Die Muskeltiere: One for all and all for one. (Part 1 of 13)

Die Muskeltiere: One for all and all for one. (Part 1 of 13)

PICANDOU

Chapter 1

Picandou panted heavily, as he scampered along the harbour wall on a cold, dark November night. His round belly was filled to the hilt and wobbled dangerously between his short legs. Every few minutes the grey mouse stopped and wiped his sweaty brow with a quarter papier napkin, embossed with golden letter that read: „Merriweathers Del ...“. Thank goodness, that he had almost reached his home on Harbour Lane. What a nuisance, that he had fallen asleep in the garbage-bag.
The smell had been incredible. Mrs. Merriweather had left in it the most wonderful delicacies that anyone could possibly wish for. Even a mouse with more willpower than Picandou could not have resisted. And being a mouse of very little willpower when it came to good food, he hat eaten two stuffed olives, a whole pile of pastry crumbs, half a cream puff and one eighth of a slice of blueberry pie. After this gigantic meal, he had been so exhausted, that he had fallen asleep.

For many years now, Picandou lived underneath the basement stairs in Merriweathers Delicatessen. Mr. And Mrs Merriweather had no idea, that they had a tenant in their house and no mouse could possibly have had a finer life than he. Mrs. Merriweather was an amazing cook and Picandou took care of whatever was left over from her lunch specials. Mr. Merriweather on the other hand had been a great cheese expert. Had been, gentle reader. Unfortunatly I must use that expression, because Mr. Merriweather is no longer amongst us.

Picandou who used to listen at the basement door at the top of the stairs, loved to hear Mr. Merriweather describe his cheeses to his customers. And soon Picandou knew every cheese not just by taste, but also by name. He had even chosen his own names from the cheese counter: Picandou Camembert Saint-Albray.
Until recently Merriweathers Delicatessen had had the finest cheese collection in all of Boston, that is until one day, things started to go terribly wrong: Suddenly Mr. Merriweather no longer came into the shop and when Picandou listened at the basement door, he heard Mrs. Merriweather crying to herself.
And then he heard how Edith, Mrs. Merriweather's help said, that she was very sure that Mr. Merriweather, who was now in heaven, was watching over her. That is when Picandou realized what had happened. He was shocked. Poor Mrs. Merriweather!
She was quite old and she had a stiff knee. Without Edith there to help out in the store, she would have to shut it down, which is why she called Edith her „good spirit“. 
Edith was very kind and she was also very superstitious, which meant that she always got out of bed with her right foot first, to make sure that she had a good start into the day. On Friday the 13th she never left her house and if a black cat crossed her path from left to right or if she knocked over a salt shaker, she exclaimed: „Oh dear, seven days of bad luck!“

It was Edith who discovered the problem on Mr. Merriweathers desk in the basement a few days later. Picandou who was breakfasting in his cozy home under the stairs, almost choked on his cheese, when he heard her scream. Mrs. Merriweather came limping down the stairs as fast as she could and then Picandou heard her cry out as well. But her cry was much softer and much more desparate than Edith's.
„How could he do that“, she whispered. „Here I thought he was playing cards with his friend Stanley and all the while he was ....“ She trailed off and broke into little sobs.
„Men!“, snorted Edith. „They're impossible. Losing all that money at the horse races. I can't believe it.“
Picandou heard her heavy tread, as she climbed up the stairs. Then all was quiet. He heard papers rustling and the sound of someone blowing her nose. Then Mrs. Merriweather sniffled: „Henry, dear ...“ That was Mr. Merriweathers first name. „How will I ever get rid of such a huge debt. I'm going to have to close our shop.“
Close the shop?! Picandou paled under his fur. If Mrs Merriweather shut down the shop, he would never enjoy another crumb of her wonderful meals ever again in his life! No more lovely cheeses from the cheese counter and on top of that, he'd loose his home as well.
It was a deep, dark hole, that suddenly opened up before him. He froze, unable to move. Only much later, when he heard Mrs. Merriweather's slow limp, as she climbed up the stairs, did he pull himself together enough, to drag himself into bed, where he remained for the rest of the day.
In the course of this day he heard Edith's heavy step and Mrs. Merriweather lighter, limping walk as they moved around upstairs; He heard the sound of the mixer and the clanging of pots and pans.
And then he heard the women come down to the basement to fetch provisions from the storage.
After Mr. Merriweathers death, they always came down together, because Edith no longer dared to come here on her own. Picandou heard her say to Mrs. Merriweather, that she was sure, that the basement was haunted by Mr. Merriweathers ghost. Mrs. Merriweather scolded her for that and told her, that it was all in her head, but Edith insisted. She said, that she had heard odd sounds now and then, besides she sensed, that she wasn't alone every time she came here. Of course Edith was right: the mystery-guest wasn't a ghost though, but a rather overweight grey mouse.

