Melodie by Akira Mizubayashi Page B

base. When our conversations became animated, heated, fired up even, she liked to move closer to us, to settle herself under the table in order to hear us better. When we relaxed in the living room she always took up a position at my feet, as if this extremity of my body were the sole lifebuoy available to her in case of an emergency or a sort of transmitter for all my sympathetic energy. At night, as I’ve said, she camped in our bedroom, ona big mauve towel at the foot of the bed. If she wasn’t asleep she pressed against the edge of our futon, which was covered in shiny, wavy hair; if she was asleep, fully stretched out, her backbone would be touching it as if she wanted to feel our presence through the warmth radiating from the marital bed. During the day, however, she mostly lay with her back against the wall, at the entrance to my study, which is also the entrance to our bedroom. That way she could see me in profile reading or typing on my keyboard.
    One day, however, she found herself another, unexpected, spot. I was working at my computer. There is really no separation between my study and my bedroom. From the slightly angled ceiling that follows the slant of the roof, there falls a long
noren
, a kind of curtain, a dark navy blue, two and a half metres wide, on which are painted brightly coloured tools and utensils from Japanese popular culture of the Edo period. Sharp little moans interspersed with hiccoughs could be heard; she was dreaming. A few seconds later she woke up, got straight to her feet and then sighed deeply. She had settled herself not at the entrance to my study on my left as she usually did, but where she spent the night: that is, on the big mauve towel, behind me. I swung around on my chair.
    â€˜What were you dreaming about, my friend?’
    She had her ears turned out and folded back. She took a few steps towards me and sat on her haunches, staring at me with her big round eyes filled with gentleness.
    â€˜It’s a bit early for the walk. Will you let me keep working a bit longer?’
    I was about to go back to my keyboard when Mélodie, hesitant, lifted her front paw, holding it out to me. I took itin my hands and thanked her warmly for this affectionate gesture. When I began to concentrate again on the screen of my computer she placed herself there on my right and this time put the other paw on my lap. I patted her head without looking at her, absent-mindedly engaging in the semblance of a one-sided conversation with her. It was at that precise moment that she exhibited an unaccustomed, strange, even disturbing form of behaviour. My desk is a large piece of wood fixed to the wall with brackets, under which are stacked shelves holding big books like the volumes of
Treasures of the French Language
and the
Grand Robert
, which means that the space between my legs and the large tomes is extremely limited and tight. But it was into that cramped little spot, naturally very uncomfortable, that my friend wanted to insinuate herself. She lay down first of all, but got up again immediately and stood up straight as a rod on her two hind legs and stared at me …
    â€˜What are you doing, Mélodie?’
    She repeated the same gesture: she again gave me her right front paw, imperceptibly tilting her head to the left. I couldn’t understand this unusual insistency on her part. To tell the truth, I wasn’t really making any effort to listen out for the signals she was sending me so insistently. Oh, my friend! I can imagine your dismay. You could see that I wasn’t reacting. We were so close to each other, we could hear each other’s breathing. There was nothing between us, no more than a few centimetres. But the suffering you felt was unbearable: a solitude inflicted on you, an enforced abandonment, an imposed state of desertion … for which I can’t forgive myself.
    Distraught, she lay down again … Then, a few seconds later, she got up and came out of her