CAN'T WE GIVE LOVE ONE MORE CHANCE?

CAN'T WE GIVE LOVE ONE MORE CHANCE?

One could not tell how old is she; the strands of frost on her auburn chignon stand obviously out and lend her a slight air of maturity, mahogany streaked with silver thread. Now that she's older and better fed, her physique has outright gone from twiggy to pear-shaped, like those tiny ancient Venuses that sometimes peasant crop-growers unearth and take for images of the Virgin Mary.

As golden sunlight filters in through gaps in the black mourning curtains, he just hobble-clops into the room, sees her reclining in an armchair -- though his carriage is no longer immaculate, he is tall, young, good-looking, and clear of eye, with his long limbs and broad shoulders and slender waistline; the very model of a gentleman officer... yet so lilywhite that his pallor betrays his state of health; still, that heart-shaped face is framed in a mane of dark curls, and his eyes sparkle with youth. He would make for a fine doll, a bisque lieutenant, although one with a broken leg, kept in a glass case just as a keepsake, propped up against a stick for support.

"Emi?"

"There is no need to be so endearing to me, Ser Governor General." Eyelids flutter and a glazed, broken look, like a doll's or a sacred image's, glosses hazel orbs like unripe hazelnuts to left and right of the bridge of a slightly aquiline nose. And yet she is still alive, though her breathing rattles inside her throat and chest. The sunburn has faded utterly; the freckles that it usually burned over stand starkly out on her catlike cheekbones - and all over her skin, he presumes.

"I see your husband left you nothing more than his silver tongue. Though he tried to hush your voice for evermore, he never left you speechless."

"Do you mean...?" the auburnette's eyes widen and she closes in on the tall, broad-chested young governor, seizing his shoulders with all strength she can muster. Still his shoulders hurt.

"We have just pronounced him dead, as dead as a doornail, after combing the castle town and its environs, without a single trace of hair or hide of that scoundrel."

"..." No response on her part, knowing him inside and out and knowing that maybe this disappearance may only be temporary. Will he ever return? What is there to fear if he is still alive? There is a certain kind of insanity for which the healing arts do not have a name yet, and which is renowned and infamous for masquerading as sanity. And such people will do anything to get their will done; seeing others as playthings they can actually control at will, by knowing their soft spots - what they wish and what they fear. She's known him for decades; she is one of the few lucky ones to be enough inured to have become immune to that person's seeming and scheming.

"You believed you would die singing, Emi, but in the end you awakened in a sickbed, after a fortnight with the faintest signs of life.


Face to face and eye to eye, on adjacent reed chairs, sat both of them, though in full recovery, still pale from their wounds, awakened to an uncertain second chance.

The blood has dried on the bandages over the shot in her side -- a punctured lung -- and the bodily pain has subsided; she can speak at last, after, but it still hurts a little, like a dagger pressed against her side on the inside of her ribcage.

"Fine, though still a little sore; I can breathe with a little pressure inside my chest but speech requires a little more effort and makes my inside sore... now how's your left knee, Ser?"

"Equally tricky; getting used to the knee joint of the new wooden leg" - he strips his trouser on one side - now he'll nevermore tread on a dancefloor and fully embrace his studies, as a scholar once more, maybe even more well-read than he was as an adolescent student.

"Desdemona and you were the loved ones I couldn't have due to my husband's... eh, preferences."

"That bed for two felt so icy cold, especially when he moved in with a certain young lieutenant; but who kept you warm in the winter nights?"

Kept her warm, of course. But his youthful hot blood and surprisingly gentle handling of her could never, nevermore soften the scars on her back, as callous as her feet and hands, due to the cat-of-nine-tails; his lithe lily fingers tracing and recoiling at the touch - the thought chafed, like sackcloth against silk.
Maybe it was his own being straight, long before the first drink, that triggered it all?

This attractive, charming fop never wanted to be a career officer in the first place - it was just so that an expelled student found himself by chance serving in some sleepy garrison before turning eighteen. The lieutenancy came at twenty, not long ago. Nevertheless, it all feels like a dream instead of reality - especially the lapse of his short life lasting from the drunken brawl that saw him expelled from University to the second drunken brawl that led to him losing his general's trust and right-hand position. How could he had ever fallen twice into the same trap? The memories of both evenings are still hazy, yet he has a few pieces which have fallen into place (though the puzzles remain not finished). I'm no longer thirsty; I've had one glass and that one on ice, and still what a revolution it's sparked in here! Put the glass to his lips, and even wet them, after that single quencher. Then all it took was some coaxing - the faces of the coaxers still hazy.
This attractive, charming fop never wanted to be a career officer in the first place - it was just so that an expelled student found himself by chance serving in some sleepy garrison before turning eighteen. Not Hussif, but some distant mainland fortress, though ostensibly not that different. Wrote a text or two on military strategies, paying the typical perfectionist's attention to detail - even at one point foretelling that someday steam-powered railway trains and steamboats would turn the tide of war! -, then the higher-ups at headquarters got word of this youthful prodigy, and a star was born then trod the dance floors of society once more. Still unaware that stars can fall. That even the most disciplined officer, like the most disciplined student, can let his hair down and find himself picking up the pieces at the end of the day. To the point that both role models and childhood friends, both fighting and dancing, would be left memories as painful, as bloody, and as unable to mend back into place as shattered glass.

