The Autobiography of Mercutio Polinski Read online

  THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF

  MERCUTIO POLINSKI

  by

  Genadiya Kortova

  To the writer, with love.

  I.

  Who Am I? Who Is Mum? Who Are Rosa and Her Father?

  Once upon a time in an old-fashioned little house, so lovely with its fairy coziness, there lived a great writer. In fact, he was the greatest writer of all time. Yes, he was—at least for me, because I had never seen any other writers, and him I knew well. As I said, he was the greatest writer of all time. He was handsome, slender, and tall, with little silver in his hair. I wanted to be like him so much: a handsome, slender, tall, and thoughtful writer. But most of all, I dreamed of giving joy to the world, just like he did. That’s what I had realized one spring morning, when I had just woken up. I was still very young and small, but so happy and excited that I knew immediately who I was.

  “I am Joy!” I cried in my mother Margueritte’s ear, while she was trying to make me burp after breakfast. I scared her so much that she dropped me. I stretched my arms out in the air as I did so, landing on my back in my little bed. Just like everyone else, I had my own little bed. Then I started hiccupping. My mum started fussing around, as she thought I might have hurt myself. She began examining me carefully, but I just told her that she was beautiful. Then she knew I wasn’t like the other guys, because she used to say that as far as looks were concerned, she was anything but beautiful.

  “I have big sharp teeth; my ears are wide, and some pieces of them are missing; and my nose is long, too long for the tiny, skinny face I’ve got.” She criticized herself while she was looking lovingly at me.

  But what she didn’t notice, what even the others couldn’t notice, were her beautiful blue eyes. She passed them on to me, thank God, and I am so proud of them. I noticed and cherished them—her loving blue eyes.

  So, to be conscious of yourself and to know who you are from early childhood is quite a good thing. Then it becomes quite a bit easier to do what makes you be yourself. That is why I was so happy when I found out who I was. But still…when I looked at the writer in our house, I couldn’t help daydreaming, wanting to be a little more like him. To give joy, not only to be one. And how did I know that he made people happy? To know that, it was enough for me to see the happy face of his daughter, Rosa, every time he read one of his books to her. Rosa…

  Oh, what an enchanting name for such an enchanting child, I often thought while I was watching them both.

  Every evening I sneaked secretly between the books on the shelves in her room and listened, holding my breath, to the countless stories. Paul, that was the writer‘s name, used to read to her before she went to sleep. There I stood, hidden behind the numerous books on the broad shelf, silently listening to their voices. Under the spell of the night’s silence, veiled in a cloud of fairy dust, these two people were for me more beautiful than the rainbow itself.

  When the sun set and night came, Paul would sit in his woven straw chair near Rosa’s bed. He would open the book to the pages he’d last read, while swaying back and forth. Gently, with lots of care in order not to wake up all the sleeping angels in the room, he started reading to the most wonderful angel of all—his daughter, that beautiful morning dew. Her soft chestnut hair was spread across the folds of her pillow, and her drowsy head dropped quietly to one side as she listened with dreaminess in her eyes. When her eyes were almost closed, the writer stood up and left the room, making no noise at all. To my great regret, she fell asleep just at the moment when the story became particularly interesting and exciting for me. It was that one moment in the story when all the muscles of my body were stretched tight from the strain like a bow about to release an arrow, or when the fur on my back bristled as if from cold. I didn’t have the will or strength to stop listening to him. Just then, the writer closed the book with a weary face. And I, engaged with the story and filled with amazement, went home disappointed and stayed awake ’til morning. Because I knew he was going to read to her again, I impatiently waited for the evening to come once more. Then I sat behind one of the large volumes of someone like Shakespeare or Flaubert, whom I also knew thanks to the writer. I became all ears when he opened the book, and listened to the end of that most extraordinary story. Those were the moments when I became the happiest person…I mean mouse…I mean dreaming creature, in the world. That is because I was taught never to judge others on their appearance. And while listening to the stories of the writer, I felt I was something more than a mouse; I was a dreaming creature.

