The Autobiography of Mercutio Polinski by Genadiya Kortova Page B

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