And all due to being straight, long before the first drink. "The fact that Iago stalked... well, once he confided in me and asked what it was like when he was wide awake sharing a bed with yours truly. Even showing the stain on my nightshirt. The star of my wet dream was female - although we all get the details that don't stand out hazy when we awake, so not sure if it was you, Bianca, Desdemona - whom I gave up just to see her happy - or a fourth party... still, I told him that while Iago wistfully looked on - and that look turned from wistful to forlorn to the usual icy in a matter of instants. I wish I could read people, especially military men, as easily as I read books. That would have saved me and those I love the most. Still, I thought I had to keep you warm in his absence - desk jobs are so tiresome and army wives with husbands on the field so lonely. Until most of the truth came to light that fateful midnight, and the shock of reality finally gave, at the greatest and most painful price, resolve to stand on my own one foot - at least till I got the replacement, of course."

She identifies with his choice to keep her warm. Keep her warm, yet as a friend with the right to do so. And with his new-found resolve, that she herself developed within decades.
"I never knew no parents, no friends, no home to speak of; and he took me in. Never had any other choice. So from early on in our lives I became his secret-keeper, the only one allowed to know his true colours. It came as no surprise that the two of us tied the knot; there was no other way outside his reach. Queer or straight, old or young or in between, I was bound to him by law and custom, inured to all of his knavish tricks and darkest secrets. It just made me stronger, hardened my heart and soul and spine, crystallised all of my resolve. Called him 'Lieutenant Iago' out of flattery... bared myself from the waist upwards whenever he brought the cat to discharge a little rage... He saw as little of my real face as you have seen of his own. He could read me as much as you could read him. Two can play at any strategy game, Ser; you know by heart it takes two. Even to play never-wear-heart-upon-sleeve. I think, myself, that the end result of that long-term game with Iago is still a draw, one that probably will never be broken. My husband and I were and still are equals..."

If so, then - a question burning on his lips, crossing his dashing features, comes out on impulse -... does she have at least the slightest feeling on the answer to the Iago riddle, what lays underneath all those layers?

"Everything concerning Iago is... something too complex to put into words, Ser Governor." No mention of surname either this time. She'd fallen out of love, long before her younger counterpart could.

"And what comes next, after all this scandalous débâcle has unfurled ... ?"

Her eyes shining with unexpected hope, she replies: "As sure as we are facing each other, I shall stay here in Hussif until the next governor general comes, and maybe settle down on the spot as a madame (the old madame of the pleasure house Cytherea is about to retire); caring for and mentoring wayward young girls is something I have always felt drawn towards - I hope they never share Desdemona's fate -- did I hurt a soft spot, Ser? - but I mean I knew I would die childless by flesh, so they will be the daughters I have never given birth to..."

His surprisingly long lashes flutter as he blinks the tears away to restrain them. After a quarter of an hour that seemed to last an eternity, the governor finally explains his intentions: "I shall wait for the next governor's arrival and then leave for Belmont with Bianca my fiancée - pardon me, Emi, but those dice are already cast."

"Really...? Then, there is another question burning on my lips... so what do you see in that waif, that wench, far below the two of us in rank?"

"Pardon me and my honest intentions if this decision is a source of heartbreak; still, star-crossed young love feels far better than a... May-September marriage? Besides, she's clever, brighter than anyone expected. Read poems and saucy tales for me out loud in the infirmary, from the books she has in her room. Also sings her songs at home; drinking songs, barrack-room songs, but her favourite was that murder ballad that runs: 'As I was walking home alone, I heard two crows making a moan...' Like you, she can read and write. Self-sufficient, with a wealth of grit beneath her fingernails. No one could tell she was the reserved younger sister of Katherine the Shrew - our lecturer, bless his soul, had twin daughters as different as night is from day and died of a sudden stroke leaving the firstborn just married to an eccentric stranger and the other still single, still young - when I was expelled, that was the state of affairs. She doubtless left for Hussif searching for a way to find herself, or something like that - the adolescent Bianca of my university years was a lifesize wind-up doll set up on a pedestal out of everyone's reach; left on her own devices in a men's world and crashed down from the alcove to the dust around the pleasure house door, she's fiery, funny, sometimes coquettish. Standing on her own two feet, she makes for a lovely crutch for my own ones. Now I know whose red string has its other end tied to my own. Pardon me, Emi, but concerning your feelings and mine towards you - is this what it feels like to fall out of love?"

And, to his surprise, she agrees: "Of course you're someone I could only take to as a lover, but never as a husband -- a widowed lady in her forties and a stripling lieutenant suddenly risen to a higher position than he ever could aspire -- the very thought of it hurts... Sharing a bed feels like solace, but the thought of this remarriage makes me wince. I'd be the talk of Hussif for a while; the merry widow of honest Iago, now with a paramour!"

"So you agree, and we're both sure that maybe our common story could only be true in another reality; the time has come for our ways to part and to wish one another the best of luck, right, Emi?"

"I am not the gamine I was three or four decades ago; and lots of bitter experience have come in between. One has always wondered what it is now to stand on her own two feet, no longer bound to a man... hard to do after coping with this emptiness. Yet this decision will surely be worth the sacrifice that it entails."

Though the military stage of his life is definitely past and closed, he is still trying to find the missing pieces of that puzzle - a green liquid which was definitely not brandy, and the taste of which made him wince and the inside of his mouth tingle... didn't it sear all the way down his throat?

The same old guilt on the side of both? There is; decisions they made actually ruined and ended the lives of their loved ones. Sipping a drink or snatching a handkerchief is the proverbial flap of wings of a butterfly that turns out to leave a wake of ruins at the ends of the Earth and changes the fates of several innocents...

