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son of a powerful politician (he was discreet enough not to say ‘senator’) while modestly describing himself as a ‘functionary of moderate influence.’ I understand that the rat has been heard to tell people that he believed the influence to be more than moderate, and of a distinctly unsavory type. You must know, father, that nothing could be further from the truth. Yes, Thierry set me upon the path that brought me to this prison, but never did he behave in an inappropriate way toward me.
    I remember well that spring afternoon, the warmth we had not felt for weeks. All the people we watched on the street walked, hopped, or skipped through the rain. Ears perked, tails swung freely enough that more than once we were splashed by someone’s enthusiasm. It was just the opposite of the stifling, restrained buildings you brought me to, and even though my fur was damp, I threw open my arms and laughed.
    That afternoon, the rain lessened somewhat, and Thierry wished to introduce me to a friend of his. So he took us from under the umbrellas of the cafe and we made our way along the damp streets, so much narrower and more crowded than our grand boulevards. I believed I was getting a cultural education; in Thierry’s work, he appraises art quite often. As we walked past the artists practicing their craft on the street, he offered commentary on each one. The artists, far from being disturbed or indignant at these unsolicited opinions of their work, recognized his status and nodded gratefully to each one. I felt quite as important as when you took me through the halls of the Senate.
    Thierry’s friend, a fierce Firenzan goat who signs his paintings Alazzo, creates beautiful perspectives despite being blind in one eye. He served us a sharp orange cheese on day-old bread while he and Thierry talked about the world of art. He lives in his studio, a room scarcely larger than your closet, where we all three sat on his bed. I sat beside the open window, and though I did not at first lean out of it as the other residents of the quarter do, it was from this window that I first saw the Moulin Rouge.
    The clouds parted and the sun hit the red sails of the windmill. Though there was a breeze, the sails remained fixed and proud against the ragged clouds, glowing as if with their own inner light. The body of the mill, august despite its crimson color, held the ethereal sails to the world below when I could see that they ached to fly, fly, fly.
    At that hour of the afternoon, of course, the only activity outside the Moulin Rouge comes from the vagabonds who always inhabit the street, the customers who sit with them waiting for the doors to swing open, and the occasional seller of food or favors, the small tokens purchased by regular visitors to bestow upon their favorite dancers. The regulars know each other, too; I saw a skunk and a squirrel clasp arms and engage in conversation, though at each pause they glanced up as though the cabaret might open at any moment.
    I thought it odd that the regulars would gather in the street so early, hours before sunset. But after an hour’s worth of stimulating discussion about the direction of the art world, or perhaps two hours, I noticed a flurry of activity below the scarlet mill. The dancers were arriving, and this was what the regulars had been hoping for.
    The passion in them! Even from blocks away, I could see their eyes gleam, their bodies animated with a spirit unlike any other. I confess, father, I hungered for it myself, to know what could drive these quiet citizens to the frenzy with which they pursued the arriving dancers. Many dancers hurried past them, shy of attention; three remained, coquettishly accepting favors and bestowing kisses upon a lucky few. I watched them let their clothing slip, creased fabric revealing just a touch more of a curve, a glimpse of the white-furred secrets that lay below.
    The dancers were graceful works of art, their admirers naked and open in their lust and