alive, that the music was drawing out of me. I wanted more than anything to share that joy with another.
Thierry, wise counselor and chaperone, would have none of it. He kept me close to his side as he handed another twenty-franc note to a uniformed polecat, and received in exchange a stack of paper notes. I saw the polecat changing coins for notes for other patrons, but when I asked what this peculiar service might mean, Thierry said only that I would find out in due course.
I followed his stately step upstairs to our private box, in which I was somewhat disappointed; we were not to have full privacy after all. Of the eight seats in the so-called “private” box, four had already been claimed by a party of what I believe were jackals, though their features and bodies were hidden beneath uniform golden cloaks with ebony trim and a glowing sheen that caught the light of the oil lamps and played it about our little box. We did not speak as we took our seats on the far side of the box. The last two seats remained vacant throughout the performance, serving as a discreet curtain respected on both sides. Only once or twice did they attract my attention by a flick of a tail, a casual adjustment of an ear. Not once did I see any of them look at us.
Even in my chair, my feet continued to dance to the music, hidden from Thierry’s sight. My hands tapped the railing as I leaned over it, drinking in the activity below. The vantage of the balcony certainly afforded me a wider view, yet I regretted our separation from the dancing patrons. Thierry attempted to distract me by pointing out the beautifully rendered art on the ceiling, an enormous mural of clouds and old gods engaged in recreations of many classic stories we know from the classrooms of our youth. A row of oil lamps shed light on the art and also created a smoky black ring that ran like a frame around it. But I spared little attention to that, or to the gilding of the wood around our boxes, the simple wood craftsmanship with intricate designs delicately laid on top of it. I had eyes only for the musicians and the dancers.
And then the lights dimmed. I saw mice scurrying from one lamp to another, turning them down. The musicians ceased their playing, and the crowd’s dancing slowed. They poured into their seats with some shoving and wrestling, but all good-natured. In a matter of moments, the throng that had been dancing merrily was seated, perched on their seats as eagerly as I was, all of our eyes now turned to the only place in the hall where the oil lamps still burned brightly: the scarlet of the heavy velvet curtain.
We were holding our breaths. The musicians all faced the stage: the badger who had been pounding the drums, the slender red fox on the xylophone, the elk on the horn, and the pianist, whom I later learned was a ring-tailed lemur. Every face in the crowd was turned in the same direction; every set of eyes from every box strained to see the first parting in the curtain that would signal the start of the show.
The silence dragged on. At the time, I could have sworn that it went on for an hour or more. In the times I visited the Moulin since, however, I came to learn that the longest M. Oller allows the silence to go on is eight minutes, timed strictly according to an hourglass he keeps by his side in the manager’s box to the side of the stage. I have stood there with him, and have watched as he turns the hourglass on end, signaling to the musicians to cease their playing. M. Oller is a distinguished polecat, and his hourglass is crafted in the form of a female polecat, so that the sand trickles down through her waist to her legs when it is set right-side up. Before that last grain of sand drops into her thighs, M. Oller has received the signal from Mme. DuPont that the dancers are ready, and he lifts his paw to signal the parting of the curtain.
On my first visit, I gripped the railing with both hands as the two halves of the curtain split, biting my
Thierry, wise counselor and chaperone, would have none of it. He kept me close to his side as he handed another twenty-franc note to a uniformed polecat, and received in exchange a stack of paper notes. I saw the polecat changing coins for notes for other patrons, but when I asked what this peculiar service might mean, Thierry said only that I would find out in due course.
I followed his stately step upstairs to our private box, in which I was somewhat disappointed; we were not to have full privacy after all. Of the eight seats in the so-called “private” box, four had already been claimed by a party of what I believe were jackals, though their features and bodies were hidden beneath uniform golden cloaks with ebony trim and a glowing sheen that caught the light of the oil lamps and played it about our little box. We did not speak as we took our seats on the far side of the box. The last two seats remained vacant throughout the performance, serving as a discreet curtain respected on both sides. Only once or twice did they attract my attention by a flick of a tail, a casual adjustment of an ear. Not once did I see any of them look at us.
Even in my chair, my feet continued to dance to the music, hidden from Thierry’s sight. My hands tapped the railing as I leaned over it, drinking in the activity below. The vantage of the balcony certainly afforded me a wider view, yet I regretted our separation from the dancing patrons. Thierry attempted to distract me by pointing out the beautifully rendered art on the ceiling, an enormous mural of clouds and old gods engaged in recreations of many classic stories we know from the classrooms of our youth. A row of oil lamps shed light on the art and also created a smoky black ring that ran like a frame around it. But I spared little attention to that, or to the gilding of the wood around our boxes, the simple wood craftsmanship with intricate designs delicately laid on top of it. I had eyes only for the musicians and the dancers.
And then the lights dimmed. I saw mice scurrying from one lamp to another, turning them down. The musicians ceased their playing, and the crowd’s dancing slowed. They poured into their seats with some shoving and wrestling, but all good-natured. In a matter of moments, the throng that had been dancing merrily was seated, perched on their seats as eagerly as I was, all of our eyes now turned to the only place in the hall where the oil lamps still burned brightly: the scarlet of the heavy velvet curtain.
We were holding our breaths. The musicians all faced the stage: the badger who had been pounding the drums, the slender red fox on the xylophone, the elk on the horn, and the pianist, whom I later learned was a ring-tailed lemur. Every face in the crowd was turned in the same direction; every set of eyes from every box strained to see the first parting in the curtain that would signal the start of the show.
The silence dragged on. At the time, I could have sworn that it went on for an hour or more. In the times I visited the Moulin since, however, I came to learn that the longest M. Oller allows the silence to go on is eight minutes, timed strictly according to an hourglass he keeps by his side in the manager’s box to the side of the stage. I have stood there with him, and have watched as he turns the hourglass on end, signaling to the musicians to cease their playing. M. Oller is a distinguished polecat, and his hourglass is crafted in the form of a female polecat, so that the sand trickles down through her waist to her legs when it is set right-side up. Before that last grain of sand drops into her thighs, M. Oller has received the signal from Mme. DuPont that the dancers are ready, and he lifts his paw to signal the parting of the curtain.
On my first visit, I gripped the railing with both hands as the two halves of the curtain split, biting my
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