The two of them share the same old emptiness inside - both of them agree; as well as that they cannot use one another to fill that emptiness, now that their paths have diverged for good. Still, he admires her as much as she admires him:
"You are a fighter, Madame Emilia. A real warrior in apron and petticoats; there is no doubt that you will make it through. After all, you bested one of those dangerous madmen in sane men's clothing, or at least it turned out a draw in your confrontation; you were there to reassure us youngsters whenever our feelings were down, whenever self-loathing came into our minds... Experience has hardened your skin and your resolve, yet it never will harden your heart, that is for sure. And you were even willing to die singing out the truth, even if that would mean the bitter end; "
She smooths her auburn ringlets, knowing that this praise is true, straightforward, not an "honest Iago's," and her riposte comes equally naturally:
"And you are still more of the scholar than the fighter, but nevertheless a worthy true noble, Governor Cassio. One with his heart stark red and throbbing upon his sleeve; there is no doubt you'll make it through. Realising that you have as much to blame for the recent catastrophe as both yours truly and actually everyone else. In saying you were slight and indiscrete, not only did you acknowledge your flaws, but also willed yourself to set things right, no matter the consequence. Even though your very innocence is shattered, even though the friends you loved and admired are gone, returning to that estate with a new bride and starting anew, returning to your studies, is enough for such a bright and well-read fellow - and I'm sure the late Governor and his lady wife, bless their souls, would approve as well."

In counterpoint, all the two of them can think upon hearing one another's honest, straightforward praise is a short sentence that encapsulates all their feelings just when they've ceased to reel from the shock of reality: "We will never again be the same."




AFTERWORD.

This bunny is pretty recent - it came from a re-read of "Belmont Revisited" and I, Iago vis-à-vis The Serpent of Venice. It came from my decision of whom to pick as Cassio's wife post-tragedy vis-à-vis Moore's (I married him off to Bianca - Moore, to Emilia); so please read it as an interquel between the tragedy finale and my own headcanon "Belmont Revisited." An Emissio marriage just felt like either Colette's Chéri or the Hippolytus mytheme in any of its forms... and besides Cassio already had a fiancée in Bianca - but still, Emi, you're one shero, a real warrior in apron and petticoats as Cassio himself puts it here -- and this is my umpteenth open love letter to you.

And oui, the title is from the climax of Queen's Under Pressure, where Freddie and Bowie give some of the most intense defenses of love ever heard in lyrical history. Also one that the leads in this little rite-of-passage story deserve.

MÁS CUENTOS DE ANIMALES (SUSAETA)

LA LLUVIA Y EL BUEN TIEMPO

Tres ranitas verdes y tres gatitos van a la misma escuela. Como todos viven en la misma calle, hacen el camino juntos. Son buenos amigos, pero siempre están discutiendo.

¿Sabéis la causa de que se lleven tan mal? ¡La lluvia, por un lado, y el buen tiempo, por otro!

Los días de lluvia, las ranas, en su líquido elemento, chapotean en medio de los charcos, saltando y riendo a más y mejor, mientras los tres gatitos, cobijados bajo el mismo paraguas, enfundados en impermeables y calzados con katiuskas, suspiran:

---¡Maldita lluvia!

En cambio, los días que hace sol las sedientas ranas gimen de despecho.

---¡Qué calor! ---exclaman---. ¡Esto no hay quien lo aguante!

Los tres gatitos, por el contrario, ronronean de gusto.

Como veis, gatitos y ranitas nunca estaban de acuerdo.

Únicamente cuando hacía un tiempo gris, de intervalos nubosos, sin lluvia ni calor, permanecían juntos, sin disputar. Las ranitas echaban de menos la lluvia, pero al menos no lucía el ardiente sol. Los gatitos se acordaban del astro rey y de sus rayos acariciadores, pero al menos no caía la antipática lluvia.

En estos días grises, ranitas y gatitos caminaban juntos como buenos amigos, llegando a clase los seis cogidos de la mano.

ADIVINANZA

Si el sol brilla,

me quedo en casita,

en mi camita.

Si está nublado,

¡marchen, un, dos, tres!,

de mi concha salgo.

Me gustan la lluvia,

el viento

y el cielo gris...

Adivina,

adivinanza,

¿quién soy?

---¿Un caracol?

---¡Eso es! ¡Bravo!

EL MININO

¿Qué hace el gatito con las tijeras de su papá y un gran rollo de papel azul? Está forrando las cubiertas de sus libros de lectura y de sus cuadernos para que no se manchen.

¿Qué hace el minino con un paquete de etiquetas y un gran lápiz rojo? Está marcando su cartera y su caja de pinturas para que no se extravíen.

UN ZAPATO MUY PEQUEÑO

Es hora de ir a clase. Mamá gata acaba de arreglar a su gatito. Sólo queda ponerle los zapatos. ¡Hop!, mamá gata le pone el zapato derecho, y rápidamente quiere ponerle el izquierdo, pero ¡la pata de su gatito no entra!

---¡Vaya! ---dice la gata tratando nuevamente de ponerle el zapato---. ¡Es imposible!

La zarpa se tuerce, se pliega, se encorva, pero sólo entra la mitad en el zapato. Mamá gata no comprende por qué. La pata de su hijo no ha podido crecer tanto en una noche. No, ¡es increíble! Y además, sólo la pata izquierda. Será el zapato que ha encogido; no, ¡es igual que el otro! Dudando, mamá gata mete su pata delantera en el zapato. Y ¿adivináis lo que ha encontrado? ¡Una pequeña pelota de goma, la pelotita de su gatito!

