and obviously well mannered; there is no doubt. But the fact remains that I can make no sense of your words, and so I must bid you goodnight.”
And with this, Sister Marie closed the door.
From a window in the dormitory, Adele watched the elephant walk away.
“Madam Elephant!” she shouted, banging on the window. “Here I am. Here! I am Adele. I am the one you are looking for.”
But the elephant continued to walk away from her. She went down the street and became smaller and then smaller still, until, in the peculiar and frustrating sleight of hand that often occurs in dreams, the elephant was transformed into a mouse that then scurried into the gutter and disappeared entirely from Adele’s view. And then it began to snow.
The cobblestones of the streets and the tiles of the roofs became coated in white. It snowed and snowed until everything disappeared. The world itself soon seemed to cease to exist, erased, bit by bit, by the white of the falling snow.
In the end, there was nothing and no one in the world except for Adele, who stood alone at the window of her dream, waiting.
Chapter Seven
The city of Baltese felt as if it were under siege – not by a foreign army, but by the weather.
No one could recall a winter so thoroughly, uniformly grey.
Where was the sun?
Would it never shine again?
And if the sun was not going to shine, then could it not at least snow?
Something, anything!
And truly, in the grip of a winter so foul and dark, was it fair to keep a creature as strange and lovely and promising as the elephant locked away from the great majority of the city’s people?
It was not fair.
It was not fair at all.
More than a few of the ordinary citizens of Baltese took it upon themselves to knock at the elephant door. When no one answered the knock, they went as far as to try to open the door themselves, but it was locked tight, bolted firm.
“You stay out there,” the door seemed to say. “And what is inside here will stay inside here.”
And this, in a world so cold and grey, seemed terribly unfair.
Longing is not always a reciprocal thing; while the citizens of Baltese may have longed for the elephant, she did not at all long for them, and finding herself in the ballroom of the countess was, for her, a terrible turn of events.
The glitter of the chandeliers, the thrum of the orchestra, the loud laughter, the smells of roasted meat and cigar smoke and face powder all provoked in her an agony of disbelief.
She tried to will it away. She closed her eyes and kept them closed for as long as she was able, but it made no difference; for whenever she opened them again, it was all as it had been. Nothing had changed.
The elephant felt a terrible pain in her chest.
It was hard for her to breathe; the world seemed too small.
The Countess Quintet, after considerable and extremely careful consultation with her worried advisers, decided that the people of the city (that is, those people who were not invited to her balls and dinners and soirees) could, for their edification and entertainment (and as a way to appreciate the countess’s finely tuned sense of social justice), view the elephant for free, absolutely for free, on the first Saturday of the month.
The countess had posters and leaflets printed up and distributed throughout the city, and Leo Matienne, walking home from the police station, stopped to read how he, too, thanks to the largesse of the countess, could see the amazing wonder that was her elephant.
“Ah, thank you very much, Countess,” said Leo to the poster. “This is wonderful news, wonderful news indeed.”
A beggar stood in the doorway, a black dog at his side, and as soon as Leo Matienne spoke the words, the beggar took them and turned them into a song.
“This is wonderful news,” sang the beggar, “wonderful news indeed.”
Leo Matienne smiled. “Yes,” he said, “wonderful news. I know a young boy who wants quite desperately to see the elephant. He has asked me to assist him, and I have been trying to imagine a way that it could all happen – and now here is the answer before me. He will be so glad of it.”
“A boy who wants very much to see the elephant,” sang the beggar, “and he will be glad.” He stretched out his hand as he sang.
Leo Matienne put a coin in the beggar’s hand and bowed before him, and then continued on his walk home, moving more quickly now, whistling the song the beggar had sung and thinking, What if the Countess Quintet becomes weary of the novelty of owning an elephant?
What then?
What if the elephant remembers that she is a creature of the wild and acts accordingly?
What then?
When Leo came at last to the Apartments Polonaise, he heard the creak of the attic window being opened. He looked up and saw Peter’s hopeful face staring down at him.
“Please,” said Peter, “Leo Matienne, have you figured out a way for the countess to receive me?”
“Peter!” he said. “Little cuckoo bird of the attic world. You are just the person I want to see. But wait; where is your hat?”
“My hat?” said Peter.
“Yes, I have brought you some excellent news, and it seems to me that you would want to have your hat upon your head in order to hear it properly.”
“One moment,” said Peter. He disappeared from the window and came back again, his hat firmly upon his head.
“And now, then, you are officially attired and ready to receive the happy news of which I, Leo Matienne, am the proud bearer.” Leo cleared his throat. “I am pleased to let you know that the magician’s elephant will be on display for the edification and illumination of the masses.”
“But what does that mean?” said Peter.
“It means that you may see the elephant on the first Saturday of the month; that is, you may see her this Saturday, Peter, this Saturday.”
“Oh,” said Peter, “I will see her. I will find her!” His face suddenly became bright, so bright that Leo Matienne, even though he knew it was foolish, turned and checked to see if the sun had somehow performed the impossible and come out from behind a cloud to shine directly on Peter’s small face.
There was, of course, no sun.
“Close the window,” came the old soldier’s voice from inside the attic. “It is winter, and it is cold.”
“Thank you,” said Peter to Leo Matienne. “Thank you.” And he pulled the window shut.
In the apartment of Leo and Gloria Matienne, Leo sat down in front of the fire and heaved a great sigh and took off his boots.
“Phew,” said his wife. “Hand me your socks immediately.”
Leo removed his socks. Gloria Matienne took them from him and put them directly into a bucket filled with soapy water. “Without me,” she said, “you would have no friends at all, because no one would be able to bear the smell of your feet.”
