a
t
t
h
e
y
w
e
r
e
d
r
i
f
t
i
n
g
a
p
a
r
t
.
H
e
u
n
d
e
r
s
t
o
o
d
.
.
t
h
a
t
h
e
h
a
d
b
e
e
n
m
i
s
t
a
k
e
n
.
A
l
a
s
,
h
e
h
a
d
n
e
v
e
r
h
a
d
h
e
r
h
e
a
r
t
.
.
.
A
l
a
s
,
a
l
a
s
,
a
l
a
s
.
.
.
h
e
w
a
s
f
o
r
s
a
k
e
n
!
”
I thought of
Ratna
and sighed. She
was my friend. I couldn’t abandon her! So I
scampered
into the theater.
All the lights were off except for the
spotlight on the
stage
, which was shining on
a group of dancers. They were all
singing
in chorus:
Besides the
DANCERS
, there were
dozens of other rodents in the theater,
busily
scurrying to and fro. Poirat pointed
out each one to me.
“That’s the
director
! And that’s his assistant!
That mouselet is the
costume designer
. . .
that’s the
makeup
artist, and that’s . . .”
AssistAnt
director
Film
director
Film
producer
costume
designer
lighting
designer
Actress
hAir
stylist
speciAl
eFFects
coordinAtor
cAmerA
operAtor
composer
music
supervisor
mAkeup
Artist
director
oF
photogrAphy
Artistic
director
cAsting
director
publicist
screenwriter
production
AssistAnt
cinemAtogrApher
set
designer
Actor
dAnce
instructor
property
mAnAger
cAmerA
operAtor
Welcome to India,
Mr. Stilton
“
Welcome
to
India,
Mr.
Stilton!”
someone behind me squeaked.
I turned and saw a mouse with an
extremely long braid. “I’m
Vandana
Ratkita
,
the casting director*
for
Restless Hearts,” she said in a
gentle tone.
She
LOOKED
me
over from the tip of my
ears to the tip of my tail. “Now,
Mr. Stilton, you are playing the
prince of Mysore: You’ll be
amazing
—
PERFECT
—
incredible
!”
* The casting director selects actors for all the parts in a film.
Whaaat?
What
do
you
mean?
He
doesn’t
know
It
can’t
be!
Holey
cheese!
Why?
how
to
dance?
Vandana pushed me toward the stage.
“Let me see how you dance, Mr. Stilton!”
I turned
redder
than a cheese rind.
“Erm, I don’t know . . . I mean,
I haven’t
got a clue how to, um, dance!”
The dancers turned to stare at me. Then
they began murmuring, “Did you hear that?
He doesn’t know how to dance!
”
Suddenly, the theater was so quiet, you
could hear a cheese slice drop. The director,
HE
DOESN’T
KNOW
HOW
TO
DANCE!
Dev Mousepali
, slapped me on the back so hard
my tailbone rattled. “So what if he doesn’t
know how to dance? He’ll learn!” he cried.
“
Mrs. Ratel
will teach him!”
Everyone let out a
sigh
of relief.
“Yeah, Mrs. Ratel will take care of him.
She’ll teach him everything he needs to
know.
He better learn, or
. . .”
“Or what?” I cried, twisting my tail. “I
need to know. Tell me!”
HE
DOESN’T
KNOW
HOW
TO
DANCE!
But they ignored me and went back to
their
dancing
. They
leaped
here and there to the beat of the music. They
were so graceful! I knew I’d never be able to
dance like that . . .
Hercule
dragged
me away to my trailer.
“
Sleep
tight
, my dear Stilton!” he told
me. “You need your rest. Tomorrow you’ll
be shaking your tail and prancing your paws
off!”
Ack!
Cream for the
Calluses
The long trip from Mouse Island had worn
me out. I closed my
EYES
and fell deeply
asleep . . .
At dawn the following morning, Hercule
woke me up by shrieking directly into my left
ear. “
Wake up, my dear Stilton!
Shake
a paw! It’s time to get your tail moving!”
My
paws
had barely touched the floor,
when Hercule poured a scalding
cup
of
tea down my throat. It was so hot it burned
my gullet! Then he shoved a handful of
candy
into my snout.
“Here’s some hot-pepper candy. I added
Like
it,
Gerry
kins?
Cough!
CougH!
Eat
these
candies!
Drink
this
tea!
Cough!
more
HOT PEPPERS
to give it extra
zip.
he demanded.
“Aaaarghhh!” I screeched.
The hot-pepper
candies
had gone down the
wrong way, and I almost
choked!
“A quick shower will
perk you up. It’ll help you
move those
paws
to the
beat, Stilton!” squeaked
Hercule, pushing me
into a
cold
shower.
“
Heeeelp!
You’re
going to freeze my tail
off!” I cried.
So he turned the
faucet
,
What
a
mess!
I
washed
my
fur
WITH
TOOTHPASTE
I
brushed
teeth
WITH
SHAMPOO
and instantly the water became boiling
hot
!