LA COMBA

Para calentaros, gatitos,

dice la gata a sus hijitos,

nada veréis que es mejor

que jugar sin parar a la comba.

CUANDO UN CIEMPIÉS COMPRA ZAPATOS

Son las tres de la tarde. Minuchette, la vendedora de zapatos, está adormecida detrás de la caja registradora. 

De repente, ¡diling! ¡diling!, la puerta del establecimiento se abre sacudiendo la campanilla, que despierta a la gran gata. Minuchette se frota los ojos y ¡ve entrar en su tienda a un interminable ciempiés!

---¿Qué desea? ---pregunta con voz soñolienta, alisándose su vestido.

---Querría unos zapatos ---responde el ciempiés.

Comprendiendo que se trata de un pedido serio, Minuchette se despierta rápidamente, salta de su silla y empieza a sacar docenas de pares de zapatos, docenas y docenas de cajas. Toda la tienda desaparece bajo los papeles, mientras que se alzan aquí y allá pirámides de cajas entreabiertas.

Minuchette no sabe dónde tiene la cabeza: se preocupa, se inquieta.

---Será necesario que le venda pares de modelos diferentes, porque no tengo suficientes de un solo tipo.

---No importa, ¡resultará más fantasioso!

Realmente es un cliente muy gentil, conciliador, lleno de paciencia, no pone ningún obstáculo... y, cuando dos horas más tarde, está completamente calzado de zapatos diferentes, multicolores, se va contento, encantado, prometiendo volver.

Como todas las suelas son nuevas, se deslizan un poco, y nuestro ciempiés resbala, vacila, derrapa: parece que esté bailando.

---¡Vaya día! ---murmura Minuchette, secándose la frente con un pañuelo. Completamente agotada, se deja caer en medio de las cajas vacías. Pero apenas lleva cinco minutos sentada, se levanta, corre a la caja registradora, toma una hoja de papel y escribe estas palabras: CERRADO POR 8 DÍAS. Sale, pega el pequeño cartel en el cristal del escaparate, vuelve a entrar, cierra su puerta con llave, baja las cortinas y grita:

---Puesto que no me queda ni un solo zapato en toda la tienda, voy a tomarme una semana y un día de vacaciones.

SI YO FUERA CARACOL...

Si yo fuera caracol,

para marchar más deprisa,

¡tomaría siempre el Metro!

EL DESPERTAR DE MINUCHETTE

¡Rrinnngggg! ¡El despertador suena!

---Minuchette, querida, es hora de levantarse. Debes ir a trabajar.

 Pero tras la ventana está cayendo una lluvia muy fría. La gata gruñe, ronronea, se adormece, acurrucada bajo su almohada. ¡Mediodía y el sol luce! Minuchette sale de la cama, bosteza, se estira y sonríe.

"Ya es tarde, ¡qué más da!"

 VIENTO DE LUNA

Había una vez en un bosque de abetos una ardilla muy fantástica. Tenía mucha imaginación y se divertía con todo. Jugaba con las piñas, andaba a reculones sobre las ramas, se levantaba de noche para parlotear con el búho real y deambulaba como sonámbula las noches de luna llena.

---Es una excéntrica ---decían las otras ardillas del bosque.

Pero la pequeña ardilla todavía les reservaba otra sorpresa. Una noche de luna llena, las despertó una música de baile, mientras una aguda voz entonaba esta incomprensible canción:

Desde hoy yo me llamo,

desde hoy yo soy

Viento de Luna,

¡Viento de Luna!

El concierto parecía venir de la pradera. En pijama, en camisón, las ardillas se dirigieron allá. En medio de la pradera estaba la pequeña ardilla fantástica, envuelta en extravagantes collares de enredaderas y campánulas, tocando ardorosamente la guitarra y cantando:

Desde hoy yo me llamo,

desde hoy yo soy

Viento de Luna,

¡Viento de Luna!

Las demás ardillas comentaban:

---Es la luna llena la que la vuelve sonámbula. Vamos a despertarla, cesará con su música loca.

Pero la pequeña ardilla f

POLVOS DE LA COMADRE CELESTINA

Conejito, ¿qué llevas en ese gran saco? ¿Tomillo, romero o trébol blanco?

---Ni lo uno ni lo otro ---responde Juanito el Conejo---. ¡Llevo polvos de la comadre Celestina!

MADEMOISELLE FRICADELLE

Mademoiselle Fricadelle ha hecho un largo viaje. Mademoiselle Fricadelle no tiene ni maleta ni equipaje. Mademoiselle Fricadelle viene de un país de sol. Mademoiselle Fricadelle llega a la torre Eiffel. Pero, ¿quién es esta señorita? Es una bella golondrina.

EL GATITO QUE SE MORDÍA LAS UÑAS...

