By spring, our carriage had finally limped its way into Paris. Hearing the bells of Notre Dame ring faintly through the morning mist felt like a reward for surviving an unfaithful journey. Paris adored us – or rather, it adored the idea of two prodigious children who played like seasoned adults and looked like charming little toys.
I loved the city, its sounds, the aroma of fine pastries, and a language that rolled off the tongue just as delicious. The Parisians, however, doubted my abilities and tried to test me relentlessly. They covered the piano keys with cloths and asked me to identify notes, instruments, even bells and clocks. One elderly gentleman insisted I remove my ring, convinced it held magical powers. He left the performance speechless. I briefly wished my “witchcraft” could keep him that way.
For all the glamor and excitement, I missed home. I missed Salzburg. Most of all, I missed my little dog, Bimperl. He was small, fuzzy, not terribly bright, but loyal and an excellent listener. One evening, out of habit, I whistled for him. The only response was the indifferent attention of a pigeon with questionable manners. I hoped Bimperl would still be waiting when I returned.
Travel made real friendships difficult. I rarely spoke the language and never knew where we might be the next day. I often wondered what other boys my age were doing. Probably attending school, throwing marbles, or playing fetch with their dogs. Certainly not bowing to kings and queens. I was not sure which childhood was preferable, but mine involved better clothes.