  II.

  Why Mum Punished Me, and How I Stopped Being Invisible…

  Let me tell you how I met Rosa and her father Paul.

  Having spent so many long days behind the books on their bookshelves, I wanted to see them in reality so much. Yes, in reality; everything you can’t touch seems so unreal that you can easily mistake it for a fantasy. I didn’t want them to be a mere fantasy. I dreamed that I would see them and they would see me, as I said, in reality; that they would pet me; and that together with the writer, I would muse over the profound and insightful ideas of one of his interesting books. And since I really wanted and dreamed of that so much, shortly it happened.

  One day (in fact it was evening), when my mother couldn’t find me in my room, she got really worried about me. And since she was one of those worrying mothers who would always cry when their children don’t come back from the playground on time, she started calling for me.

  “Mercutio! Mercutio!” she cried breathlessly.

  She had named me Mercutio because she liked Shakespeare very much, although she wouldn’t admit it openly; Mercutio was one of her favorite characters. She also said his name sounded proud and strong. She wanted me to be proud and strong, just as my name suggested. That is why she had called me Mercutio.

  So she had been calling my name again and again, until she got really tired. Exhausted, she left our house and went into the writer’s house. It took her some effort, but she climbed onto the bookshelf for a better look over the vast space spreading out in front of her. Just then, the writer was putting one very heavy book on the shelf where she was standing. Mum wasn’t quick to see the book, and as she was trying to hide from it in one of the corners of the shelf, the book somehow trapped her tail. Mum’s frightened scream startled Paul, and he dropped the book on the floor. Brave as she was, especially when someone arrogantly teased her tail, my mother Margueritte jumped in front of him and scolded him, dressed in her everyday wear—a pink sleeping gown and nightcap. Paul was really astonished by that speaking mouse, but I think he was mostly impressed by her wearing an old-fashioned sleeping gown and unfashionable pink nightcap. But mice are known to be old-fashioned, after all. Although I dare say, I am not old-fashioned at all. I wear a white linen shirt and long cotton trousers in a chestnut color. Sometimes mother would make me wear a white-spotted blue bow tie, which I didn’t like much. But I wore it, just because I respected my mum.

  So that writer of mine, instead of getting angry with my mother for telling him off, laughed happily and stroked her reassuringly on the nose. He had never seen a speaking mouse before, and was really interested. But she stamped her feet, as she told me later, and hid behind the books of Victor Hugo, who was kind enough to provide her with the sanctuary of his book covers. All that time, I was fast asleep. When I woke up, my mother had already found me, and she was carrying me by the scruff of my neck through Rosa’s room. I rubbed my eyes with my paws and grouchily looked around. When I saw him, the writer was looking at me with a smile. He was not an illusion any more, and I was not invisible; we could now both see each other. I smiled at him amiably, as I would smile at an old
friend. Then my mum pushed me through the door of our home and hid me.

  After that unfortunate occasion, I was grounded for quite a while for staying away from home for such a long time. Mum refused to let me among people again. She told me that they were really tactless creatures, who would impertinently push one’s nose. Boy, how I wished the writer would stroke me, on my little white nose.

  I learned from mother that he often put some little slices of cheese in the corners of the house as a gift for us. She used to bring them to me for breakfast, and still she wouldn’t miss a chance to point out how little she liked him, despite his delicious food.

  “He is so big-headed!” she said. “All day long, he does nothing but work with his books. He could have tidied that big house a bit,” the house was really small, for humans, “or dusted the floor. I sneeze so much when I go shopping that I come home breathless.” My mother was a strict mouse, and keeping the house tidy was a really important thing for her. I, on the other hand, wasn’t interested in that kind of stuff at all. I saw the gentleness of the writer’s character and his daughter’s, and that was enough for me to love them.

  III.

  On the Habits of Sorrow, Paul’s Fairy Tale, and How I Got to Know Him and His Daughter.