Érase una vez un gatito muy travieso que se mordía las uñas durante todo el día. Su mamá estaba muy enfadada, pero a pesar de las regañinas y castigos, el gatito no cesaba de morder sus uñas.
Cansada de regañarle sin conseguir resultados positivos, la madre intenta conquistar con halagos a su pequeño:
---Si dejas tranquilas tus patitas ---le dice--- tendrás una grata sorpresa.
Y le promete bombones y maravillosos juguetes... Pero no había nada que hacer, el gatito era muy testarudo y continuó mordisqueando lo que quedaba de sus uñas. Mamá gata le puso en las patas guantes de tela gruesa, pero el pillo, a mordiscos, consigue romperlos y vuelve a comerse las uñas. La pobre mamá vuelve entonces a poner en las zarpas de su gatito una crema muy amarga. Tiempo perdido, el golfillo la encuentra muy de su agrado.
Las semanas pasan: la primavera ha llegado. Los árboles se cubren de bonitas hojas, por todas partes los pajarillos parlotean. Nuestro minino va muy a menudo a jugar con los tres gatitos de la vecindad. Una buena mañana, uno de ellos decide trepar a un pino. Con sus uñas se engancha al tronco, que escala hasta lo más alto. Después, como un acróbata, salta de rama en rama. A grandes gritos, los pajarillos, espantados, levantan el vuelo. Los otros dos gatitos se han dado prisa a reunirse con su hermano en el árbol; a su vez, nuestro minino travieso quiere seguirles. Pero cuidado, cuidado, es muy extraño lo que ocurre: cada vez que se lanza al árbol para escalar, se escurre hacia atrás y cae sobre su cola como si tuviera jabón en las patas. Él se obstina y patalea, se agita y contorsiona en todos los sentidos. Nuestro gatito, a pesar de todo, se queda despechado al pie del árbol.
---Verdaderamente, tú no eres muy listo ---le gritan sus amigos.

Mamá gata, que ha asistido desde lejos a este tumulto, se acerca y le dice a su hijo:

---¿Ves? Si no te hubieras mordido las uñas, también podrías trepar hasta lo alto ---y añade levantando gravemente la cabeza ---Hay que escuchar siempre a mamá.

El gatito, herido en su orgullo, corre a esconderse tras un pajar. Allí, estad seguros, no tiene ningunas ganas de morderse las uñas sino todo lo contrario, después de esta desventura jamás volverá a mordisquear sus patitas.

Un mes más tarde ya sabía subirse a los árboles, y al final del verano se había convertido en todo un campeón de la escalada. Subía mejor que todos los gatitos de los alrededores, hasta el extremo de que en lo sucesivo se le llamó el pequeño acróbata.

LA RAMITA DE PEREJIL

Ha pasado una nube. Se escapan tres gotas de lluvia. "¡Qué tristeza! ---gime la mariquita!---. Mi traje tan bonito, de seda y puntillas, se va a estropear, mojar, arrugar y hacer trizas. ¡Qué pena!

Reflexiona un segundo... y después, rápidamente, a modo de paraguas, corta una ramita de perejil.

LA TORTUGA COMPRADORA DE CUERDAS

---¿Tienen cuerdas? ---pregunta al señor castor una pequeña tortuga, muy segura de lo que quiere.

El tendero desaparece tras el mostrador, entre los plumeros, escobas y escobones que llenan su tienda. Abre varios cajones, que estaban cerrados con llave, y al fin saca una caja de cuerdas, de las que escoge una madeja blanca.

---Es demasiado fina ---dice la tortuga.

El señor castor vuelve a buscar y revuelve en el cajón: esta vez trae una cuerda de un color oscuro.

---¡Pero no tengo bastantes! ---dice la tortuga.

El señor castor va a la trastienda y, gruñendo y protestando, se dirige a una caja medio cerrada donde tenía su reserva de grandes cuerdas. Regresa con las patas llenas de una treintena de rollos.

---Esto es todo lo que tengo.

La tortuga examina el montón de cuerdas, calcula en voz baja, reflexiona, levanta la cabeza y dice con su vocecita, muy seria:

---Creo que esto será suficiente... sí, será suficiente.

El castor tendero está asustado.

---Pero, ¿se lo va a llevar todo? ---balbucea.

---Sí ---responde la tortuga, que sin tardar mete los ovillos uno sobre otro en su cesto de provisiones. Saca su monedero, paga su compra y se va con pasos apresurados.

El señor castor levanta las cejas con precaución, observando su marcha. "¿Qué pensará hacer la tortuga con todas esas cuerdas?" Se rasca el mentón, levanta los hombros y desciende las escaleras de la trastienda para ponerla en orden, sin pensar en otra cosa.

Pasaron tres días. El señor castor había olvidado completamente a su cliente tan excéntrica. Estaba barriendo la acera delante de su casa cuando de pronto vio a la tortuga bajo una montaña de cosas. Al verla transportar todo lo que llevaba sobre su espalda, el señor castor se extrañó tanto que dejó la escoba y se plantó con los ojos y la boca abiertos.

¿Sabéis que era lo que la tortuga llevaba bien atado sobre su caparazón? Un colchón plegado, dos almohadas y una cesta de pícnic de mimbre, tres cacerolas metidas unas dentro de otras, una red llena de zanahorias, nabos y perejil, un edredón de flores, un pequeño candelabro, un aparatoso reloj despertador y un parasol de rayas azules y blancas. Al pasar ante el señor castor, la tortuga le guiña un ojo y le grita:

---Su cuerda es de buena calidad, no me ha costado ningún trabajo atar todo mi equipaje.

---B-bien, me al-legro mucho ---tartamudea el tendero, que se repone poco a poco de la sorpresa---. Por lo que se ve, usted se muda, ¿o no?

---No, de ninguna manera ---responde la tortuga---, me voy de vacaciones a la playa. Pero como no me gusta cargar con las maletas, que me producen ampollas y callos en las patas, llevo mi equipaje a cuestas, para mí es mucho más cómodo. ¡Adiós, señor castor!

Y la tortuga se aleja canturreando una cancioncilla.

MEDIODÍA

Es mediodía en el huerto...

La oruga,

en la lechuga,

se estira.

El caracol,

de paseo al sol,

grita: "¡Hola!"

Los mosquitos,

por miriadas,

tocan su música.

