Translated from the Meowish.
Copyright December 1979.
[Part 6]
When Schuss died of old age, he was buried in one of his favorite meadows, just outside Paris and adjoining the Perrault lawn. Flowers were strewn over the area by two little Perrault daughters who were, themselves, budding ballerinas. For weeks they wept or grew misty-eyed during rehearsals, maintaining that they could no longer perform the "Entrechat" (OWN TRR SHAH--literally "cat between") without the inspiration of dear Schuss lying playfully on the floor between them.
When Schuss died of old age, he was buried in one of his favorite meadows, just outside Paris and adjoining the Perrault lawn. Flowers were strewn over the area by two little Perrault daughters who were, themselves, budding ballerinas. For weeks they wept or grew misty-eyed during rehearsals, maintaining that they could no longer perform the "Entrechat" (OWN TRR SHAH--literally "cat between") without the inspiration of dear Schuss lying playfully on the floor between them.
Their sadness eventually faded, and was
replaced by the joy and memory (the French call this "souvenir"--a
thought coming along underneath what one is doing or thinking at the time) of
having held and caressed Schuss so many times, and having made their love for
him so evident to him.
Sometimes, even now, it is said in Montmartre
that their love is still evident, and that if you can be in a café early in the
morning before the mist over the River Seine (SAYN--a word which refers to a
net) quite disperses and evaporates over the city, you may just see a snow-white
cat with a few orange sorbet stripes walking resolutely over Schuss and Thérèsa's
old quarter-block between the café and the school.
Some say they see a ghost or apparition of
Schuss. Others say they see one of his great-great-great grandsons. Either way,
Schuss's love and devotion for Thérèsa can be felt all along that street, and
people who are determined, quick, and quiet enough to follow the cat usually
find themselves taking ballet lessons.
[Note: This story is dedicated to Amanda and
Allyson Douthat, who often visited us after their first ballet lessons, when we
lived next door to their aunt and uncle, Sherry and Ken Hood. It is also
dedicated to Eric Perrault of Chattresac, my first pen pal in France. By the
way, cats who look like Schuss are now called "Flame Point Tabbies,"
and have been found to have a Siamese always among their grandparents.]
Chère Imogene,
ReplyDeleteI have just now read the first chapter of The School at Montmartre and am smitten as a kitten (forgive the thematic play on words, but inspiration--such as found in your writing--is to blame!).
Looking forward to a reread and to savoring chapter 2 next...