  I longed to see the writer again and to listen to his beautiful tales about life and joy. That’s why one day, I begged mum to let me out. In the end, after lots of bargaining, she agreed. She ironed my trousers, buttoned my shirt, and put a blue bow tie on my neck. She gently pushed me out the door and wished me good luck that day. I don’t know why she acted as if I was going on a long journey, but that attention somehow inspired me. I stepped ahead on four legs, and being so excited I ran to Rosa’s room. There I climbed onto the high bookshelf and stood on the top of it. Hidden in the shadow of Andersen, I poked my pink nose out and listened. But something in the atmosphere of the room had changed. My two favorite people were there, but a kind of deep sorrow had settled between them. I didn’t know at the time what kind of sorrow that was, but instinctively I felt very sad. I even wept, if I remember correctly, because sorrow has the habit of coming inside anyone it reaches. I didn’t know why I was weeping; I was just sad. The writer was holding a little book then, and he was nervously turning over the pages with the tips of his fingers. Immersed in his thoughts, he was turning the pages without even looking at the text.

  “Dad,” I heard her clear voice ring in the room. “Tell me the story of the brave king, who roamed the world to find a cure for his cursed child. I like it very much.”

  Her father looked at her, startled, as if awakened from a bad dream; then his look became gentler, and he smiled at her. I still remember that tale, which I, just like Rosa, liked very much.

  “In the far away northern lands, among the snow and ancient ice, there once lived the coldest prince of all time. He was a handsome, tall young man. with long white hair and deep grey eyes. He was so cold and unemotional that everyone in that ice-cold kingdom openly avoided him. The prince didn’t know why no one wanted to be his friend. Therefore he often sat alone, lamenting his fate. He wanted to cry, but something inside wouldn’t let him do it. The sorrow turned into a heavy burden in his gentle heart. One day, it became so unbearable that it turned him into a boy who despised the whole world. Even the king and queen, who loved him so much, were in despair because of his great badness.

  “One day, the desperate king decided to ask the Sun for help.

  “‘Tell me, Sun,’ he said, looking at the sky, ‘do you know what curse has come upon my young son, and why he is so downhearted and estranged?’

  “The Sun didn’t know what to say and kept silent. But soon it got an idea.

  “‘Ask the Stars, fair king. I can’t answer your question.

  “The king kindly thanked the Sun and waited for nightfall. When it came, he questioned the Stars.

  “‘Tell me, little Fireflies, do you know what curse has come upon my son’s heart, and has made him so cold and hard on me?’

  “The Stars didn’t know what to say and remained silent. But soon, one of them twinkled more brightly.

  “The brightest Star said, ‘Dear king, we do not know why your son is so cold, because we ourselves are warm and gentle creatures. We do not understand the evil that can be found in human nature. But listen; you could ask the Clouds beneath us. They are so clever, and often roam here and there. There isn’t a land that they do not know, there isn’t a character with which they are not acquainted. It is only they who could give an answer to your question.’

  “The king nodded and looked at the greyish Clouds. They hastily replied with one voice.

  “‘Greatest King, it is true that we have been everywhere and have seen everything, but never have we seen such a temper as your son’s. Do not look for an answer among the creatures of the skies, if you want to reveal the intentions of the human creatures. Look down at the ground you set your feet on. The knowledge of your ancestors has flown into it. Ask the Snow, gently covering all four quarters of the globe, for he is the good landlord, who keeps the secrets of mankind.’

  “The king thanked the Clouds and the Stars, and stroked the snow under his feet. The fresh, mild, blue Snow was pleased by this attention.

  “‘Tell me, my king, what is bothering you? Why are you still awake in these dark nights?’

  “‘My great concern is my son, who used to be so kind and good to us and now he sees in us nothing but eternal enemies. He lives in his own sad world where the suffering has made him a slave,’ the king said, sadly.

  “The Snow thought for a while and said, ‘I remember when the prince was born, sixteen years ago. He had fair eyes and beautiful hair. That was the happiest event in these lands. I loved him there and then. I decided to take care of him and protect him from all evil. But I couldn’t keep that one away.’