Es mediodía en el huerto...

ADELINA, LA SARDINA

Adelina, la sardina, es una pillina. Para huir de los bancos de atunes, esos terribles glotones, toma el hidroavión. Para encantar a las medusas, toca con astucia una cornamusa. Tiene unos anteojos para espiar las fiestas de sus vecinas las gambas. Para engañar a las merluzas se pone la máscara de un arlequín fantástico. Si la tempestad estalla, prudentemente se pone el salvavidas. Si se aburre, hace punto de tricotar. Su casa incluso tiene teléfono, que funciona y suena. Lo ha fabricado ella misma y ha sido idea suya. Adelina, la sardina, es una pillina.

LA FAMILIA MARISCO

Conozco a una familia muy simpática: es la familia Marisco, la componen el padre, la madre y los siete hijitos. El señor y la señora Marisco montan en bicicleta sobre un magnífico tándem amarillo: en la parte delantera brilla un faro y en la trasera, sobre el portaequipajes, un cesto donde el señor y la señora Marisco instalan a su bebé recién nacido. Los otros seis hijos van en patinete y corren como campeones; se embalan sin ningún miedo por los montículos de arena mientras los pompones de sus gorras saltan a diestra y siniestra.

Unos detrás de otros, en la playa y entre las rocas, padres e hijos pedalean, patinan, se divierten dando vueltas.

Sí, es una familia muy alegre: el bebé incluso aplaude con todas sus ganas desde el fondo de la cesta, ya le gustan la velocidad y el deporte. Se les oye desde lejos, porque cada uno tiene en su aparato un simpático timbre que hacen sonar. Con este ruido acude enseguida toda la vecindad.

Las medusas que sestean en la arena se despiertan y se aproximan. Los cangrejos salen de sus cuevas; para estar en primera fila, las conchillas se precipitan arrastrándose, y si tropiezan se vuelven a levantar con coraje. Las gaviotas bajan para asistir al espectáculo, y algunos peces curiosos, que quieren ver el desfile, saltan de vez en cuando de ola en ola.

Con una mezcla de pedaleos, de patadas, de timbres, de risas y de canciones, la familia Marisco pasa como un tornado. Un momento más tarde, están ya lejos y los espectadores, admirados, regresan a sus quehaceres.

LA FORTALEZA

A Chipolata, la gatita, le encantan la leche, el pescado y también los macarrones. Desgraciadamente, a veces tiene bastante apetito para tragarse, además, una ratita... Llenos de pavor, todos los ratoncitos huyen entonces a la fortaleza.

CLOTILDE Y SUS OCHO TENTÁCULOS

¡Atención! ¡Atención!, aquí vienen Clotilde y sus ocho tentáculos, que entran en la pastelería "La Dulzona".

En seguida, la cajera, una langosta marina con aire importante, pone en su nariz unas gruesas gafas con montura dorada, mientras que las vendedoras, tres gaviotas charlatanas, se callan súbitamente y abriendo, bien redondos, sus pequeños ojos negros, no dejan de mirar a la recién llegada

¡Unos y otros conocen muy bien a la señorita Clotilde! No es fácil encontrar una golosa como ella.

---¡Buenos días! ¡Buenos días! ---continúa la cliente despreocupada, amable y con una magnífica sonrisa.

---¡Buenos días! ---responden la langosta y las tres gaviotas.

---Desearía por favor un helado de limón y una tartita de fresas silvestres.

Las tres gaviotas se apresuran, y en un instante le tienden un cucurucho de helado, una tartita, y la tercera gaviota le pregunta:

---¿Desea usted otra cosa?

---No, es todo por hoy ---dice la señorita Clotilde.

La gaviota hace la cuenta y le entrega a Clotilde la nota.

Pero... ¡qué frescura! Mirad lo que hace al pasar la muy bribona, la comilona la ladrona. Con sus tentáculos libres hurta disimuladamente un bollo de canela, un bizcocho borracho relleno de crema, tres chupetes rojos de gominola, frutas escarchadas, un enorme pastel de chocolate...

Ante tanta audacia, las gaviotas se sofocan de indignación; sólo la langosta conserva la calma. Hay que decir que está acostumbrada, pues cada día Clotilde vuelve a reanudar su jueguecito. Así pues, la langosta, que es una cajera astuta, coge tranquilamente la ficha de su cliente, toma las monedas que Clotilde ha esparcido en la caja y, mirándola por encima de sus gafas, le dice con finura: "Me parece que lleva usted ocultos algunos suplementos..." 

Clotilde enrojece, se pone nerviosa, tiembla, recoge sus tentáculos enrollándolos y por fin vuelve a poner en las bandejas los dulces que había robado; cabizbaja se dirige hacia la puerta.

RONDA DE ARDILLAS

Agarradas al tronco de un árbol, dos ardillas juegan al gato.

---¡Ah, ah, ah! ---dice la ardilla roja---. ¡Voy a por ti!

---¡Eh, eh, eh! ¡Que te crees tú eso! ---responde la ardilla gris.

Un, dos, tres, ya salen. A derecha, a izquierda, hocico contra cola, cola contra hocico, dan vueltas alrededor del tronco. A izquierda, a derecha, garras ágiles, patas rápidas, dan vueltas como un torbellino.

De repente, desde lo alto de la copa de la encina cae una bellota. En un abrir y cerrar de ojos, las dos acróbatas saltan para atraparla. Llegan a la vez, y ¡bum!, se dan en la cabeza un gran golpe, la una contra la otra.

