The Nutcracker Mice

by Kristin Kladstrup

  “Silly girl! Mice don’t wear clothes.”

  “This one did!”

  “You had a dream, Irinushka. You know we don’t have mice in our house. Sasha would never allow it.”

  Sasha again, thought Esmeralda. Who was Sasha?

  “I saw the mouse, Papa! It was a ballerina mouse!”

  “It’s time to go back to sleep!”

  “You don’t believe me!”

  “You’re tired! Tell you what: I’ll go and see if Sasha’s outside. She’s probably tired of hunting — good and ready to come in. Would you like it if she climbed into bed with you?”

  “Yes, but — !”

  Mikhail Danilovich shuffled back through the kitchen and into the sitting room.

  Esmeralda heard a door open. She felt a rush of cold air.

  “Ah! There you are!” said Mikhail Danilovich.

  Esmeralda heard the door close again. A moment later, Irina’s father crossed the kitchen and reentered the bedroom.

  “Sasha!” said Irina.

  Esmeralda frowned. Surely Mikhail Danilovich had been alone!

  He was definitely alone when, after saying a final good night to Irina, he passed again through the kitchen.

  She heard a door close. She waited for the house to grow quiet again, then resumed her struggles with the handkerchief bundle. It caught on something as she dragged it along. She had to work to unhitch it from a nail in a floorboard, and the effort chased the mystery of Sasha from her mind.

  And then a chill came over her — a feeling of danger so extreme it temporarily paralyzed her. She struggled to remember how to turn her head. When she did, she saw two golden eyes in the darkness, and in that moment, she knew exactly who — or what — Sasha was.

  Golden eyes, black fur, and white teeth! The cat sprang at her, and Esmeralda ran. Through the door to the living room. Across the floor toward Mikhail Danilovich’s coat. At the last minute, she changed her mind and made a dash for the sewing basket. She reached for the tulle skirt. If she could climb into the basket . . .

  Something clapped down on her back. Something sharp dug into her flesh, pushing her to the floor, dragging her backward.

  The cat let go. Esmeralda ran forward again. This time the cat’s paw swiped at her from the side, sending her tumbling. She righted herself, determined to run back to the basket. The paw came down like a wall in front of her. As Esmeralda tried to scramble over it, she felt herself lifted up in the air. A hot, dreadful smell of fish engulfed her, even as Sasha’s sharp teeth pressed into her fur.

  “Let me go!” Esmeralda screamed.

  She fell, her feet moving even before she hit the floor. This time the cat’s paw came down on Esmeralda’s tail, and she looked up to find Sasha leering at her. She tried to pull her tail free, and Sasha’s eyes flickered with interest. The cat lifted her paw, letting Esmeralda run a few steps before she trapped her again.

  Esmeralda thought of Conrad’s older brother, who had been caught and killed by a cat only last year. Nobody talked about it much, but Esmeralda thought now of things she had heard:

  The cat must have played with him . . . they always play with you . . .

  They never found his body . . .

  Probably eaten alive . . .

  The cat’s jaws closed around Esmeralda again. She tried to scream, but all that came out was a whimper.

  “Please, let me go.”

  Sasha loosed her jaws, but she pressed her paw against Esmeralda’s tail, still trapping her. The cat bared her teeth in a cruel smile. “What will you give me if I let you go?”

  Esmeralda drew in her breath. What could she give to a cat?

  From the corner of her eye, she could see the sewing needle tucked into the tulle of the ballet costume. She said, “There’s something in the basket! I’ll get it for you.”

  The cat sneered. “There’s nothing in the basket. I had fish for supper. I’ll have mouse for dessert.”

  Esmeralda grabbed her tail with both hands and yanked it free. She ran for the basket. She grabbed the sewing needle. She pulled it out and whirled around.

  Sasha gave a derisive laugh. “Look at you! Just like one of the tsar’s soldiers. Too bad he doesn’t need a mouse in his army.”

  Esmeralda waved her sword. “Get back!”

  And before Sasha could get closer, Esmeralda darted forward and jabbed the cat in the nose.

  Sasha gave a yowl.

  Esmeralda jabbed again, stabbing Sasha in the jaw.

  Another yowl.