  “‘Which one? What evil could have come upon my son?’ the king asked urgently.

  “The Snow sank into his thoughts for a moment, and then began telling the story. ‘It happened one pitch dark night. The Witch of the Three Seas thought no one could see her. She went all alone into the darkest caves of the Great Kingdom. In those black caves, never touched by the sunbeams, she found the coldest piece of ice. Hidden from the eyes of other living souls, she carved a little blue heart from it. As she carved, she chanted.’

  “‘A river of tears, of tears

  You shan’t be able to cry,

  But with heart heavy of fears

  Away your closest you will drive!’

  “‘She was singing this devilish curse, and she infused it into the cold heart. She kept repeating your son’s name while she was singing this. And when everything was over, she came looking for the young prince in his room.’

  “The king nodded. ‘Oh, I remember that witch. When he was born, she said she wanted to marry him. I didn’t give him to her of course, and she was furious. She said she would do anything to take revenge.’ The king moaned and started crying.

  “The Snow continued, ‘But wait a minute, my king, let me finish. Black as a midnight ghost, with hair scattered in the dark air and fetid breath, she then secretly slipped into the room of our newborn lord; her aim remained unknown to me. And when she came out of there, she was holding his dear, live heart in her hands. She hid this heart under her dress, and disappeared with a burst of ominous laughter.’

  “‘Oh,’ cried the poor king, ‘is it possible that the witch had exchanged his pure heart for the one made of ice?’

  “The Snow did not answer, because it was such a burden for him to tell this sad story that he’d fallen asleep before he knew it. The king went back to his palace and told his wife the whole story. The queen started crying when she knew the truth.

  “‘May she be cursed!’ the queen screamed. ‘Because of that pointless feud, she took my only child from me, and made him cold and rough like her own heart.’

  “Just then, a little titmouse perched on the windowsill of the hall where they
were standing. It had heard about the king’s sorrow from the Clouds high in the sky. The bird had come down because it wanted to help him.

  “It tweeted to get the king’s attention and said, ‘Do not be sad, my King, for I have good news for you. A few days ago, I was in the witch’s castle and saw your son’s heart. It is alive and beating, but it is still very small, because there was no human chest in which it could ripen. It is in a high, remote tower that has neither entrance nor exit. Only a little window above it illuminates its high pedestal and golden lid during the day. Spring flowers have grown around it, and birds gather there to whisper gentle words to it in daytime. And since that little heart is so kind and good, and full of love, it listens to every single problem they have and gives them good advice. These birds love it so much that they would certainly be glad to help save it from the evil witch. Should there be someone to hold the heart in their hands, they will manage to carry it out of the window.’

  “The king was so moved by this news that he immediately asked the little bird to take him to the castle of the black witch.

  “‘But we have to be very careful in order not to wake her up,’ the bird warned the king, ‘because this is the time when she likes to sleep.’

  “The king put on his heavy armor, said goodbye to his queen, and headed off with the little titmouse on his shoulder, through boundless frozen lands toward the castle of the witch…”

  When the writer finished reading his story, I was fast asleep. I woke up when I heard Rosa’s voice.

  “I like this story, because in the end the king manages to save his son from the curse.”

  “That’s right,” her father agreed. He was looking at her lovingly, while stroking her forehead. And that inexplicable sorrow emerged from nowhere, spreading into the room again. It reached me and wafted around, as if it was a light wind in my chest. Something happened at that moment—I myself don’t know what, but my heart started bumping so sadly in my chest that I started crying at once. With my head lifted up toward the sky I cried selflessly and bitterly, until the tears wetted my feet and I sank into a little pond of salty water. Meanwhile, Rosa and Paul, who had heard me crying, started searching through the books and found me. At that moment they were looking at me with such an enormous interest that it seemed as if they wanted to devour me with their eyes. The writer was standing opposite me, bent over the bookshelf, and Rosa was looking at me from her bed. I was so embarrassed that I ran to hide as fast as I could.