Mientras que, aturdidas, la ardilla roja y la gris se frotan las orejas, llega una tercera, de pelaje castaño, y, sin decir nada, coge la bellota y se va corriendo...

EL JUEGO DEL ESCONDITE

---¡Vamos a jugar al escondite! ---propone la mariposa a un gran moscón de jardín.

---¿Al escondite? ---se extraña el moscón---. Pero, ¿cómo vas a esconder tus grandes alas? Te encontraré al primer vistazo.

El moscón, apenado, se levanta pesadamente y sale de la flor

EL AMANTE DE LA ENSALADA

El conejito ha comido mucho. ¡Estaba tan buena la ensalada de repollo! Su cabeza le da vueltas y el estómago le parece pesado, como si hubiera comido piedras.

---¡Mamá! ---gime con las orejas bajas---. ¡Mamá, me encuentro mal!

La señora coneja le da a su hijito una tisana, le acuesta, le arropa y le canta una cancioncilla.

---¡Ah, ah! ---se queja el conejito---. ¡Jamás volveré a comer ensalada!

Su mamá sonríe sin decir nada. Al día siguiente el conejito está curado.

---¡Ah!, ¡ya me siento mejor! ---dice, estirando las patas.

Y bien, ¿adivináis qué es lo que hace este glotón, este comilón!

Apenas se pone en pie, corre al galope en dirección al huerto para devorar con sus buenos dientes ¡kilos de hojas de repollo!

RENATA, LA RANA

La rana Renata tiene muy buen apetito. Para cenar, el lunes toma unos tallarines. El martes, dos patatas. El miércoles, tres hinojos. El jueves, cuatro rábanos. El viernes, cinco calabazas. El sábado, seis asados. Y un guisote, el domingo a las doce.

HA NEVADO...

Carolina, la gallina, abre sus contraventanas y exclama jubilosa:

---¡Cielos! ¡Si ha nevado! 

Rápidamente revuelve en el armario, en la cómoda, en el sótano, en el granero, y va sacando siete pares de botas, siete toquillas a rayas y siete esclavinas de lana. Sin perder un segundo, Carolina calza y abriga a sus siete pollitos; después se enfunda hasta el pico en su chal, e igual hace con sus hijitos, y... ¡al jardín!

El frío es intenso, pero el sol brilla alegremente, y desde luego nada calienta tanto como una batalla de bolas de nieve.

DOÑA PULPO SE EMBELLECE...

Esta noche hay una gran fiesta en casa de las quisquillas. La señora Pulpo está invitada. Es muy coqueta y quiere resultar la más guapa. Escoge una serie de conchillas redondas y embellece con ellas sus largos tentáculos. Luego pasa toda la tarde acurrucada y sin moverse en el hueco de su roca. Cuando llega la noche se quita los rulos y, ante la ostra nacarada que le sirve de espejo, se peina sus nuevos bucles. Después se pone en lo alto de la cabeza una anémona de mar escarlata y, con una sonrisa en los labios, se va a la fiesta.

---¡Qué peinado tan bonito, y qué bella está usted! ---exclaman las quisquillas con sorpresa---. Doña Pulpo, será usted quien abra el baile con el general Bogavante.

Doña Pulpo se estremece de alegría bajo sus rizos y, entre las pinzas de su caballero, se lanza a las galopadas de una alegre polca.

TSQ-IV: SARAH LOWES AT LAST!!

Miss Clara's illustration of the damsel (la Damoiselle) in Marie Diaz's retelling.
The author made her a daughter of the landed gentry because she dislikes the baroque / rococo style.
She appears poised and mature, learned on account of the books, globe, and spectacles,
and dark-haired to appear mature as well. A truly beautiful figurine in an equally beautiful diorama.

(Background music: Già nella notte densa, Otello, Verdi. 

Just because I adore that duet and it fits my Snow Queen OTP)

Marie Diaz

QUATRIÈME HISTOIRE

Le Chevalier et la Damoiselle

In the heart of this shire, there is a wooden fortress, where the menu is most exquisite! In the highest story of the fortress, in the tower of the keep, there lives a damsel: she is charming, and so clever that she's read all the books in the world, but she was bored to death and she didn't even have a single friend. She's so learned that no one knew what to say to her in conversation. Thus, the damsel decided to wed the first man who would talk to her about something else than her beauty.

Her parents, the lord and lady of the shire, organized an audience for all the young men in the land. The best eligible bachelors presented themselves, even woodcutters and farmers, since everyone would have a chance.

The dashing suitors crowded the staircase, cheerfully talking to each other. They spoke eloquently, yet none of them passed the test. Upon entering the damsel's bedchamber, as they saw her before her rows of ornate picture books, the young men were seized by some kind of trance: they turned pale, they stuttered, and they could hardly recitate a single poem in praise of the damsel's fair visage, or of her beautiful complexion.

On the third day in the evening, a young knight without entourage or carriage presented himself, and he marched confidently up the staircase: he kept his hair long, and his eyes sparkled. He was carrying a knapsack...

The stranger passed beneath the brocades and the golden dragons of the great hall without even flinching; he saluted, with a smile, the lord and his vassals with their shining swords; and then, he greeted the lady and her maids, who were looking with scorn at his torn garments. His boots creaked and clinked in the silent room...

He passed before the armed and breastplated guards, and he finally arrived in the presence of the damsel, who was reading, sitting by the music stand she used to hold her books: she was reading a thousand-page book, as eagerly as if she were relishing the most delicious among desserts. She was so tired of listening to so much foolishness in a row that she didn't hear him come, nor notice that he had arrived.