  Now Sasha was hissing and arching her back. She batted the needle with her paw, but Esmeralda jabbed again and the cat gave another wail.

  A door flew open. Taking advantage of the distraction, Esmeralda dropped the needle and ran. She scrambled up the tulle skirt and under the basket lid just as Sasha threw herself against it. The cat’s paws pushed their way under the lid, clawing at the tulle.

  Mikhail Danilovich said, “No! Bad cat! Stop it, Sasha!”

  The clawing stopped.

  “Ow! Ouch! What is wrong with you?” exclaimed Mikhail Danilovich.

  Esmeralda heard footsteps. She heard a door open and felt a blast of cold air.

  “Get out, you beast!” said Mikhail Danilovich, and the door slammed shut.

  “What is going on?” It was Irina’s mother.

  “The cat went crazy! I had to put her outside. She was trying to get into your sewing basket —”

  “My sewing basket!”

  The basket shook and the lid was thrown open. Esmeralda scrambled to hide.

  “Light the lamp, Misha, so I can see. I’ll strangle that cat if she’s wrecked this costume!”

  The room filled with light. Irina’s mother lifted the dress out of the basket and turned it this way and that, running her hands over the fabric. Esmeralda, caught inside a fold, gripped the tulle and prayed she wouldn’t be seen.

  Irina’s mother said, “It looks all right. What a mercy! It was foolish of me to leave the basket open.”

  She began folding the costume, gathering up the tulle — and Esmeralda. She laid the costume back inside the sewing basket, and Esmeralda felt the weight of the fabric pushing down on her. She heard a sharp click.

  “What a night! First a mouse, and now our own cat,” said Irina’s father.

  “A mouse!”

  “A dancing ballerina mouse in a dress . . . something from Irina’s dream.”

  “Goodness! The dreams that girl has!”

  Both parents were laughing. Esmeralda heard their door close, the murmur of their voices, and then silence.

  She pushed at the tulle. Sasha was outside. If she could get out of the sewing basket, she might be able to get the costumes into the coat after all. This was her last chance.

  The fabric blocked her on all sides. Esmeralda clawed at it, trying to pull herself forward, not at all sure that she was heading anywhere useful. At one point, the ribbon of Lyudmila’s dress came undone. Esmeralda pulled off the doll’s dress and left it behind.

  At last she broke free of the fabric. Her nose bumped into the side of the basket. Esmeralda climbed up to the top and pushed on the lid.

  It didn’t move.

  She circled the rim of the basket, pushing on the lid at every point. It would not budge, and Esmeralda remembered the click she had heard.

  The basket had a latch.

  She was a prisoner!

  HOW COULD A dancing mouse wearing a dress be anything but a dream? That was Papa’s opinion, and at the time, Irina had almost agreed with him.

  But the morning brought a discovery. “Lyudmila’s dresses are missing!” Irina told her mother.

  Mama said, “I’m sure they’re somewhere.” She was rushing about, getting ready for work. Irina was to go with her parents today. Mama added, “Madame Federova says that the director is coming to look at the costumes this morning. You must sit quietly and not bother anyone.”

  “I’ll be quiet.” Irina slipped a bit of her bread into her pocket fo
r the mouse that lived under the cupboard in the costume department. Could it be the same mouse as the one in her room last night? Could there be two dancing mice?

  Mama said, “Be a good girl. Sweep the kitchen while I put together some food for our lunch.”

  That was how Irina found Lyudmila’s dresses. The broom swept a small white bundle out from under the kitchen table. Puzzled, Irina untied the bundle. “Mama, look!”

  Her mother barely glanced at the dresses. “I knew you would find them!”

  “But how did they get here? Whose handkerchief is this?”

  “Hurry up! It’s time to go!” said Papa.

  Irina left the handkerchief and the dresses on the kitchen table. Papa helped her into her coat. He put on his own coat, pulling off a string that had caught on a button.

  He opened the front door, and Sasha pushed her way into the apartment. She made a beeline for the sewing basket, but Mama snatched it up. She scolded the cat, “You be good while we’re away, Sasha! No more mischief!”

  The rush to get ready at home was nothing compared to the bustle Irina and her mother found in the costume department. Even before they entered the large room where the seamstresses did their work, they could hear Madame Federova scolding people.

  “You there! Look lively and sew on that last bit of trim!”

