CLAIR DE LUNE'S
The Part 29

At two o'clock the next day, Clair-de-Lune warms up at the barre. From then on, until Monsieur Dupoint felt

satisfied with his performance, he had to attend morning classes, then go up to his residence for lunch, and return to class to practice for two hours. Shopping to the market was done afterwards, and for a few weeks he would not take lessons from his grandmother.

“Now what will keep my mind

healthy?” thought Clair-de-Lune while he moved automatically from first position to second position, and continued his plie movement.

Once he entered the classroom, he saw Monsieur

Angry dupoint. He does not know, Monsieur Dupoint is the type of person who tends to look angry just when he actually feels sympathy or protective of others. He complained when Clair-de-Lune walked into the room, and muttered, “Some weeks! Just a few weeks! And they expect me to turn a little boy into a professional dancer! It doesn't make sense!” And he widened his eyes, for no reason at all, at Mr. Sparrow who was sitting on the piano with an even sadder face than usual.

“Hopeful! It fits! Huh!” monsieur Dupoint said again, and re-examined the large yellowed manuscript, which he carefully held.

Clair-de-Lune didn't want to see the script, but—as he kept warming—unwittingly his eyes grew more and more interested in the script. He knew that in the script there was a notation that recorded the choreography of his mother's last dance.

The dance was created by an old man, a former dancer

the ballet was named Gilbert de la Croix, who died after completing it.

There was a window dedicated to him in the Church of St. Mary's down the road.

If only Clair-de-Lune could talk—and if

only (more importantly) did he ever know his grandmother could be persuaded to change his decision—ia would beg on her knees to be saved from this arduous task.

But he can't talk, and his grandmother can't possibly be persuaded, and Clair-de-Lune feels very helpless; trapped. He felt that his greatest fear had now occurred. It was as if this fear had awaited him his entire life, and his entire progress—whole

his mornings with Brother Inchmahome—so mean nothing compared to him.

And worst of all, even this morning as he used to visit Brother Inchmahome, he did not succeed in making Brother

understand—when until now Brother is the one who understands everything the most.

“What's wrong, my son?” he said attentively.

But, Clair-de-Lune just shook her head helplessly.

Because something had caught him, something from the past, so far in the past that it was not reached by Brother Inchmahome's hearing.

Now he's completely alone.

# # #

“Clair-de-Lune? Now to the middle of the room, my son. Mr. Sparrow will play the music. Then we will study it, do the steps, part by part. Listen carefully. Mr. Sparrow, please.”

Slowly, gloomily, Clair-de-Lune removed the barre and headed towards the center of the room.

And the young Mr. Sparrow, with a tense face, started playing.

Monsieur Dupoint looking up at the ceiling,

counting without a sound.

Mr. Sparrow was swept up in his music.

But, Clair-de-Lune was standing in the middle of the floor—while the music seemed to be tapping on it with tiny fingers, like a spatter—vibrating from head to toe.

That music. The music was known to him from his first pitch. It was music that made her cry that day, the day she met

Bonaventure, the day he started learning to talk.

He thought it was the most beautiful music he had ever heard; but he did not know it was his mother's dance music.

And now, all of a sudden the music was present, wasn't it

it only caused fear, but was the same danger as the wild beasts in the room. It was as if in the music there was such a sharp emotion that, if he gave himself up to him, he would die. It was as if in the music there was a voice begging him to

listen, but when he is heard, he will be destroyed.

Clair-de-Lune looked around the room. There's two

instincts that gripped him: close his ears with his hands, or escape— out of the room, down the stairs, out of the building and go far, not back again. But, he was fighting both of his instincts.

Because there's only one real way to protect

himself.

When Monsieur Dupoint saw him, he was surprised:

he noticed, even though the child stood upright neatly, it did so with stiffness and difficulty.

He guessed, Clair-de-Lune became like that because

wanting to match his mother; and the monsieur Dupoint's heartache began to subside.

But really, Clair-de-Lune is tense because

trying not to listen.

“Now, Son,” said Monsieur Dupoint after Mr

Sparrow stopped playing and looked at him, “Mr Sparrow will play one part first, and I will show you the pace. First I dance, then you follow me.” And he stood by his side, straightened his body, nodded at Mr. Sparrow, and demonstrated his first steps.

But even though he showed dance parts

with such a beautiful attachment, he did not dance as himself. He mimics his memory of La Lune.

“Bourree, bourree, bourree—arms rise slowly,

dan—down and fold in the chest,” he said, in tune with the music. He finished, and Mr. Sparrow stopped playing, his music echoing in the air. “Now, try to imitate. Dance pieces seem simple, but actually require full control. More than anything, the feeling. Please, Mr. Sparrow.”

And the music started to reenact. This time

Clair-de-Lune is dancing.

“Bourree, bourree, bourre—right, slowly—hand down and fold in chest—bagus. Remember, the arms are always moving these arms are in perfect state only to continue, without breaking, to the following attitude. Now the next part: watch me. Please, Mr. Sparrow.”

That's next. First Monsieur Dupoint danced, imitating his memory of La Lune. Then Clair-de-Lune danced, imitating Monsieur Dupoint. Moments later Monsieur Dupoint stopped, walked quickly to the piano, and examined the script.

“Ah, yes,” he muttered, then went back and changed something he had just taught to

Clair-de-Lune's chat. And obediently, Clair-de-Lune complied.

But while dancing, Clair-de-Lune gnashed her teeth so strongly that her entire skull ached.

As the practice continued, Monsieur Dupoint grew more and more cheerful.

Because the boy danced well— better than he had ever seen—and Monsieur Dupoint's anxiety, though serious, was unproven. That anxiety did not happen to this proud disciple of his.

Seriate...