Again with the mice. Was the house overridden? He would have to ask Sebastian or Clothilde. Why was it bothering her so?
She got to the question ahead of him. “I saw a seven-headed mouse in my bedroom last night. It came to my pillow and spoke to me.”
“My, that’s distinguished. It must have been the Mouse King. What did it say?”
“I don’t know. I don’t speak Mouse.”
“Ach! You remind me of a mouse I used to know. She was out on a constitutional with her six young ones and a cat came along with a hiss and that look in the eye that says Yum, seven fresh mice for tea. The mother mouse was afraid but stood up in front of her babies and said in a firm voice, ‘Bow wow.’ The cat ran away in fright, and the mother mouse turned and said to her children, ‘Now, my dears, let this be a lesson to you all in the value of learning a second language.’”
“But I don’t have time to learn Mouse. What if the Mouse King comes back tonight? He was very cruel.”
“You must ask him what he wants.”
She was almost in tears. “I told you! I can’t talk to mice!”
He felt her forehead. Warm. “Are you sure you need this blanket so snugly pulled up, my dear, you’re quite hot.”
“I’m chilled. I want to know why the mice are here.”
“Are they here in this room? Now?”
“You know if they are.”
He kept his eyes trained on her, didn’t turn left or right so as to avoid confirming or denying her apprehensions. “Shall I get you a glass of milk?”
“Did you ever meet a mouse? What do they want?”
He began to arrange a few of the figurines into a procession. “I knew a Nutcracker once who was the sworn enemy of the king of the mice.”
“Why?”
“The Nutcracker wanted to chop down a tree to get a golden walnut, but the king wouldn’t let him.”
“Why not?”
“Because the mice wanted the walnut for themselves. They were waiting for it to be ripe, so they could crack the shell open and eat the nut inside. They didn’t want to share. They’re quite greedy.”
“Why did the Nutcracker want the golden walnut?”
“I think it held a secret, but I don’t know which one. Do you?”
She closed her eyes to think about this and he began to hope she had fallen asleep. He tiptoed to the door, shushing Fritz, who was just back with another armload of tin grenadiers and Hussars. “Fritz, where is your father?”
“Mutter and Vater are in the yellow parlor with the tannenbaum. We aren’t allowed to go in until late tomorrow night. It’s Christmas Eve tomorrow, you know.”
“Oh, is it? And the Christ Child may bring you some gifts?”
“It’s possible.”
Drosselmeier found coyness in a young boy repellent. He excused himself and knocked on the door of the yellow parlor.
Sebastian and Clothilde and the downstairs maid were dressing a voluptuous balsam tree with laces, baubles, and candles. A few wrapped presents were laid below. Marzipan and gingerbread figures hung on silvered string, keeping company with small toys like drums, bells, other musical instruments. Drosselmeier cradled a small ’cello in his palm, then let it free. The tree wanted at least one golden walnut on a string. Well, tomorrow, soon enough.
“You’ll join us for the grand unveiling tomorrow evening?” pressed Clothilde.
“Are you having a serious problem with mice in the house?”
“No more this winter than any other,” said Sebastian.
“What an insult to a tree, don’t you think?” asked Drosselmeier. “I mean, to be severed at the ankle and dragged in and mocked like this.”
“This tree grew for a decade so it could be honored in death and give joy to the children. At least that’s how I like to think of it,” replied Clothilde. “We would not think of inviting forests into the house in Lyon when I was young, but I have come to admire the barbaric German custom.”
“It is so beautiful it makes me ill,” said Drosselmeier.
“Are you becoming sentimental, old godfather?” asked Sebastian. “We have enough of that between the two of us, under the circumstances. We rely on you to lend a certain crankiness to the proceedings. It’s not too early for a glass of Tokay, if you’re thirsty.”
“I have some work to finish up in the shop,” said Drosselmeier, and left the house. Only on the street, steeped in the cold clarity of snow-odor, could he identify the aromas he had left behind: the sap of a fir tree, its pungent slow blood; the lavender of soaps and camphor of blankets; the gingerbread; the dusty wood-mold smell that comes up from the floorboards in the winter; the reek of a cabbage being boiled senseless, with caraway and perhaps a touch of fennel seed.
He worked with wood and glue, a brush and a pot of gilt, on through most of the night, paying no attention to the mice. He’d long ago used up the blue of the sky—he’d called it Nastaran blue—from the pot he had once opened for her with a knife. But the very same wide-mouthed jug had made a good home for his brushes all these years.
88.
Christmas Eve. Drosselmeier closed down the workroom and drew fast the shutters. He fixed his cloak with fingers stiffened by labor, and he picked up his parcels. Most were smaller gifts, but one was large, so he hired a carriage to make his way through streets masked with snow grit.
He descended the carriage and paid the fare. When the wind dropped suddenly, he felt encased in invisible ice. He turned to the swept stairs of the Stahlbaum manse. Lamplight from between the swagged drapes at the front windows, like the limelights of theatre, turned the snow on windowsills to gold.
Entering, he shucked off his coat and sidled with the packages into the servants’ passage. He made his way to the yellow parlor, where Sebastian was lighting the candles on the tree with tapers.
“Clothilde is upstairs with them, keeping them calm until the clock strikes. Drosselmeier, you’ve outdone yourself. You’ll make them sick with glut.”
“I’m the godfather. I’m allowed. How is the little invalid?”
Sebastian didn’t answer.
Drosselmeier put his packages about. Holly decked the mantel. A fire hissed and ticked. “Is Fritz behaving, at least?”
“He’s worn out with trying to be decent. It’s too wearing on a boy. I shall be glad when the holidays are over.”
“Only children love the arresting weirdness of these days.”
Again, Sebastian kept his silence.
Drosselmeier pushed. He wanted to tire Sebastian into giving a different sort of answer. “Has she had more dreams about the mice?”
“Dear Godfather. I’m doing what I can to keep her comfortable. I don’t have the wherewithal to investigate the nonsense of her dreams.”
“Oh, well, then.” But now Drosselmeier was chastened. The poor father was sorely tried.
“Are we ready?” Having lit the last of the tapers, Sebastian trimmed the wicks of the oil lamps on the credenza. “Shall I call them in?” The sounds of the impatient children, now in the antechamber, were building.
“One last thing.” Drosselmeier finished arranging his great gift on a low table. He had built it in four pieces for easier transport, and affixed it with tabs, small bolts, braces. A broad assemblage of a fairy-tale palace, with turrets and a drawbridge and a central courtyard. Drosselmeier had painted it in shades of buttercream with blue shadows and red tile roofs, and he’d hidden a music box in the empty space of the chapel. A key for winding the music fit into a slot in the back of the chapel. He’d made a hiding place for the key in a walnut that he’d parted with a small-toothed saw. Pried its halves apart with an awl, and then reattached them with a small brass hinge with tiny screws. The whole thing was painted with gold leaf and fitted with string.