All those who have seen the damsel dream of wedding her!

The strangest thing by far was that the young knight hadn't come to court her: he only felt curious about her knowledge. He asked her a question in some unknown foreign language, and the damsel replied immediately, looking rather pleased. That overjoyed her. She liked the knight so much, and he liked the damsel as well! She was overjoyed with him, and he was overjoyed with her too!

The fortress, which towered in the middle of the heath, was surrounded by a high palisade. Beyond the fence, the streets were deserted that night. In the tavern, the suitors that the damsel had scorned were drowning their sorrows in tankards of hot chocolate.

The bedchamber was sumptous: there were two wooden beds with golden carvings, covered in velvet brocade. Under the white canopy slept the damsel, and under the crimson one slept the knight. The young man was dashing.

In the stables, there were the best steeds, brought over from all corners of the world. 

Later on, when autumn had given way to winter and winter had changed into spring, the knight and the damsel took a trip abroad. They loved to speak Double Dutch.

At last the Fourth Story retold for the Miss Clara illustrated, but told in English (different from the original French, which was the one I posted)... the retelling by Sarah Lowes... is within my reach!!! But at least only the first snippet. One day, I promise you readers, you will have the full story at your disposal!!

So what else could I do but post it here, as I flush red as a strawberry and hot as the sun?

Sarah Lowes

CHAPTER FOUR

The Prince and the Princess

"[···] he, is about to marry a princess, and she is as clever as she is beautiful.

[···] to the royal bedchamber via a back staircase that is rarely guarded.

[···] about the princess and how unusual she was. She loved learning, spending her time in the royal library among thousands of books. She was interested in marriage only if she found a  man who equalled her in wit. Many suitors tried to court her, but none had been successful. None, that is, until one day a fair-haired boy had walked straight past all the guards and courtiers, and announced: "I have not come to woo the princess, but to learn from her wisdom."

[···] "He is always so brave and clever."

At last a grand building appeared in the distance. When they reached it, they found a half-open door at the back and not a guard in sight. [···] as they tiptoed inside. At the top of the stairs [···] As they passed through large rooms hung with silks and satins in every hue, [···] huge black shadows rustling and whispering along the walls. They were knights and ladies, horses and castles, and other shapes and figures, too many to count and constantly changing.

"They are dreams," [···] "they are here to entertain the lords and ladies while they sleep."

Then they came to the very last room, in which stood a great golden pillar. Looking up, [···] it was the trunk of a huge tree, with shining branches stretching up to form the ceiling and the facets of graceful glass leaves twinkling in the lamplight. From the tree hung two beds in the shape of lilies, one white and one red. In the white bed slept the princess and in the red one slept the boy.

[···] up to the boy's bed and shone the lamp on his hair. [···] and he awoke. [···]

The princess had woken up too, by this time, and she and the prince listened intently [···] They were impressed by [···] and persuaded [···] to stay the night.

In return for all the help [···], the princess offered [···] positions at court with the right to [···]. The prince and princess begged [···] to stay awhile at the palace, but all [···] asked for was a horse so that [···] could be on [···] way. "Of course!" declared the princess. She provided [···] with an immaculate riding coat, trimmed with fur and with velvet buttons. "Now," she said, "let us find you a mount."

They walked over to the stables, the princess inviting [···] to choose from a range of magnificent horses from every corner of the globe. [···]

Then they came to a stall where a handsome reindeer was waiting. [···] "Climb on my back; I will help you."

One of the palace grooms saddled and bridled the reindeer, hanging sacks of delicious food and wine along his flanks. "Goodbye and good luck!" cried the prince and princess. [···]

CHAPTER FIVE

The Outlaw Girl

 

Before long, they entered a dark forest where the heavily laden reindeer drew the eyes of the forest outlaws, who sprang out of the undergrowth and seized him by the bridle. The bags of provisions were taken [···]

"No!" shouted a clear, commanding voice. "[···] give me [···]  fine clothes [···]." 

CHAPTER SEVEN

The Snow Queen's Palace

[···] asked for news of the prince and princess. "Their royal highnesses are travelling in foreign lands, [···]"

THAT LES MIS WESTEROS BUNNY

I had this plot bunny about a decade ago, when I was still part of the Westeros fandom and Les Misérables seemed like just another prompt for a fusion AU with the characters from Westeros/Game of Thrones. I felt, not long ago, that this story had to be told... moreover, with the songs from the musical adapted to the Westeros universe...

Cosette would be Sansa Stark

Fantine... Catelyn Stark-Tully

The Thénardiers... the Boltons
Éponine... Arya Stark (the Boltons keep her)
Marius... Lancel Lannister
Enjolras... Renly Baratheon

Combeferre... Loras Tyrell
Valjean... Jaime Lannister
Javert... Sandor Clegane
Monsignor... Qyburn

Grantaire.... Brienne of Tarth
and
Random Barmaid in KL... Sandra Dermark

ACT I Riverrun... Jaime on the run
ACT II Winterfell... Self-made Jaime, Cat Laid Off
ACT III Harrenhal/The Dreadfort... FUBAR Extraordinaire
INTERLUDE: The Eyrie... Years of Sanctuary
ACT IV KL... Get ready for the REVOLUTION
ACT V Highgarden... Wedding bells and bidding belles
ACT VI Back to the Eyrie... TOMORROW COMES!

I don't know if this is going to be a filk opera or a longer fic with filk snippets - but it will combine elements of both Westeros canon and Les Mis canon... Like, Brienne will also survive and end up with Jaime. But Sansa will also get Lancel.