Picandou now heard the two women talking. They stood directly infront of his mousehole.
„Three courses for the lunch special“, Edith exclaimed. „You got to be kidding. You're paying way more than you'll make per serving.“
„If not now, then when?“, answered Mrs. Merriweather earnestly. „Today I want our customers to have a meal that they'll never forget. For all I know, it may be the last one, that I'll ever serve them. Besides, I can't return any of these things. We already bought them.“
„You are the kindest person that I know, “ Edith sighed. „But the worst business woman ever.“
Picandou silently agreed with her. He knew that many of Mrs. Merriweathers customers were quite old and a lot of them couldn't afford an expensive meal. Which is why Mrs. Merriweather often slipped a little extra something into their grocery bags or gave them an extra large helping for lunch.

Soon wonderful smells wafted into the basement and although Picandou, in his despair, was sure, that he would never again be able to swallow another bite, things looked different, by the time it got dark. His belly began to growl fiercely and soon his appetite was stronger than his sorrow.
After the two women had gone home, he snuck into the back courtyard through his secret passageway. The moon had barely climbed over the rooftops and its pale light lit up the cobblestones and the trash bag. It leaned against the wall, waiting to be collected. Picandou slipped inside and, with a deep sigh of relief, sat down for dinner. No one in all of Boston was a better cook than Mrs. Merriweather, he thought whistfully again. He simply owed it to her, that he finish everything off, because none of these delicacies deserved to land on a garbage dump. But even while he made sure that everything made its way into his belly, he fell asleep, exhausted by his efforts.
The loud rattle and clang of the garbage truck as it sped across the cobblestone streets awoke him. Hurriedly he stumbled out between soaked papercups and vegetable cuttings, knawed a hole into the plastic bag and then leapt off the truck, when it slowed down at a corner. Picandou's fur was sticky and it would probably take days to loose the smell of garbage.
The rain was light but icy cold. It wet him to the skin and made him shiver.
„Keep moving! Got to get home“, he muttered to himself as he jumped off the harbourwall and then sped along the sidewalk. He was panting heavily now. With his full body figure, he usually excercised only as much as was absolutely necessary.
He didn't notice the puddle until it was too late and splashed right through it. „Kittyshit“, he grumbled, shook out his drenched leg and ran on.
The cobblestones glistened in the light of the lanterns, fog wafted across the canal and the old ware- houses lay dark and foreboding on the other side of the street. Hopefully he wouldn't run into the harbour rats. They lived in the warehoues and sometimes kept an eye out for mice, especially when they hadn't eaten for several days and weren't picky about their meal.
An engine hummed and came closer. Headlights lit up the cobblestones and jumped across the sparse crowns of young trees lining the sidewalk. Quickly Picandou whisked into the shadows and hid begin a tree. 
He was out of breath and his heart was beating harder than usual. From the saftey of his hiding-place, he watched the car disappear down the street and saw its headlights sweep across the sidewalk. And then suddenly, in that split second that the lights touched upon it, he noticed a pile of fur lying next to a laternpost.
„Oh dear. A buddy?“, thought Picandou and tiptoed over.
„Hello?“, he called out softly.
But the pile of fur didn't answer.