  “You’re still working on those trousers? It’s been three days!”

  “No, no, no! The skirt is much too short! You’ll have to do it over!”

  Madame Federova was a short, fat woman whose shiny black braid was pinned in a tight coil on the top of her head. She wore a striped apron with pockets that held a measuring tape, scissors, and other tools. She liked to be organized, even when surrounded by chaos.

  She saw Irina’s mother and hurried over. “Ah! There you are, Sonya Borisovna! Please tell me that you’ve finished the Sugar Plum Fairy costume!”

  “Very nearly, Madame!”

  “Well, get it up on the form — quickly! I want to have something decent to show the director.”

  There were at least a dozen dressmaker’s dummies of various sizes in the costume department. This morning, all but two were already dressed and ready for Monsieur Vsevolozhsky’s visit. Mama unlatched her basket and lifted out the Sugar Plum Fairy costume. She draped it over the larger of the undressed forms. She smoothed the bodice with her hand and tugged gently at the tulle skirt.

  “The dress is too big,” said Irina. “Look! It’s sagging!”

  Mama said, “This form is smaller than Mademoiselle dell’Era. I’ll have to —”

  “Bonjour, Madame Federova!” The voice of the theater director boomed from the door.

  Irina did what she was supposed to do. She found a chair and sat down.

  “I’ve brought a surprise guest,” said Monsieur Vsevolozhsky. “Monsieur Tchaikovsky was asking me how the costumes were coming along, so I invited him to come see.”

  The great composer himself! The seamstresses smoothed their aprons and stood at attention next to the costumed forms. Madame Federova curtsied. She said, “We are honored, Monsieur Tchaikovsky. It is our greatest pleasure to make the costumes for The Nutcracker. Such a charming story.”

  “Yes, well. It certainly is a strange story,” said Monsieur Tchaikovsky. “I wasn’t especially fond of it at first, but I have come around.”

  “Everyone will love the music,” said Monsieur Vsevolozhsky.

  “And the costumes, I am sure,” said Monsieur Tchaikovsky. “What have we here?”

  “This costume is for the Arabian dance in the second act,” said Madame Federova.

  “Very nice!” said Monsieur Tchaikovsky.

  “And this costume,” said Madame Federova, with a proud flourish of her hand, “will be worn by the Sugar Plum Fairy.”

  Irina sat up straighter in her chair. Mama was by far the best seamstress at the Mariinsky, and Madame Federova was justifiably proud of the work she did.

  Monsieur Tchaikovsky’s eyes widened as he took in the beautiful costume. “Why, it’s splendid!” he said. Then he tilted his head. “Except . . . does it seem as if it’s a bit crooked?”

  The dress wasn’t crooked. It was only that it was too big for the form. Irina hoped Mama would explain.

  Instead, Madame Federova said, “You are absolutely right, Monsieur. The costume needs an adjustment.” She gave Irina’s mother a meaningful look. “Sonya Borisovna, if you would fetch some pins . . . ?”

  Mama hurried over to her sewing basket. She pulled out her pincushion —

  And screamed!

  Heads turned. Everyone saw the mouse leap out of the basket.

  The mouse ran to the left.

  “Look out!” someone shouted.

  “Catch it! Catch it!” shouted someone else.

  The mouse ran to the right. Another seamstress shrieked and shoved her chair in its path.

  The mouse ran around in a circle, then turned and raced up onto Monsieur Tchaikovsky’s polished black shoe. The composer screamed and kicked his foot, sending the mouse flying through the air. It hit the front of a cupboard and slid to the floor.

  Irina ran over. She was just about to pick up the stunned mouse when someone shoved her out of the way.

  “Let me get it!”

  Konstantin Grigorovich Gurkin wielded his broom. He raised it high, ready to strike.

  “Run!” Irina shouted.

  The mouse lifted its head. . . .

  “Run!”

  Whack! The broom came down, but the mouse was gone — safe under the cupboard.

  Gurkin glared at Irina.

  She looked away and saw Monsieur Tchaikovsky crouched atop a chair.

  “Oh! Oh! Oh!” he gasped.

  Monsieur Vsevolozhsky took his arm. “Please, Pyotr Ilich! Sit down!”