“Noooooo!” I screeched. “Now you’re
scorching the fur right off my back!”
“
Come on, Gerrykins
, why do you
have to be so difficult?” he complained.
“You’re never happy!”
The
STEAM
in the shower was so thick
I couldn’t see my paw in front of my snout.
I felt around for the shampoo, toothpaste,
and fur-gel. But the shampoo wouldn’t
lather
, the toothpaste tasted worse
I had washed my fur with toothpaste,
brushed my teeth with shampoo,
and combed my fur with callus cream!
SQUEAK!
And
I
combed
my
fur
with
CALLUS
CREAM!
I
definitely
STARTED
THE
DAY
ON
THE
WRONG
PAW!
SIGH
!
SIGH
!
than day-old tuna, and the gel matted my
fur
like a mangy marmot!
“Ha, ha, ha! At least you won’t have any
calluses in your fur!” Hercule
giggled
.
The day had started out
all wrong
. . . I
was afraid to think about how it would end!
Mr. Stilton’s
Dreadful Day
I’m
on
it!
Priya Moushi
, the costume designer,
brought me my costume: a
silk
tunic, a
pair of bright green pants, and a marvemouse
turban
with a jewel.
Once I was dressed, the
makeup artist
came to put on my makeup. After she was
finished, she led me into a big room with
wooden floors. Waiting for
me there was my
dance
teacher,
Siddhi Ratel
.
Mrs. Ratel was an elderly
rodent with snow-white fur
gathered into a tight
bun
.
She wore a pink
sari
*
and
held a wooden stick in her paw.
*
A sari is a garment worn by many Indian women made
of a long cloth wrapped around so one end forms a skirt
and the other goes over the shoulder.
Squeak!
Try
on
these
Put
this
on!
I’ll
put
on
trousers!
your
makeup!
Bend
your
right
leg
.
I
SAID
THE
RIGHT!
Now
try
to
raise
your
arms.
.
.
NOOOO!
NOT
LIKE
THAT,
CHEESE
BRAIN!
.
N
!
N
o
w
b
e
n
d
y
o
u
r
l
e
f
t
l
e
g
.
Y
O
U
R
L
E
E
E
E
E
F
T
!
N
o
w
b
e
n
d
b
o
t
h
l
e
g
s
.
.
.
N
O
,
N
O
,
N
O
!
T
i
m
e
t
o
t
w
i
r
l
.
.
.
N
O
T
L
I
K
E
T
H
A
T
!
L
e
t
m
e
s
e
e
y
o
u
l
e
a
p
!
D
o
t
w
o
l
e
a
p
s
.
.
.
T
h
r
e
e
l
e
a
p
s
.
.
.
N
O
O
O
O
!
CLONK!
CLONK!
She had a very
SEVERE
expression on her
snout.
“Mr. Stilton, my name is
Siddhi
, which
means ‘
perfection
,’” she squeaked sternly.
“And I expect you to learn how to dance
perfectly
!” Then she rapped
me on the
tail with the stick.
“Now for your first dance lesson, Mr.
Stilton! One . . . two . . . three . . .
What
are you doing?
Are you sleepwalking?
Mr. Stilton, you’re about as graceful as a
goat
!”
“Mrs. Ratel, I must warn you. I’m a truly
lost cause,” I told her. “
I can’t dance!
My
Aunt Sweetfur always says I was born with
two left paws.”
Mrs. Ratel didn’t listen. She just
clonked
me on the tail again.
CLONK!
It’s
impossible
to
teach
you
to
dance!
Um . . .
actually . . .
well . . .
squeeeak!
“Young mouse, I’ve been teaching for the
last fifty years. There’s no such thing as a
lost cause
. Come on, hop to it!
One . . . two . . . three!”
Every time I
messed up
a step, she
whacked me on the tail.
“
YEE-OUCH!
”
I yelled.
After hours and hours of (useless) practice,
Mrs. Ratel
gave
up
. She broke her
wooden stick over her knee in frustration.
“I tried all day, but he’s
a lost cause! He can’t learn!
And if I can’t teach him,
I don’t know who can!”
“You’re right, Mr. Stilton. You’re truly a
lost cause. I give up!
It’s impossible to
teach you to dance!
”
Everyone on the set — from the
DIRECTOR
to the costume designer
to the
LIGHTING
designer — was
horrified.
“Are you sure? He can’t be taught how to
dance?” the director gasped.
Mrs. Ratel shook
her snout.
“Uh, so what can I do? Can I
go
home
?” I said hopefully. “Can I pack
my bags? Should I book my plane ticket?”
ratna
thE
raviShing
She’s
beautiful!
She’s
unique!
She’s a
star!
What an
actress!
So
charming!
Wow
!
That’s when I heard a sweet
voice squeak, “Don’t worry,
Geronimo! I’ll teach you
to
dance
. It’s me, your
old friend
Ratna