A strange encounter

The car had disappeared and carefully Picandou moved closer to get a better look at the stranger. His fur was caked with mud and his eyes were closed. Either a car, a bird of prey or possibly a harbourrat must have killed him. Picandou gave him a gentle jab with his toe.
„Poor devil“, he thought. „Done for.“
Suddenly the pile of fur opened his eyes and starred at him.
„Could you kindly tell me where I am presently located?“, he asked weakly. His eyes held no more than a faint glimmer.
„Kindly tell you where you are presently located?“ Picandou looked at him in surprise. „Harboutfront of course“, he answered.
„I see.“ The stranger closed his eyes and sighed heavily.
What was wrong with him? Picandou regarded him uncertainly. He wondered if he could possilbly steal away and leave the stranger to fend for himself. Longingly he thought of his warm cozy home that awaited him … even if not for much longer ….. and besides he had no intention of catching a cold or a sore throat, which was bound to happen, should he stand here much longer.
The pile of fur suddenly opened his eyes again.
„In the Caribean?“, he asked feebly.
„Er … no – Boston.“
„I see. And with whom do I have the honour?“
Hello? With whom do I have the honour?
Picandou gazed at him in surprise. This fellow had an odd way of talking.
„With whom do I have the honour? A bit upitty there in your choice of language“, he said.
The pile of fur slowly lifted his head.
„I mean, what is your name?“
„Picandou Camember Saint Albray“
Picandou slowly enunciated each and every one of his names.
„Three names! How amazingly lucky!“
The pile of fur gazed sadly into the puddle.
„The best thing is“, said Picandou, „I can always choose which name I want to call myself. Today, for example, I call myself Picandou.“
„I see. Then you are very, very fortunate indeed!“
The pile of fur closed its eyes again and it's head sunk into the puddle.
„And with whom do I have the honor?“, asked Picandou.
This time the pile of fur remained silent for so long, that Picandou feared that he had fainted.
„I wish I knew“, he whispered at last. „I don't even have one single name.“
„Not even one?“ Picandou gazed at hims incredulously. „Not even a short name? A teeny-weenie one? Why, everybody has some sort of a name.“
The pile of fur slowly moved its head from side to side. „Not even a teeny-weeny one. Unfortunately.“
The rain was coming down harder now. It was turning into a nasty fall-rain. Picandou shifted his weight from one paw to the other. His fur was now thoroughly soaked and if they stood here much longer, he was bound to spend tomorrow in bed with a terrible cold.
Should he just leave the mouse to fend for itself? But no, he couldn't do that either.
„Listen“, he finally said. „Tell me where you live, and I'll take you home.“
The stranger sighed wearily. „Unfortunately that is impossible“, he said darkly.
„Why?“
„I don't have a home.“
„Rubbish. Everybody has some kind of a home.“
The stranger sat up slowly and groaned.
„If there is a home for me in this world, I wouldn't know where to find it“, he said.
He starred gloomily into the puddle again and watched the raindrops splash into it. Suddenly Picandou noticed the lump on his head.
„Oh dear, that's quite a mean sucker“, he said.
„Mean sucker?“ The stranger looked puzzled.
„A bad bump.“
„Bad bump?“
„The bruise – on your head.“ Picandou pointed at the bump.
The pile of fur felt his head. „You're right“, he said. „And it hurts – now that you mention it.“
„What happened?“, asked Picandou.
The stranger wagged his head slowly from side to side. „If only I knew“, he muttered. „If only I knew.“
„Excuse me – but what do you know?“, exclaimed Picandou, loosing his patience. His throat was beginning to hurt and it was high time that he got home.
The stranger's tail twitched and he gazed glumly at the tip of his tail. He didn't answer. What if the mouse had lost his memory when he got hit on the head? It would certainly explain, why he didn't know what he was called or where he lived.
But what was Picandou supposed to do? He was no hero nor was he much of a do-gooder. He was way to comfortable for that. On the other hand, he couldn't just leave the mouse lying here. What if he fell prey to the harbourats or a heron?