes, you were forced to leave us?—but as I tried to tell my students, you know, they have to get used to such obstacles because do not imagine for a moment, Mademoiselle Clair-de-Lune, that our lives as dancing rats will be smooth. No,” he said while they arrived at the stone door and passed through it. “I am fully aware that our life will be full of difficulties. Ah, but I believe with all my heart that those difficulties are precious enough to go through! How fun—and honorable—does something no other rat has ever done, and has a troop of rats lined up following me!
If I think about it, Mademoiselle, about the narrowness of their artistic expression! Well, all that's gonna change! However, as a pioneer, there are certainly obstacles that I must face. No one can guide me! I have to create and create forever. Should rats dance like humans? Or should we develop our own dance form, our own footsteps? For example, I don't like the footsteps known as pas de chat, the cat steps. Cats are not something to be laughed at—eh, Brother Inchmahome!”
Brother Inchmahome, who was writing with great concentration on his stone table, looked up rather surprised.
“Bonaventure, my good rat!” yells slowly. “And Clair-de-Lune! Bonaventure, it looks like you have some good news to tell me!”
“Bruder Inchmahome,” said Bonaventure, and he jumped on the table, and there, while skipping gracefully, went up to the monk's shoulder.
Seriate...