  “Is it — is it gone?” said the composer. His face was completely white.

  “Yes! Yes, the mouse is gone!”

  Monsieur Vsevolozhsky helped the trembling composer down from his perch. Monsieur Tchaikovsky collapsed into the chair.

  “Clear away, everyone! Give him some air!” said the director.

  The composer buried his face in his hands. “Please forgive me. I — I’m afraid I have a terror of mice. When I was a child, I used to have nightmares.”

  “My dear friend, what can I get you? Some water? Perhaps some brandy . . . ?” Monsieur Vsevolozhsky’s voice was soothing as he spoke to Monsieur Tchaikovsky.

  But a moment later, the director beckoned to Madame Federova. He spoke to her in a sharp undertone. “Send someone to find the chief custodian. Tell him that I want to speak to him in my office!”

  Madame Federova nodded and beckoned to one of the seamstresses. The young woman listened to Madame Federova’s whispered instructions and hurried out of the room.

  Meanwhile, the director had returned his attention to Monsieur Tchaikovsky. He patted him on the shoulder. “I don’t know how I can apologize enough! I cannot think how such a thing could have happened, and I assure you that measures will be taken so that nothing like this will ever happen again. Come with me now. . . .” Monsieur Vsevolozhsky took the composer by the arm, helping him rise. He steered him out of the room.

  When they were gone, Madame Federova threw up her arms. “Of all things to have in your sewing basket, Sonya Borisovna! Whatever possessed you to bring mice to the theater?”

  Mama looked almost as white as Monsieur Tchaikovsky. “I didn’t! We don’t have mice at home!”

  “Let me see that basket!” said Gurkin. He rummaged through Mama’s sewing supplies, pulling out scissors and spools of thread and packets of needles and bits of fabric, tossing everything aside. “It’s time to get rid of these vermin, once and for all!” he growled.

  When the basket was empty, he glowered at Mama and said, “It appears that all the mice have escaped from the nest.”

  At this, Mama burst into tears.

  Madame Federova gave Gurkin a fierce look. She said, “I am quite sure
that Sonya Borisovna did not mean to have a nest of mice in her sewing basket.”

  Irina said, “There wasn’t a nest! And it was only one mouse!”

  But nobody paid any attention to her. Gurkin stalked out of the room. Madame Federova comforted Mama, helping her into a chair. The other seamstresses returned to their work.

  Irina began picking up Mama’s sewing supplies, putting them back into the basket. Suddenly, she gave a start. There, among the scraps of fabric Gurkin had tossed onto the table, was Lyudmila’s pink dress — the same dress that had been worn by the mouse in her dream!

  She turned to show Mama, but stopped, surprised to see Papa enter the room. His expression was grim.

  Mama looked at him with red-rimmed eyes. “Misha, what is it?”

  Papa said, “I’ve been let go.”

  Mama gasped. “You’ve lost your job?”

  Papa continued. “The director is holding me responsible for what happened. Everyone knows the theater has a mouse problem. I’ve been trying to solve it for years without success. Monsieur Vsevolozhsky is being kind enough to give me two weeks’ pay, but I’m to leave immediately.”

  “He should fire me! The mouse was in my sewing basket!” said Mama.

  Madame Federova protested. “I wouldn’t allow it if he did fire you, Sonya Borisovna. You’re the best seamstress here. Listen, go home with your husband now. But come back tomorrow.”

  Mama was crying again, and Madame Federova, normally a rather cold person, looked as if she might cry, too. “Everything will be fine,” she said. “You’ll see.”

  Irina couldn’t see how anything could be fine. She had never seen Mama cry in front of other people. And she wasn’t sure she had ever seen her father look so unhappy.

  Papa said, “Come, Irina. We’ll go home now.”

  She could almost hear his next thought — that he would go home, and not come back.

  Poor Papa!

  She looked down at Lyudmila’s pink dress, now crumpled in her hand. She thought of the mouse, remembering the angry whack of Gurkin’s broom and the custodian’s angry vow to get rid of the theater’s mice once and for all.

  Poor mouse!

  AT LEAST WE HAVE the new scenario,” Conrad said to Esmeralda and Gringoire one morning in the attic some days later. “We have to be happy about that, even if our plans for sets and costumes haven’t worked out quite as we hoped.”